Been a while, but here's a long one to make up for it. A little Barry & Iris friendship here, don't worry, I'll get back to Caitlin next chapter :)
Barry picked at the meal in front of him, trying to get down a couple more bites. He had started doing that lately. Just a couple more bites. When he felt like he couldn't possibly eat anymore he tried to get himself to have at least two more bites.
He was getting better. He still hated going to restaurants, frequently tried to get out of it when Caitlin decided he needed to go again, but it was helping. He didn't get as nervous anymore, was able to actually eat a decent amount most of the time. Part of it was that there was less pressure then. He was just supposed to eat what he was comfortable with – he didn't have to finish anything. He was starting to get a little more comfortable around food again, and around other people while he was eating. He still had to sit in a corner of the restaurant, had to have his back to the wall, and it couldn't be crowded, but he could do it now, and from a couple weeks ago that was major improvement.
But he wasn't feeling great. Not upset, like before. He had started acting a little more normal actually, had started getting back to his usual self, especially after Caitlin took the tube out. Which she promised him would not hurt as much as putting it in. She lied.
But Barry couldn't be too mad at her, because he was just happy the thing was out and he could go back to sleeping at home. After that things started getting a little better, and he started progressing. He was up to 174, almost back to normal, and he could run longer now.
"I think I'm done," Barry said, starting to get up.
"Barry."
Barry cringed, put the plate back on the table but didn't sit down. "I don't really feel good," Barry said, "I'm not hungry."
Joe looked up at him from behind the newspaper he was reading. "What else did you have today?"
Barry cringed again, hated listing everything out. "I ate breakfast and lunch. I'm really just not hungry."
"What did you have for lunch?"
"I ate, Joe."
"What did you ha-"
"A sandwich and a salad and a calorie bar and an apple," he said.
Joe looked down at his plate. "You're really not hungry?"
"No."
"Can you try a couple more bites?"
"I already did."
"Barry, you've been doing so well lately, I don't –"
"I'm not," he said, starting to get agitated, "I don't feel good – I'm going to go lie down."
"Alright," Joe said, "but tomorrow –"
"Tomorrow you can shove three waffles down my throat instead of two," Barry said, rolling his eyes.
Joe smiled. "Is that your way of getting me to make waffles."
"Well it be nice."
Joe laughed. "Go get some rest, Bar."
So Barry went upstairs, feeling exhausted, but for once, not because of anything having to do with food.
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Barry slumped down the stairs still in sweatpants and a T-shirt. Joe looked up from where he was already half finished with a plate of waffles.
"You better hurry up before they get cold," Joe said.
Barry mumbled something and sat down, taking a fork and knife to the stack.
It was some five minutes later when Joe looked up, the newspaper in front of him again, to see Barry staring at the waffles, all cut up and syrup dripping over them, but not one bite taken out.
"Barry?"
Barry looked up. There was a vacant look in his eyes, almost confused.
"What's going on, Bar?"
Barry looked back down. "I'm not hungry."
"Take a bite, Bar."
"No, like I'm really not hungry." He sneezed again and then groaned, putting his head against one of his hands. "I think I'm sick."
Before he could stop him Joe was standing, leaning over the table to put a hand against Barry's forehead. His eyes went wide.
"You're burning up," Joe said, and he was gone in a second, back with a thermometer. He stuck it in Barry's mouth before he could protest. His eyes only went wider when he looked at the number. "OK, Barry, we are taking a trip to Star Labs."
"Lemme see," Barry said, grabbing for it. He read the temperature. 105.3
Barry shook his head. "I run warmer. Cait said not to worry unless I get past 107."
"107, huh," Joe said, looking at it again. "Alright. I'm going to call Caitlin anyway, but you need to call in sick."
Barry pulled out his phone to make the call while Joe contacted Caitlin, confirmed that it would be fine if Barry stayed home, that if he was still sick the next day he should come in, but that with his accelerated systems he'd probably be fine by the next morning. Barry was going for the couch when Joe stopped him.
"Why don't you try just a couple of bites," he said.
Barry whined and complained, but Joe got him back in the chair, and he was stabbing at soggy pieces of waffles with his fork.
"Just a couple bites, Barry," Joe said, "it can't be good for you to have that high of a temperature and running on empty."
"I'm really not hungry," he said, still stabbing, "I'm not just trying to get out of it. My stomach doesn't feel great."
