Roger POV:
I sit on my bed nervously, my hands shaking in my lap as I try to give myself a mental pep talk. For four days now I haven't been able to eat, drink, or take my AZT. I feel like shit, I've been blacking out, I have zero energy left, and the voices are consuming my mind, relentless now in their taunting and scolding.
Yesterday, for the first time since I relapsed, I got the nerve to weigh myself. I now weigh 127 pounds…that's 25 pounds less that Mark, a man half my size! I keep trying to tell myself that it's just because I haven't had anything to eat or drink in almost a week, but someplace in the back of my mind, beneath the voices that haunt me constantly now, there's a part of me that knows that's not true and that I need to ask for help and fast.
That's why for the past two days I've been debating whether or not to tell Mark what's going on. Everything…the food, the water, the AZT, the voices…all of it. I finally made my decision last night after I passed out from dehydration. Mark thought it was from lack of food. He doesn't know that I now not only have an inability to eat but an inability to drink as well. But I know if I don't do it soon I'll die, no questions asked.
Which is why I'm sitting here, shaking on my bed now, a nervous wreck, trying to come up with the best way to tell Mark what's happening to me.
Come on, you can do this, I think to myself.
"Mark, I need help." Sounds too needy.
"I have a problem, Mark." Well that's obvious.
"Mark, I have a problem and need help."
"What is it, Roger? What's wrong?"
I jump, startled, and spin around, seeing Mark standing in my doorway looking concerned. Shit, I hadn't meant for him to have heard that. But I guess I might as well use this situation to my advantage, there's no turning back now.
I gulp and the dryness in my throat helps me know that I'm making the right decision.
"Alright, um…I…I can't…" But at the last minute I chicken out and lose my nerve, staring at the floor as Mark comes all the way into my room and sits on my bed next to me.
"What is it Roger?" he asks softly. "What's going on?"
In one sudden and brave moment I decide to just blurt it all out without thinking, because I know if I think about it I'll never be able to do it.
"Mark, I need your help because I haven't had anything to eat or drink in four days and I know I won't be able to any time soon."
He gasps and tries to keep the look of shock from registering on his face as he says with forced calmness, "Roger, you don't drink anymore?"
I shake my head quickly. "No. Not don't. Can't. I can't drink anymore. And um…" Just do it, Roger, what's the worst that could happen? "…I can't take my AZT," I mumble.
"What??"
"I'm sorry,
I'm sorry, I knew I shouldn't have told you…"
He immediately takes on an
apologetic tone. "No Roger, it's a good thing you told me. Very good. But, um…
I don't understand. How come you can't drink or take your medicine anymore?"
Take deep breaths. Deep cleansing breaths. Don't let your heart speed out of control…you'll be fine…
"I um…I don't know. But I just can't, or…or…" Or what's happening to me right now will happen.
Mark's been through so many of these with me that by now he knows exactly what to do. He lays me down gently on my bed and tucks my threadbare blanket across my chest, then runs into his own room and returns with his own blanket, laying that on top of as well. Then he slips his hand into mine and tries to hold my body still as he looks into my eyes and tries to pull me back towards reality.
"That's it Roger, you're doing just great. Just concentrate on me, okay? Nothing bad will happen, I promise…just calm down and everything will be fine."
Finally, I can feel my breathing start to regulate and my racing heart slows down as I focus on Mark's eyes and let them pull me back to reality.
He breathes a sigh of relief. "Are you okay?"
I nod but we both know I'm lying.
Mark POV:
I stare a few seconds at the sheets on Roger's bed, putting off for as long as possible what I know has to be said. Finally, I take a deep breath and brace myself for the argument I know is coming.
"Rog, I know how hard it is for you to eat…and drink and take your AZT…and I know that you can't do it on your own. So maybe, um…maybe the best thing for you to do is to go to the hospital and, you know, just stay there until your health isn't in danger anymore… Just until you get your weight up to a safe level."
His eyes tear up and he blinks angrily, refusing to look at me.
"I'm too much of a burden for you so you decide to dump me in the hospital so you can forget about me for a while?"
"No! Total opposite! I care about you so much Roger and I would die if anything happened to you! I know you're incapable of eating – and drinking, apparently – and I know you can't do it on your own. But if you went to the hospital they could feed you, keep you alive on IV's for a while until you can do it on your own. I just don't want to see you die, Roger. You're not a burden and I'm not trying to get rid of you. I just want to make sure you live to see your 27th birthday." I rub his arm and look down at him, trying to gauge his reaction.
