An Imperfect Perfectionist

Chapter Four

~.~

Okay, so…my last chapter of this got a whole whopping 2 reviews, which is the least I've ever gotten for anything I've written on this site (and I wrote some not-so-great stuff in my younger years….), but I decided that I do want to continue with this and finish it, even if it takes a year to complete and no one else is reading it. It's auto-biographically based, and it's hard to write, but…it's so relieving to get the words from that part of my life out. So, I'm going to finish it. And you don't have to read it. Or review it. But, I will appreciate it greatly if you do.

~.~

"An eating disorder is not usually a phase, and it is not necessarily indicative of madness. It is quite maddening, granted, not only for the loved ones of the eating disordered person, but also for the person herself. It is, at the most basic level, a bundle of contradictions: a desire for power that strips you of all power. A gesture of strength that divests you of strength. A wish to prove that you need nothing, that you have no human hungers, which turns on itself and becomes a searing need for the hunger itself."

--Wasted, Marya Hornbacher

Monica double and triple checked to make sure the bathroom door was actually locked before kicking the scale out from underneath the sink and stripping completely naked. Before she stepped onto it, though, she looked down, tears in her eyes, hating that this was probably the tenth time today that she'd done so.

She hated this. She hated this need to weigh herself. She hated the need not to eat. She hated counting every calorie she so much as thought about. She hated hating herself. She hated this part of her life.

Part of her wanted to pick up the scale and throw it across the room, shattering it to pieces, making it not work. She wanted to tear the pages from the notebook she kept track of her weight and calories in, shredding the paper into unreadable pieces.

She hated every bit of this.

Taking a few deep breaths before wiping at her eyes, she stepped forward onto the scale.

97.

She hated every part of this, yet she feared the thought of giving any of it up.

~.~

Rachel sat on the couch, trying to seem as if she was nonchalantly watching television and not actually waiting on Monica to come out of her room. It had somehow been determined that she would be the first one to attempt to talk to Monica, though she wasn't sure she had been the best choice. Ross probably would have been, though, perhaps he was too scientific-minded to deal with a situation like this. Maybe Chandler? He surely wouldn't be as emotional as Rachel would be if they actually got anything out of Monica. Or maybe Phoebe. Phoebe had been through a lot in her life. She could be compassionate. Phoebe, though, had stayed very close-lipped when they were talking about this small attempt at an intervention.

Helping Monica was what was important here, though, not whether or not it made Rachel feel uncomfortable.

"Why are you watching the Spanish channel?" Rachel jumped at the sound of Monica's voice, having been too caught up in her own thoughts and worries to actually be paying attention.

"Oh, um, nothing was on, and I like trying to guess what's going on," Rachel attempted a laugh, not having realized that the soap opera she had stopped on wasn't even in English. "Hey, um, are you busy?" Rachel turned the sound on the television down, turning on the couch to face Monica, who had grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

"Not really," Monica shrugged apprehensively. "Why?"

"Can we, um, can we talk?"

"Sure," Monica replied slowly, walking over to the couch where Rachel was sitting.

"I just, ya know, feel like I haven't really seen you much lately, and I just, I wanted to see what's going on with you. Ya know, how are you?" Rachel rambled, completely unsure of herself.

Monica shrugged. "I'm okay…."

"Good," Rachel nodded. "Is, um, is there anything you want to talk to me about?"

Monica swallowed slowly. She had a feeling she knew where Rachel was going with this. She really didn't feel like being confronted about anything right now, though, not wanting to explain herself to anyone, and also not feeling like coming up with any blatant lies at the moment. "No," she finally shook her head. "Is there anything you want to talk to me about?" she looked at Rachel curiously, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Rachel nodded slowly. She was not doing very well with this confrontation thing; Monica was winning. "I think I'm good."

"Good," Monica nodded, and the two sat in awkward silence for a moment before Monica spoke again. "Is that it? Because I actually need to shower and get ready for work…."

"Oh, yea, no, go get ready for work," Rachel nodded as Monica stood up. "Mon?" Monica stopped, turning back towards her. "If you-if you do want to talk…I'm here."

Monica forced a slight smile at that. "Thanks," she whispered, the two standing in silence for a moment longer before Monica again turned, going into the bathroom.

Rachel sighed once the bathroom door was closed, turning her attention back towards the television. Well, that got her nowhere….

~.~

"Hello?" Monica picked up the phone.

"Hey," Ross's voice greeted her on the other end. "What are you doing tonight? I have Ben, and I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner with us," he offered, knowing how much she loved Ben, and wondering if she was really going to turn down dinner with her nephew because it involved eating.

"I, um, I'm actually working tonight."

"I thought Wednesdays were your night off," Ross replied. His goal was to catch her in the act of lying, needing substantive proof of her not eating and lying about it.

"I'm covering someone's shift," Monica shot back quickly.

"Okay, uh, some other time, then."

"Tell Ben I love him."