"How about just a couple bites of calorie bar then," Joe said, grabbing one for him.
"Joe," Barry said, frowning when it was placed in front of him.
"Just a couple bites."
Barry gave in and chewed off a piece, but his stomach almost immediately revolted, and he turned a sickly green.
"Can you try one more?" Joe asked.
Barry shook his head, started shivering. "'m goin back to bed." He pushed back from the table and was up the stairs before Joe could stop him.
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"Ohhh, poor Bar."
Barry opened his eyes, immediately wished he hadn't. He closed them again and burrowed back under the blankets.
"Does sickly Barry need some soup?"
"You're not allowed to tease me," Barry said from under the blankets, "I can't defend myself properly when I'm sick."
Iris laughed and Barry shrugged his way out from underneath the pile.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Oh, you're cranky when you're sick," Iris said, flitting away when he tried to throw a pillow at her. "I just came to check on you – Dad said you were sick."
"I'm fine," he said.
Iris took a look at the scattered tissues and Barry's replication of the Himilayans he was currently creating from blankets. "Yeah, sure you are."
He let out a frustrated sigh. "I am sick, but I am not five," he said, "I am perfectly capable of staying home by myself for a day."
"Mmhm," she said, still looking fairly amused. She disappeared and came back with a thermometer, seemed reasonably satisfied with the result, and then in another ten minutes she had soup.
"Come on," she said, already tugging at his arm, "sit up."
""m not hungry," Barry grumbled, reluctantly getting into a half sitting position.
"You still need to eat," Iris said, putting the bowl of soup in his hands. He took a couple of halfhearted bites before simply moving the spoon through it aimlessly.
Iris was staring at him expectantly. "You need to finish it."
"I'm not hung-"
"I talked to Caitlin," Iris said, "you still need to eat. You'll make yourself worse if you don't get anything in your systems while your temperature is up so high."
"But I'm not hungry."
"I know you're not hungry," Iris said, "but your body needs food, so eat."
Barry grumbled and made a face that was definitely not pouting, and forced a couple more bites in before he settled another pleading look at Iris.
"All of it," she said.
"I feel sick."
"Well that much is obvious."
"I'm gonna puke."
"Have you yet?"
"No."
"Then you're probably not going to. Eat."
"Iris."
"Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Don't care."
"This is gross."
"It's soup. You love soup."
"Not this kind."
"Barry I've seen you eat that a million times."
"Well I don't feel like it."
"Barry."
"I don't."
"Eat."
Barry spun the spoon through the soup some more. He looked back up. "I'm not trying to get out of eating… you know, like… like I've been doing – I really do feel sick."
Iris sighed. "I know, Barry – you still have to eat."
"I really am just not hungry," he said again, earnestly.
"Still have to eat."
"Iris."
She shook her head. "You didn't have anything for breakfast. You need to have some lunch."
"I ate some breakfast," he protested.
She looked flatly at him. "A couple bites of waffle and calorie bar do not constitute breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry," he said defensively.
"I know," Iris said, pointing at the soup, "which is why you are eating now."
Barry looked down and then back up dejectedly. "I really don't want any more, Iris."
"Eat," she said again.
Barry sighed, but still only moved the spoon around in the soup.
"Barry."
He didn't look up, kept moving it.
"Barry." Her tone was hard now and he winced, brought a spoonful to his lips, but paused, his stomach protesting and rolling around and his head yelling at him for even thinking about eating when he wasn't running right now and normally he would have crushed the voice down and taken the bite, would have sought reassurance in Iris's smile when he did, would have repeated to himself that he needed food to live, to run, to help people, and that he deserved to be able to eat, to be able to eat and not feel guilty – he would have fought the part of himself that said eating was wrong, but he was so tired. The spoon dropped from his lips, the liquid spilling back into the bowl as he tilted the spoon over, and then brought it back down, spinning it through the soup just like before.
"Barry, you need to eat some more," Iris said. Barry didn't look up. Her tone was hard and firm and he was getting anxious, and that was making it worse, and he wanted to hide, hated her watching him again.
"I can't, Iris," he said quietly.
"You can," she said, "and you will. Take a bite, Barry."
He shook his head.
"Barry," she said, and he winced again because her tone had gone from hard to sharp, and this was when he usually gave in but he was just so tired and his stomach hurt and he didn't want it.
