An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter Three

~.~

I feel like I should warn that this may be triggering for anyone who has ever struggled with an ED. Actually, I feel like I should have added that disclaimer in the first chapter, but…better late than never?

~.~

"You begin to forget what it means to live. You forget things. You forget that you used to feel all right. You forget what it means to feel all right because you feel like shit all of the time, and you can't remember what it was like before…."
--Marya Hornbacher, Wasted

Monica woke up, head spinning. Rachel had spent the entire weekend at Ross's, and though she was thankful for the alone time, it was truthfully just furthering her self-destruction. Being alone was her salvation lately, and she couldn't be quite sure if her unusual amount of time to herself was a product of shutting everyone out lately, or just everyone being so preoccupied with their own lives, that they simply didn't notice her. Perhaps, and most likely, it was a combination of the two.

Ross and Rachel were currently tied up with the whole being together thing, and Chandler was back together with Janice, and those two situations alone took care of a good half of the people she saw on a daily basis. Joey would show up for breakfast still even if they others didn't, but that was fine with her, because if she didn't eat with him, he always seemed to buy the excuse that she already ate before he got there. And though Phoebe claimed to have psychic abilities, Monica really doubted that, since she wasn't picking up on anything, either.

And with Rachel at Ross's a lot, it was much easier to hide not eating. Occasionally, she would even throw out the amount of food she would use to make herself breakfast or lunch, for appearance's sake, in case Rachel was paying attention at all. That thought seemed to be incredibly self-centered, though, because Rachel wasn't showing any signs of noticing. Actually, no one had shown any signs of noticing, so Monica either hid her eating habits exceptionally well, or else no one really gave a shit about her. Although she wanted to believe it was the former, she was beginning to feel it was the latter.

Monica made sure that when she did eat, it was in front of someone. No point in eating if no one was there to witness it. Might as well prove to anyone who might care enough to be paying the slightest of attention that she was, in fact, eating, so there was no reason to be concerned.

Someone showing concern would definitely be her complete destruction and only salvation. Lack of concern was better, easier. She thrived on everyone's lack of concern, lived for everyone's lack of concern.

All of these reasons were why she found herself, head-spinning, kneeling over the toilet in the bathroom early Monday morning. Rachel had been at Ross's all weekend. Chandler, she assumed, had been at Janice's, since she hadn't seen him. Joey must have had a few dates or a gig of some sort. And she never really kept tabs on Phoebe. All of that was why she hadn't eaten in sixty-eight hours, or rather, how she had gotten away with not eating in that long.

After dry-heaving a few times, she spat into the toilet, coughing at the bitter taste of bile in her mouth, since that's all there was to come up. Leaning forward on her elbows, she took a deep breath, feeling like she was going to pass out. Giving in, she closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cold toilet seat, a move that would have disgusted her had she been anywhere but her own immaculately clean bathroom. After taking a few deep breaths, she pulled herself up to a standing position, trying to clear her mind.

She was dehydrated, that was all. The human body is made to go without eating for a period of time, but not without drinking. She just needed water, and she would be fine. Water she tended to avoid, because water added more weight. The day before, she hadn't even drank anything.

She just needed water. And, now, she realized, head still spinning.

As fucked up as it was, though, she grabbed the scale from under the sink, stripping off her tshirt and sweatpants. If she was that dehydrated, she wanted to know how much weight she had lost since the day before.

100.

She frowned at that number. She had been sure that, after that weekend, it would be under 100. Shaking from the cold, she pulled her robe from behind the bathroom door, slipping it on, wrapping her bony arms around herself. She turned the shower water on and all the way to hot before heading towards the kitchen. Grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she downed it in seconds, carefully counting out five grapes as well (making a mental note: five grapes, ten calories) eating them slowly before returning to the bathroom. Making sure to lock the bathroom door, Monica dropped her robe to the ground before stepping into the shower, the scalding hot water leaving her pale skin bright red wherever it hit.

Monica began the familiar task of running her fingertips over her body, listing imperfection after imperfection off in her head. The flaws were always the same, but she always repeated them anyway, as if making them more salient to herself would make them easier to fix. Finally closing her eyes, annoyed with herself, she added, 'fucked up' to the list of things that were wrong with her, collapsing into a seated position as she let her emotions get the better of herself, beginning to cry.

She hated crying. Crying wasn't being in control. Crying was the opposite of being in control.

Yea, she would cry and not be in control. One more thing to add to the list of why she was anything but perfect….

~.~

"What do we do, though?" Ross asked in a hushed voice, gathered around the kitchen table at Monica and Rachel's with everyone except for Monica. Even though she had gone to work, they spoke quietly, as if she would somehow hear.

"Talk to your parents?" Rachel offered.

"Right," Ross scoffed. "Because the one person in the world Monica listens to is our mom…."

"Right," Rachel sighed, looking down at the table. "God, I wish this were easier. But I don't know what we even say to her. How do we make her get help?"

"I don't think we can make her get help," Chandler, who had been silent up until that moment, finally spoke up. "I don't think you can help someone who isn't ready to be helped…."

"Then what the hell do we do, Chandler, just stand by and watch her kill herself?" Ross snapped.

"No," Chandler defended himself quietly. "Just…I mean, we can talk to her, but if she isn't ready to be helped, I just, I don't think there's much we can really do."

The five of them were silent for a moment, digesting that thought. It didn't sit well with any of them, but they all knew he was probably right.

Ross finally shrugged, unsure of what else to say, but unable to take saying nothing. "Well, all we can do it try…."