"I will, Mon. See you later."

"Bye."

~.~

Monica nearly collapsed onto the couch in her living room, having just showered after a long day and night at work. Working long hours made it easier not to eat, since it was easier to get away with it if she wasn't home. Turning on the television, she contemplated just going to bed, too exhausted to think at the moment. Working a double shift might have made not eating easier, but it was definitely not easy to accomplish while not eating all day. Thankfully, she wasn't close enough to anyone at work for anyone there to say anything about her weight loss or eating habits.

At the sound of the front door opening, she nearly jumped, knowing Rachel was out with Ross and that Joey was on a date, and not really expecting anyone else.

"Hey," Chandler smiled when he saw her, having not seen her in some time since she had been avoiding them all as much as possible lately, trying not to show how surprised he was at her gauntness.

"Hey," Monica replied as he sat down beside her. "Why aren't you out with Janice?" she finally asked, realizing it was Friday night.

Chandler paused before answering that, looking down. "She, uh, she went back to her husband," he said quietly, and Monica felt almost guilty that she didn't know that. How long had it been since she had actually talked to Chandler? She felt like she was losing all sense of time, too wrapped up in her own world to care about anyone else's. The look on Chandler's face broke her heart, though, and she wasn't sure whether to be thankful or disappointed to find that she wasn't completely devoid of all emotion after all. Though, lately she seemed to be, unable to feel anything other than numb to the world. Even her hatred towards herself seemed to be turning into more of a numbness.

All of the bad feelings had been easier to deal with than the numbness, though. Bad feelings she could take out on herself; the numbness wouldn't go away.

"Oh, Chandler, I'm sorry," she moved closer to him, reaching out to rub his hand reassuringly.

Chandler shrugged. "It was the right thing for her to do," he nodded. "Or that's what I keep telling myself, at least," he sighed, looking her in the eye, and despite how uncomfortable the eye contact made her, she held it. "How are you?" he asked sincerely. His voice was soft, but full of concern. Monica feared that kind of concern.

At the look he was giving her, like he could see right through her, Monica took a deep, shaky breath before simply shrugging, unable to say anything to that.

"Wanna talk about it?" Chandler asked softly, slightly squeezing her bony hand, which was still holding his.

Monica looked down, again taking a deep breath. Talk about what, exactly, how she hated how fucked up she was? How she hated suddenly feeling so vulnerable since all of her friends were trying to get her to talk, and she suddenly wished she felt as invisible again as she'd felt for months? How she hadn't eaten over 300 calories a day in longer than she could remember? How she almost passed out every morning when she got out of bed? How she had been so fucked up inside for so long that she was beyond fixing? That her biggest fear was actually being fixed, relinquishing that control, losing that part of herself?

Did anyone else really need to know she was that fucked up?

Monica looked up, tears in her eyes, shaking her head slowly from side to side. No. No, she didn't want to talk about it. Not with him. Not with anyone.

"When you do want to talk about it," Chandler continued quietly, "I'm here."

Monica nodded, eyes still brimming with tears, and at that, Chandler pulled her in, hugging her, wanting to squeeze her tightly, but afraid he would break her if he did so. Monica squeezed her eyes closed, trying her hardest to keep the tears and sobs she felt coming at bay. She didn't need to cry. She didn't need to cry. If she told herself that enough times, she could make the tears go away. It was just like with hunger. If she told herself enough times that she wasn't hungry, eventually, her stomach believed her.

Tonight was a losing battle, though. She didn't want to cry. She didn't want to lose it. She didn't want to lose her façade of everything being okay, even if her friends were slowly seeing through it anyway. She didn't want to cry.

Her body wanted to cry, though.

And so it did, silent sobs that shook through her body, almost painful. She cried, and despite not wanting to show her vulnerability, found she was clinging to Chandler, the front of his shirt soaked from her tears.

His silence she was thankful for, though. He just held her while she cried, rubbing her back, kissing her hair, still damp from her shower. He didn't say anything. He didn't make any false promises of everything being okay. He didn't try to get her to talk or admit anything. He was just there. And though Monica had been thankful for her self-induced solitude of the past few months, she was thankful for someone just being there, holding her.

He held her until her sobs subsided, until her breathing returned to normal and her sniffling stopped. And then he held her longer. Monica didn't pull back because she was both embarrassed by her breakdown and afraid of what consequences it might have, whether from him or the others. Chandler didn't pull back right away, though, because he didn't want her to know that her own breakdown had reduced him to tears as well, unsure of what to do or say next, knowing they couldn't help her if she wasn't ready to be helped.

So they sat in silence, holding each other, both contemplating their next move. Monica closed her eyes, feeling his tears against her forehead, suddenly wishing he would just leave her alone, not wanting to deal with the pain she was causing him as well as her own pain.

Finally pulling back, unable to take her current emotions any longer, Monica stood up, backing slowly away from the couch. She didn't make it very far, though, before the world around her went black.