"Please, Iris, I don't feel well," he said, chancing a look up to find her eyes just as hard, just as sharp as her voice.
"That's not an excuse," she said, "I'm sorry you don't feel well, but you still need to eat." There was no sympathy in her voice.
"Come on, Iris, I'm sick," he said, pleading now.
"That's a reason you should eat, Barry, not one for why you shouldn't."
"But I don't feel well."
"Barry, you are going to eat that soup, and you are going to finish it."
His stomach dropped. He stared back down at it, figured he just made the situation worse, that she probably would have let him off with half the bowl before.
"That's too much."
"It's barely a lunch. Eat."
"Iris, my stomach hurts."
"I'm sorry. You still need to eat though."
"I don't want to."
"Too bad."
"Iri-"
"Barry," she said, her words clipped. "Eat. Now."
But he just stared at the soup. He didn't want that. He really, really didn't want that. His stomach hurt and his head was screaming that it was bad that it was awful and terrible and don't eat, don't eat, don't eat, and suddenly he felt like he was going to throw up and he thought about the bites that were already in his stomach and no, he couldn't do this, he would not, could not take one more single bite, put one more bit of it into his body, he needed it out, needed it gone, couldn't do it.
"If you don't start eating," Iris said, her voice soft, "I'm calling Caitlin."
And his stomach dropped again. "No," he said.
"Eat."
"I-Iris, no," he said desperately. He started to panic. He just got the tube out, he couldn't have it back in. For one thing it would hurt, and he knew it would hurt now, but really he just couldn't have them pump that stuff back into him, couldn't have them fill him up, or worse, get him stuck on it again, no it was too much, way too much, and everything had just started getting better, had started getting manageable when they let him off it again, he couldn't go back on.
She stared at him for a few moments, and then started to take out her phone.
"No – Iris, no!" he said, making a lunge at her arm.
"You eat," she said, tearing it back before he could grab it, "or I call. If you won't eat, then your doctor needs to know about it – and she can decide if you need the feeding tube back or not."
"Iris, no, please," he said, "I can't – I can't do that again!"
"Then you need to eat," she said.
And then he burst into tears.
Iris stared at him dumbstruck, for a moment. She just stared, shock written all over her face as tears started falling down his face, off his chin. He hid it in his hands, and Barry felt mortified, absolutely mortified because he was crying and he couldn't stop and he didn't know where it came from, couldn't stop it because it just happened, just broke like that. He was tired and exhausted and he felt like shit and he wasn't hungry at all, his stomach hurt, and he couldn't fight the thoughts when he was like that, when he didn't even want food in the first place, when not even his body wanted the food, because then it just felt so wrong, so unnatural, so bad, guilty. He was just shoving in food to shove in food, like a kid addicted to chocolate would eat it until he made himself sick, and Barry didn't want to be that kid, didn't want to be that fat little kid who just kept eating and eating and eating even when he wasn't hungry and he wasn't, he wasn't hungry at all, his stomach hurt. He couldn't do this and now she was going to put in an IV or a feeding tube and the thought was just unbearable, awful – he'd do anything to stop it from happening, but he just couldn't eat.
"Barry," Iris said tentatively, slowly putting down the phone.
Barry shied away, tried to stop crying, failing. He was shaking, and he just wanted to disappear. He felt miserable.
"Barry, it's OK," she said.
He shook his head. "I can't do it," he said, "I can't – I want to, Iris, I want to – I don't want the tube again – I don't want an IV – I just – I-I'm not hungry and my stomach hurts and it f-feels awful." He broke off, had to stop to breathe. "I can't eat right now, I can't – it feels – it feels like I'm just stuffing it in because I'm not even hungry and I can't eat when I'm not hungry it feels awful – it makes me feel awful about myself."
"Barry, it's OK," she said again, hands around his shoulders. "You don't need to feel awful about yourself – you haven't done anything wrong, Barry."
"I-I can't eat," he said, "I can't Iris, it – it feels wrong – I can't, it feels terrible – I feel terrible, it feels awful."
"Shh," she said, "I'm sorry, Bar, it's OK."
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm sorry, Iris, I can't – hurts, i-it hurts."
And Iris frowned because she wasn't sure if he was talking about his stomach anymore or the way he felt or what, but he was obviously very distressed and if he was crying then he really did feel terrible.