"No, wait, if I ate something right now would you still put me in the hospital?"
I pause. "It's not a punishment Rog, I just want to see you get better. But, I guess if you could start to eat again you wouldn't need to go…"
He stares at the scratched wood surface of the floor for a few seconds, thinking about this. Finally he says, "Okay, I will."
He throws off the two blankets that were covering him and gets out of bed. He stands shakily for a few seconds, apparently trying to regain his balance, and takes a few unsteady steps to the door. But just before he reaches it, his legs buckle and he collapses in a heap on the floor.
A thousand knives stab at my heart when I see this, his legs aren't even strong enough to support him anymore. I quickly brush away the tears forming in my eyes and rush to his side, helping him back to his bed.
"Here Rog, why don't you just stay here and I'll bring you back something instead, okay?"
He nods and I go into the kitchen, trying to pick out the best meal for Roger. Something that won't freak him out and something sufficient enough to keep him going, but also something that his shrunken stomach can handle. Finally, I decide on a few saltine crackers and a tall glass of water, this time in a clear cup so I can make sure that he's actually eating.
Roger POV:
By the time Mark comes back, I've already worked myself into a mini panic attack. He sits next to me and puts an arm around me, holding me close to him so I won't shake out of control, and raises a cracker to my lips.
I try to twist my head away from the food but he just grabs it with his free hand and holds it still as he brings the cracker to my mouth again and forces a tiny piece in, then takes a finger and rubs my neck in a downward motion so that I'm forced to swallow automatically.
"Hey!" I try to protest but when I open my mouth he shoves another tiny piece of the cracker in and before I have the chance to spit it out he does the same thing with my throat, forcing me to swallow.
He looks at me apologetically and says, "I'm sorry Roger, I just can't let you kill yourself like this."
He raises the glass of water to my lips and tilts my head back, holding my nose closed until I can't breathe anymore and have no choice but to open my mouth for a gulp of oxygen. But as I do, Mark pours half the water in the glass down my throat and won't let go of my jaw until I swallow.
As much as I hate this and want to kill him for it, I have to admit that the water tastes like heaven to my parched throat and dry mouth. But my feeling good about it and enjoying it somewhat just makes me feel guilty and awful for indulging myself when I know I don't deserve to feel satisfied…or anything else for that matter.
"Mark," I try to protest, but since stupid me didn't learn from last time, my protesting doesn't get me anywhere except for getting another cracker shoved in my mouth. Mark's holding me down again, and as much as I struggle to get free, I can't because by now he weighs almost 40 pounds more than me and is a lot stronger.
"Swallow," he commands as he relaxes his grip just a little. "You know you're going to anyway, one way or another. You can do it on your own, or I'll do it for you again. It's up to you."
I give him a look that could kill and wince as I swallow on my own and feel the food go down my throat.
"I hate you," I whisper as my eyes fill with tears. I can't believe Mark would do this to me, I thought he understood…
He hands me a tissue and sits down next to me.
"I'm sorry Roger, I really am. But look what you just did. You ate by yourself… Well, you swallowed by yourself…and that's progress isn't it? Before today you couldn't even imagine swallowing food on your own and you just did it. And you're not having a panic attack." He holds up my hand by my wrist and holds it in the air, my palm facing the floor. "Your hands aren't even shaking."
I take a deep breath and press my free hand to my chest, trying to feel for a racing heartbeat, but all I can feel is the slow, steady pulse, indicating normalcy and not the sign of someone who is having an anxiety attack. He's right, I realize, but not about to admit that to him I say, "That's because I'm too mad to be having a panic attack!"
"Prove it," he says as he shoves another cracker in my mouth. "Prove you're too mad at me to eat and get so freaked out that you have a panic attack."
I glare at him and swallow the food to prove my point, not even realizing that I fell right into his trap.
"Water?" He hands me the tall glass and I snatch it from him, gulping the whole thing in under two seconds. I guess I didn't realize how thirsty I actually was.
I hand the glass back to him and he walks out of my room, returning a moment later with the glass filled again and my AZT bottle.
He pops the top open and hands me the familiar white pill. "Will you take this on your own or do I have to hand feed you this too?" His voice is antagonistic and holds a hint of sarcasm. I don't get that mad though, because I know he doesn't mean it. He always uses this technique with me. He used it when he was trying to get me off smack, when he wanted me to get tested for HIV, and throughout my whole withdrawal. And the sad thing is, I always give in.
I snatch the pill from his open hand and pop it in my mouth, gulping the entire glass of water down again. I wonder if this is what it's like to go on a binge. But then again, I only had three crackers and two glasses of water so I doubt it.
