Chapter One.

I'm Not Crazy.

They say opposites attract. I, however, believe this is complete and utter bullshit. For example, sane people hang out with sane people; crazy people hang out with crazy people, etcetera. Not often do you see the sane people hanging out the crazies in this society. That was probably the reason I had no friends…

… Who wants to be friends with a freak?

But I wasn't crazy, no; there was nothing wrong with me. Well, besides the fact I was grotesquely fat. But I could fix that. I would fix that. As soon as I got out of this white walled jail where they stuff me like a Thanksgiving Turkey. Force me to ingest more than my body needs so that even more fat will cling to my frail bones…

…I hate this place.

I look across the circle at the other people who are here. A few other girls like me who have starved themselves to the image of perfection. I want to look like them. The others are the ones who "are a danger to themselves or society."…

…We are the crazies.

I have completely shut myself down on the outside. No expression shall cross my face; no words shall come out of my mouth. I don't want to talk, almost as much as I don't want to eat. I don't want to make friends. I'm doing fine on my own…

…Even though I am incredibly lonely a lot of the time.

Dr. Martinez walks in and seats herself at the designated front of the crazy circle. She is here to direct our group talks, to keep conversation flowing. She begins by introducing one of the new patients. His name I miss; his nickname I don't. He says his friends call him Iggy. He proceeds to tell us he is diagnosed Schizophrenia and seventeen years old. Joy. We go around the circle doing introductions. Stating your diagnosed mental disorder is an option, but most opt to go for it. We all know we're insane. There is no part in hiding it. When it comes to my turn I say the rehearsed line, (My name is Max, I'm sixteen, diagnosed purging-type anorexia.), and immediately go back to studying my nails as the boy beside me introduces himself, (My name is Fang. I'm seventeen. Diagnosed depression.)…

...I think I like him.

Fang is the only person here I bother to have any contact with, even though he talks less than I. Once a day we pass a notebook back and forth. We fill exactly half a sheet of loose-leaf paper of conversation each day. Usually just "how are you", "you doing alright?", "stay strong we'll be out of here soon." Neither of us is really trying to get better. We're just pretending so hopefully we can be discharged. Wasted money and wasted time…

…but what else is life, really?

Half a year later, group ends, and Fang pulls out our conversation notebook and two pens different coloured pens. It's much easier to talk through writing than face to face.

I hate group. Fang writes. I nod and uncap my pen.

I'm so sick of this fucking hospital.

We'll be out soon.

Not soon enough.

Don't give up. Pretend to smile.

How can I pretend to smile when I want to die?

Practice. Now. Laugh.

I force a chuckle. I look up. Dr. Martinez smiles.

Hopefully we can be out by the end of March.

Wouldn't that be wonderful..

We reach our designated stopping point and I hand the materials back to Fang. It's dinner time. With led in my shoes, I walk to the cafeteria to choke down food I do not want.