"It's OK," she said, "It's alright."
"No it's not." And he kept shaking his head. He had his hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, and he was curling in on himself, like he was trying to get away.
"Barry," Iris said, and she reached for his shoulder and when her fingers touched him he flinched away. "Barry, you need to calm down," Iris said gently, "it's OK."
But Barry kept crying until he started to hiccup, and then he started to gag, and Iris had to help rush him into the bathroom before he puked. Afterwards he just slumped down against the cabinets of the sink. He had stopped crying, and was now just staring at the opposite wall. Iris lowered herself down and then sat down next to him, before carefully reaching out and taking his hand, rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles.
"I'm sorry for pushing you," Iris said softly, "I'm really worried about you, Barry, and sometimes… I know you're an adult, and you're perfectly capable of making your own decisions and choices, but with this… it's really hard to tell when you need a push, and when you need us to back off. I'm just… we're all worried, and we want to help, and I know you have to do a lot of things you don't want to, which means… which means sometimes you won't, and we – we have to make sure you do Barry, but I know sometimes you need a break too and I don't – I'm trying to do what you need – I just… I guess I'm not doing a great job of it."
"I'm sorry," Barry said. He closed his eyes again, shuddered.
"It's OK," she said, "It's OK, Bar, you don't have to be sorry."
He shook his head again, had his knees drawn up to his chest now. "I – I d-don't want to eat," he said, and he sounded scared.
And that threw her. Iris just looked at him for a second, and then she ran a hand around his shoulders, and he shrunk in against her side.
"Barry, what's wrong?" Iris asked softly.
He shook his head.
"Are you… Barry I need you to tell me what you're thinking."
He shook his head again, harder.
"Come on, Barry, talk to me."
"I just don't feel good, Iris, I'm tired and sick and I don't want to eat, I'm sorry," he said into his knees.
"OK," she said, rubbing his back, "OK, why don't we go up to your room then? Why don't you sleep for a little while?"
Barry nodded and followed her upstairs and when she sat down next to him on the bed he didn't say anything, just curled up under the blankets and shivered.
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When Iris brought him soup later, for dinner, he just looked at her, making that awful pathetic, miserable face.
"Just a few bites," she said. She reached over and put a hand against his forehead. "Caitlin said you have to get some nutrients in you. You're already getting really pale, Barry."
Barry felt weak. He was exhausted, limbs heavy and weighted down. He had woken up like that, much worse than how he had felt earlier that morning, and he supposed it was because he hadn't eaten anything all day, but that didn't make it easier. If anything it made it worse, because he still wasn't hungry and he just didn't have the energy to force himself to eat. Iris put her hand against his forehead and he let out a quiet exhale, her hand cool against his skin.
"Barry, you're burning up," Iris said quietly. She dabbed sweat off of his forehead with the sleeve of her shirt. "When did you last take your temperature?"
"Morning," he mumbled. He turned. He really wanted to go back to sleep, really didn't want to eat.
"Barry, sit up," Iris said, pulling at his arm.
"No."
"Barry."
"Wanna sleep."
"Barry, you sound like you're two."
"Don't care."
"You need to eat."
"Not hungry."
"You still have to eat."
"No."
"Not negotiable."
"No."
"Barry."
"No."
Iris made a frustrated noise, restraining herself from threatening him with calling Caitlin again, because that had just gone over so well the last time.
"Barry," she said, forcing her voice to lose the irritation that was gathering there, "I really need you to try."
"No."
"You need to sit up."
"No."
Iris sighed. Barry had his face pressed into the pillow now. He was sweating but he was cold, shivering. He didn't want to eat and he was so tired. Iris pulled on his arm, but he was too weak to resist and soon she had pushed him into a sitting position.
"There," she said, breathing a little harder. She put the soup into his lap. "Eat."
He stared at the bowl. Then he looked at Iris. Then he stared at the bowl some more.
"Just take one bite," Iris said. "Just one. Don't think about it."
"I can't, Iris," he said weakly.
"Yes you can," she said, "don't think about eating dinner, just think about eating that one bite. Come on."
His face was getting flushed again and he just kept staring downwards, but now his hands were getting shaky, fidgeting, like he was trying to get himself to do it, but all he was managing to do was get himself worked up and flustered.
"Barry," Iris said gently, putting a hand on his shoulder, "just take a bite. Come on, you can do it."