The water feels so good, it's like nothing I've ever felt before…I've never felt so satisfied in my life. I know how twisted that must sound but believe me, after going four days without drinking, water is the best thing in the entire world.
Mark looks at me timidly, like he's almost scared of my reaction. "Do you feel better?"
Better? Yeah…I guess in a way I do feel better, but also worse because the voices are taking over again, screaming at me and scolding me for indulging myself like that, for being a pig and drinking the water like that when I don't deserve it at all…when what I deserve is to be starved to death, dehydrated, in every kind of pain known to man…
"Roger!" I look up and notice Mark staring down at me again, looking concerned. "Rog, are you okay?"
I hesitate for a second, considering telling him what's wrong but in the end I decide against it and just nod. "I'm fine Mark, don't worry about me. I just want to be alone now, okay?"
He looks at me skeptically for a while but finally turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door he calls over his shoulder, "And don't even think about purging, I'm locking the bathroom door. Tell me if you need anything." And then he walks out, closing the door behind him.
Mark POV:
After leaving Roger's room, I sit on the couch for about an hour, doing nothing but think about this whole dilemma. I know Roger should be in a hospital. He physically can't eat by himself anymore. I literally had to hold him down just now and put each tiny piece of cracker in his mouth and then rub his neck to force him to swallow. And if that wasn't bad enough, now he's telling me he can't even drink or take his AZT! Even when he was anorexic last year, it was never as bad as this. Because at least back then he could eat, if only a little. After just sitting on the couch for about another fifteen minutes, I hear Roger gasping for breath in his room and I rush in to see what's wrong.
"Roger?" I push his door open and see him on his bed with his eyes clenched shut and his hands shaking by his sides. Another panic attack. It's scary sometimes how Roger's anxiety attacks can look so much like when he was going through withdrawal.
I go over to his bedside and whisper in his ear words of encouragement, just like I used to for withdrawal, and after about ten minutes, he opens his eyes again and stares at me like a little lost child.
"Mark?" he whispers and then starts to cry.
I sit next to him and hold him as he sobs on my shoulder, apologizing over and over for doing this to himself and to me, saying how he just wants it to end, how he can't take it anymore, etc. until I can't even make out his words anymore and they're just one long sob.
"Roger," I say after he finally calms down. "You don't have to apologize for this. You're sick, it's not like you can help it. And you know I'm going to help you get over it, just like I did last time. I'll find some way to help you, okay? I promise, I'm not going to let you down." I sit and hold him for a few more minutes until I'm sure he's completely over his panic attack and when he stops crying, he pushes me away. He's always pushing me away. I wish he would just admit he needs me for once.
But I do what he says anyway, and walk out the door but only under the condition that he promises to let me know if he needs anything later.
Roger POV:
The food from an hour ago is finally starting to affect me. I can feel all of it in my stomach now and the goddamn voices won't leave me alone!!! They're telling me to throw up and I know they won't shut up until I do it. I want to do it anyway to get rid of this feeling of satisfaction in my stomach. I guess when you get so used to feeling a certain way, even if it's not right, anything else just feels wrong, not normal. I remember what Mark said about locking the bathroom door, that's the only thing that's stopping me.
I peek my head out my doorway, looking around for Mark, and when I don't see him, I focus my eyes on the open entrance to the bathroom. I could do it, I think to myself. It would be so easy, relief is right there in front of me! But do I really want to betray Mark's trust like that? At that I have to laugh. Mark doesn't have any trust in me, so technically, there would be none to betray…right?
I know there's only one right answer and it's becoming steadily more obvious as the seconds tick by, the screaming and taunting and patronizing getting louder with each that go by. Finally, I make my decision and make a run for the bathroom. Mark doesn't know, he doesn't understand about the voices and the way they fill my head, blocking out everything else until I do as they say. If he did, I'm sure he would let me do this…
I desperately try to convince myself of that as I turn on both shower faucets and kneel in front of the toilet and stick my fingers down my throat, the food coming up magically…an art I mastered long ago…
Mark POV:
I hear Roger run out of his room and I open the door to my room to see what he's up to. A feeling of dread washes over my body as I see the bathroom door closed and hear the gagging above the running water.
It is then that I make my decision, he can't go on living like this. As I pick up the phone and dial the familiar number, tears form in my eyes as I realize what I'm about to do to my best friend in the world.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Joanne. It's me."
"Mark? What's wrong?"
"Um…how would I go about getting someone committed?"