Ben reached out with the Force and let his mother's compassion wash over him. Even that sort of vulnerability was difficult for him to manage. The hunger put him on edge sometimes, made people seem dangerous when they weren't. The only thing helping him reign it in was that his mother was the one person he could never fathom as being a danger to him, was someone he knew he could lean on in times like these. It was still hard, but it was doable.
The words 'mental illness' made his stomach churn. He wanted to throw up. He knew he could make himself if he chugged enough water to aggravate the stomach acid building up in the absence of food, knew it would help him feel better, but he didn't dare even think about it too long. He was broken, yet he could not admit the full damage yet to anyone, the way he mentally categorized his food, limited his intake. He focused on the Doctor's words and glanced at his mother. "It was easier to do knowing I wasn't alone," he said softly. Glancing back at Doctor Kalonia, he explained, "Substance abuse wasn't tolerated in the First Order. I couldn't get to anything to try. But it did cross my mind." His face burned with shame, forcing him to drop his gaze.
Anorexia. Depersonalization disorder. There were terms and words for these things - did that mean they could be fixed? That people had gone through them and come out the other side alive? Or was it merely a designation to write down under cause of death on funeral forms? He should have felt hopeful. Instead he wasn't sure if he was any better for knowing these terms just yet. Everything was new and confusing, and Ben had never been great at biology or medicine. He knew basic Force healing, but the Force did the work there, he hadn't had to learn about how the human body actually worked.
Ben grasped at his jacket lapels for a moment, taking a deep breath. He wore this specifically so he wouldn't be hiding from the doctor, so they could do this. He knew when he put it on it was coming off in this context. So why, then, did his hands shake as he took his jacket off? He exhaled and felt like he might throw up without any aid necessary as he stood on the scale, already fairly sure he knew what it would say-
98 pounds, it read. He blinked. "Oh. I've put on weight since I got here." He wasn't sure whether that was horrifying (was he going to have another episode? Had he eaten too much? What had he eaten that weighed him down?) or if it was good (he wasn't dying, he was doing better, he could survive this, couldn't he?).
He knew without his long jacket on her had a gap between his thighs even with his feet put together, that his pants hung off his hipbones, that when he leaned forward to look at the scale every individual ridge of his spine was visible, like gnashing, angry teeth. There was an unsettling bagginess to his shirt. This shirt had been hid father's and at a healthy weight it should have been too small, not too large.
But all he could think was that he'd gained weight and nothing more. "What - what am I supposed to weigh, Doctor?" He couldn't recall.
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Date: 2016-12-19 04:54 am (UTC)The words 'mental illness' made his stomach churn. He wanted to throw up. He knew he could make himself if he chugged enough water to aggravate the stomach acid building up in the absence of food, knew it would help him feel better, but he didn't dare even think about it too long. He was broken, yet he could not admit the full damage yet to anyone, the way he mentally categorized his food, limited his intake. He focused on the Doctor's words and glanced at his mother. "It was easier to do knowing I wasn't alone," he said softly. Glancing back at Doctor Kalonia, he explained, "Substance abuse wasn't tolerated in the First Order. I couldn't get to anything to try. But it did cross my mind." His face burned with shame, forcing him to drop his gaze.
Anorexia. Depersonalization disorder. There were terms and words for these things - did that mean they could be fixed? That people had gone through them and come out the other side alive? Or was it merely a designation to write down under cause of death on funeral forms? He should have felt hopeful. Instead he wasn't sure if he was any better for knowing these terms just yet. Everything was new and confusing, and Ben had never been great at biology or medicine. He knew basic Force healing, but the Force did the work there, he hadn't had to learn about how the human body actually worked.
Ben grasped at his jacket lapels for a moment, taking a deep breath. He wore this specifically so he wouldn't be hiding from the doctor, so they could do this. He knew when he put it on it was coming off in this context. So why, then, did his hands shake as he took his jacket off? He exhaled and felt like he might throw up without any aid necessary as he stood on the scale, already fairly sure he knew what it would say-
98 pounds, it read. He blinked. "Oh. I've put on weight since I got here." He wasn't sure whether that was horrifying (was he going to have another episode? Had he eaten too much? What had he eaten that weighed him down?) or if it was good (he wasn't dying, he was doing better, he could survive this, couldn't he?).
He knew without his long jacket on her had a gap between his thighs even with his feet put together, that his pants hung off his hipbones, that when he leaned forward to look at the scale every individual ridge of his spine was visible, like gnashing, angry teeth. There was an unsettling bagginess to his shirt. This shirt had been hid father's and at a healthy weight it should have been too small, not too large.
But all he could think was that he'd gained weight and nothing more. "What - what am I supposed to weigh, Doctor?" He couldn't recall.