He shook his head and his eyes were watering and he didn't know why because it was stupid it was just a bowl of soup but he didn't want it, he didn't want to eat it and he knew Iris was going to make him and he knew even though she hadn't said it yet that she'd call Caitlin and he really just wanted to make himself eat, to make himself take it in but he couldn't, he couldn't do it.
"I'm not hungry, Iris," he said, "I don't want it."
"I know, Bar, just take one little bite for me."
Barry clenched his hands, opened them, made as if he were going to grab the spoon, and then stopped, trembling. He was breathing hard and shaking his head and all he could think was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Bad. Guilty. He wasn't even hungry – his body didn't want it – he was just eating for the sake of eating – wrong, bad. Guilty. He wasn't supposed to. Fat. Loser. It was a watered down mix of lard and sodium and he was going to swallow it down so it could sit there in his gut, inside of him. And the bowl would be there like a plaque of his sins. Look what he ate. Look what he did. Him. Right there. A big finger pointed at him. Yeah, him. He's the disgusting, rancid pig who keeps shoving down garbage into his throat, even when he's not hungry, even when he doesn't want it.
And he felt ashamed, felt horrible, for even considering the idea of eating, and that just felt awful, unbearable. He pushed the soup away, shook his head. He didn't want it there – didn't want it even near him. He was hyperventilating. He couldn't think about food right now – every time he started to think about food he felt like trash. Guilty, shameful, but mostly just low, just worthless.
"Barry," Iris said, and she had a hand on his back, which he hadn't noticed until she spoke. "What's wrong? What's going on?"
He shook his head, kept his eyes down, couldn't bear to look at her.
"Hey," she said, ducking around, "hey, Barry, what's wrong?"
"I – I don't want to eat." Yes you do, don't you, I bet you do, I bet you want to shove it all down your throat because that's what you do isn't it, you eat everything in sight you just keep eating and eating and eati-"
"How 'bout one bite, Barry. Come on, I know you can do it, just one and then we'll leave it for a little while."
You won't stop at one, will you, you disgusting, fat, awful, loser, pi-
"Barry, hey, look at me."
Look at me, Barry – look, let her see how stupid messed up cracked up anorexic fat disgusting loser pig obese failure revolting –
"Barry!"
Barry's eyes finally jerked up but his face was red and they darted right back down. He shook his head. "Can't, Iris," he mumbled. He couldn't, he couldn't. He couldn't swallow down that stuff, let the fat soak up in his stomach. He wouldn't take in any more of it than he already had.
"Barry," Iris said carefully, "you're zoning out on me."
He shook his head again. "Please take it away," he said. He closed his eyes, and the words kept spinning in his head and he felt tiny, wanted to go invisible, felt worse than he had in a while, felt more ashamed, awful, guilty. He just wanted it to stop now, just wanted the words to stop.
"Barry," Iris said, "you need to tell me what's going on inside that head."
"You don't want to know," he said, his voice so quiet she almost didn't catch it.
"Barry," she said, her frown deepening. "no, you need to talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking, Barry, I mean it."
He shook his head.
"You're getting stuck in there," she said, "and whatever it is, it's not true, and it's not good, so you need to talk it through."
"I don't want to talk it through," he said, "please, please just take it away." He gestured at the soup again, almost like he was afraid of it.
"Barry," she said, "you have to eat. You're sick, and you need nutrients."
He didn't respond.
"You're not fat," Iris said abruptly. "You're not fat and you're not disgusting and you don't need to feel guilty or shameful or bad or criminal or whatever the hell you're telling yourself right now, OK? You are one hundred percent OK and justified in eating food, alright? It's not bad, it's not shameful, it's not something to be embarrassed about or upset over. You need to eat to stay alive. You need to eat today, right now, and that's OK."
She's lying she's lying she's lying. And all he could think of was that one friend of Iris's in high school that was bigger than all the other girls and Iris would tell her she wasn't fat either. She would tell her she was plenty thin. She would tell her she could eat junk food. She would tell her she looked good in those shirts or those jeans or that dress. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head again.
You disgusting fat pig, do you want to get bigger?
Oh, God, he just wanted it to stop. He couldn't block the thoughts that kept coming up, the waves of that nauseous black shame.
