To not be in your right mind is a very real thing. The doctor at the hospital, Dr. Sapphire, tried to explain this medical fact to me and the other girls in the unit, ad nauseam, so repeatedly the purgers could swear that the bile rose in their throats all by itself. I know, because I was one of that crew, the malnourished young ladies who puked for a living. By this, I mean that I needed to puke so I could live. My middle finger was compatible with life, and without its routine use, I wouldn’t be here. Nothing gold can stay, said Frost and Johnny to Ponyboy. For me, and the girls in sweats and pajamas and concert t-shirts, nothing food could stay.
The presence of chewed foodstuff, anything, bagel, muffin, mac and cheese, demanded prompt eradication. Pasta, especially spaghetti, its easy slip, was a crowd favorite. Marinara had a way of burning my throat, so I would toss all noodles in a stick or two of butter, handfuls of shredded mozz. The lightest beige, going down, coming up. The esophagus is an elevator for people like me. I have been regaled with photos of esophageal ruptures and erosions.
Dr. Sapphire sat with them in the Day Room. “Eight is Enough” was on, volume down. He came weekly for the stupid Unit Meeting. I focused on reading the lips of Grant Goodeve.
“Food is medicine!”
“Your brain is essentially damaged without nourishment! Hopefully, temporarily.”
“Without food, you can’t think. Really think. Your brain needs food!”
“There’s a lot of wet cotton between your ears. Eat the food, make your weight. You’ll have a working brain again. And then we can talk.”
“You can’t make decisions without reaching your goal weight. Until then, psychotherapy is out!”
“Glucose. Proteins. You need food, not vitamin pills. Drink the fruit juice. Drink the milk. Okay, all right. I know it’s whole, you don’t have to tell me. Drink it. So it’s full fat. Do you want to get out of here?”
“I am researching brain shrinkage in the eating disordered population. You’ll all be tested. You may well learn that your own brain has shrunk!”
Almost everyone wanted brain shrinkage. It meant you were doing something right.
Rothko's Rolodex 
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