"Please, I – I can't do this right now – I can't do this – you need to take it away – take – please, please, get- get –" and Barry rambled off into a stuttering mess, the whole thing exploding from his lips, bubbling out. He crushed his hands into his face, curled his knees upwards on the bed, was five seconds from running straight out of the room when Iris swept the bowl of soup up over to the nightstand and wrapped him in a hug, his whole body shaking.
"Shh," she said, "it's alright. It's OK, Barry."
He shook and hugged her back, wanted to hide there, sink down, and for the first time since she came up there he felt relief from the thoughts spinning in his head, the comfort of her right next to him dulling the onslaught of shame and guilt enough for him to breathe again. He didn't want her to let go.
"I can't stop thinking," he whispered, rapid, and he felt almost guilty for saying it, or more like scared, like the thoughts would come back and yell at him for even voicing it at all, like he shouldn't be saying it, but he had to, he had to, wanted to now, needed Iris, needed help, reassurance. "I can't stop – the – guilt, and – and it won't stop – it won't stop."
"It's OK," she said again, rubbing his back, "it's alright. Just relax."
"I feel awful, I feel awful," he rambled into her shoulder, "I'm awful, I'm worthless, I'm awful."
"Shh, no you're not," she said soothingly, "you're just upset."
"I'm stupid and fat and worthless and awful."
"You're telling yourself that because you feel bad. But you're not. You're not stupid or fat or worthless or awful at all. It's your head tricking you."
"I feel ashamed," he said, still in the same whisper voice, "I – oh, God, it feels awful, Iris, it feels awful." And he let out a sob and had his forehead against her shoulder, a couple slow tears sliding down his nose.
"You don't have anything to be ashamed of," Iris said calmly, "you don't have anything to be upset over. You haven't done anything wrong."
A shaky breath escaped his mouth.
"You don't have anything to be guilty or ashamed of," Iris continued, her hand making slow, steady circles on his back, "you're eating because you're body needs it, and you deserve to be able to eat. You deserve to be able to eat without feeling ashamed or guilty or upset. You don't have to do anything special for that – it's your right – not something you have to earn or anything – you have the right to feel OK about yourself and your eating."
"I don't deserve it," he said, "I don't want it, I don't need it."
Iris sighed. "Bar. Yes you do."
"No, no, I don't."
"Hey science nerd," Iris said, but her voice was affectionate, "how long can a body last without protein huh? Carbs? Fats? I'll give you a hint – not long."
He trembled. She was going to make him eat it she was going to make him eat it. Somehow that sent fear running through his blood. He couldn't eat, he couldn't, and she would make him and that was suddenly terrifying.
"Please don't make me," he said.
"Barry, I'm not making you do anything," she said, "but you really do need to eat something. Just a few bites, even."
"No, no, please."
"Barry," Iris said, confused, and getting increasingly alarmed. Barry was deteriorating in her arms, his voice getting more and more panicked, miserable, vulnerable. He was practically begging her at that point and she didn't know what for – it wasn't like she could force feed him. Then again he had broken down the night before at the mere mention of calling Caitlin.
"I can't, Iris," he said, "I can't eat. I can't."
She sighed again. "Why not, Barry?"
"Because… because…" he didn't answer, but he was still shaking.
"Why, Barry?" she pressed.
"Because I'm not supposed to!" he burst out, "I – it's bad – it's bad and I can't and if I do – if I do… I don't know, something bad will happen – I just can't I'll feel terrible about myself and I'll get fat and everyone will know and I can't."
"Barry," Iris said, "you're not fat. You're not going to be fat if you eat a few bites of soup. You wouldn't be fat if you ate fifteen bowls of soup. Nothing bad is going to happen. You are supposed to eat."
Barry shook his head, forehead still against her shoulder.
"Barry," Iris said, "Barry, look at me."
Barry slowly raised his head, his face still red. He was embarrassed and upset and he could barely meet her eyes.
"Look at me," she repeated, even though his eyes were on her now. She took his hands and fixed him with a heavy gaze. "I want you to repeat what I say," she said. "Ready? I'm supposed to eat."
"Iri-"
"I'm supposed to eat," she said again, more forcefully.
"I'm supposed to eat," he mumbled.
"Barry," Iris said, her voice going hard, "do you want to feel better?"
"I just don't want to ea-"
"No," she said, "look at me. You're not eating now, and two minutes ago you were saying you felt awful and ashamed and horrible, and that it wouldn't stop. And you're not eating. So this obviously isn't just you not wanting to eat. Now, do you want to feel better? Do you want it to stop? Because I'm trying to help, and you're not taking me seriously."
He looked down again. "I'm sorry," he said, "I can't – I don't want to eat and it feels – I-"
"Sh," she said, "stop talking. Stop thinking. Relax, just repeat what I say, alright? Can you do that? Can you at least try?" He nodded and she let out a breath. "OK. Barry, come on, look at me." When he looked up again she repeated the first statement. "I'm supposed to eat."
"I'm supposed to eat," he repeated, his voice soft, the words obviously uncomfortable in his mouth, but he was trying now.
"I'm sick."
"I'm sick."
"So I have to eat to get better."
"I have to eat to get better." The words were quiet, almost back to a mumble, but Iris let it go because he looked incredibly uncomfortable, which as alarming as that was, meant that he was actually focusing on the task and not just humoring her.
"I deserve to eat."
"I deserve to eat."
"I'm not fat. I'm a healthy weight."
"I… I'm not fat… I'm a healthy weight."
"I have nothing to be ashamed of."
"… I… have nothing to be ashamed of."
"Nobody fucking cares what I eat."
Barry smiled, head dipping in half a laugh and Iris smiled too. He repeated the statement, mimicking Iris's emphatic tone until she smacked him.
"I'm not guilty of anything."
He looked visibly uncomfortable again. "I'm… but-" Iris fixed him with a glare and he looked down. "I'm… I'm not… guilty – of anything."
"I'm not guilty."
"I'm not… guilty."
"I'm not guilty."
"I'm not guilty."
"I deserve to eat."
"I deserve to eat."
"I need to eat."
"I need to eat."
"Eating is OK."
"Eating is OK."
Iris kept going with more statements, sometimes repeating them, sometimes saying ridiculously simple things, but the more they kept going the more Barry seemed to calm down, seemed to actually believe the words. As she kept making him say them over and over again the thoughts spinning in his head started to dissipate, the phrases and statements taking over. It was like the positive affirmations Caitlin had made him do, except with Iris right in front of him making him say them over and over again he could relax more into it – was forced to keep going when the thoughts of this is stupid and you're lying started butting in. Her voice was reassuring too. It was one thing to say yourself that you could eat, but it was another to hear it from someone else as well, and the constant prompting kept him on track.
"I'm going to eat a bite of soup, and that is OK," Iris said.
Barry stumbled. "I'm… no." He cringed as Iris placed the bowl back in his lap.
"I'm going to eat a bite of soup, and that is OK," Iris repeated.
Barry looked down. He looked back up. He took a deep breath. I'm going to eat a bite of soup, and that is OK. That is OK. This is OK. This is OK. This is OK. It was a mantra in his head as he reached for the spoon, and he wound up mumbling the words at the end. He took a bite.
It was in his mouth and he looked at Iris and her expression was encouraging, open, proud. He managed to swallow it down. He felt sick the instant after he did it.
He looked up at Iris, everything crashing back, looking desperately to her for help.
"I ate, and that's OK."
He shook his head, made a pained humming noise in his throat, was about to bring his hands up to his head when Iris caught his wrists.
"I ate, and that's OK," she said again.
"I – I ate… and… it's OK."
"I deserve to eat."
"I deserve to eat."
"I need to eat."
"I need to eat."
"I ate. That's good."
"I ate… that's good."
She kept going for a little bit, before prompting him to eat again. He made a bigger fuss over it this time, didn't want another bite. She got a good five or six in him though before he just looked so exhausted that she finally took the bowl away and had him lie down. He looked very uncomfortable afterwards, and Iris kept a hand on his shoulder when he lay down.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
He paused for a while. "I… a little ashamed. A little guilty. I know I shouldn't. I just… I feel sick and it makes it worse – it… I'm nauseous, so it's like… it's like my body's punishing me for eating and-"
"No," she said, "you didn't do anything wrong."
"I know," he said, squirming, "I know, I know. I didn't do anything wrong. I have to eat. I… I did a good job, and I ate… and it's alright, I'm alright – it just… I don't know, I don't like how it feels."
"Well it's OK," she said, rubbing his arm. "Try and get some more sleep."
"OK," he said, and he closed his eyes, looking exhausted.
"I'm really proud of you," she said.
"Thank you."
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