• I have become serious.
    I have to talk to her about something pressing deeply into my heart.
    “Hey, listen. We really need to talk,” I tell her.
    The memory of last night flies through my mind.
    I can’t stop thinking about her current condition.
    I need to make her realize that this isn’t normal.
    She’s destroying herself and I don’t want to say goodbye.


    She shakes her head at me.
    It’s clear she doesn’t want to talk.
    “Let’s not. At least, not right now.”
    Maybe there is some kind of hope after all.
    Maybe she’s just saying all of this in order to make me be quiet about things.
    I’m watching her as she wastes away.
    It’s not a good thing to witness.
    The way I feel isn’t good.

    The memory of last night continues to run through my mind.
    It’s like an endless movie.
    It plays over and over again inside the walls of my mind.
    I get up and pace back and forth in front of an open bedroom doorway,
    About ready to just fly off towards the nearest exit.
    I want to get away.
    I want to run.
    I’m itching to run.
    Run away from the situation I don’t want to see.
    “What is going on?”

    Of course, my beloved older sister carelessly shrugs her shoulders.
    She closes her eyes and yawns.
    “Goodnight,” she says to me as she turns over and away from me,
    Obviously trying to ignore me and my questions.
    This hurts because there needs to be some sort of change.
    It can’t go on like this.

    She’s going to force me, I’m thinking.
    I mentally picture myself screaming at her,
    My eyes crazy with fear,
    Fear she continues to put shooting through my body.
    I stop pacing.
    I close my eyes and begin to breathe deeply and slowly,
    Holding my breath for a few seconds with each inhale.
    No. I’m not going to. That’s exactly what she wants, I tell myself.
    “This is serious.”

    She sighs and opens her eyes with a little pout,
    Refusing to face me.
    I can tell she’s pouting by her next words.
    “You’re not going away, are you? It’s a pretty morning.”
    It’s a weak attempt to avert my attention to other things besides her eating disorder.

    She flicks the covers off her and begins to get up out of bed.
    “Let’s fix you some breakfast.”
    Notice how she says “you” instead of “us”.
    She’s not talking about herself.
    She’s only referring to her cooking breakfast for me.

    A memory of us in the kitchen hits me hard.
    One day, we were in the kitchen in the early morning cooking pancakes.
    She had gotten some pancake batter on the side of her hand.
    I told her to lick it while she just stood there and stared down at it, trembling.
    She quickly washed her hands with hot soapy water.
    It’s like she was afraid the fat would sink through her flesh.

    The pain that comes with that memory,
    I look her right dead in the face,
    Studying her every feature carefully,
    Waiting for something to happen.
    I have to insist. I don’t know what else to do, I urge myself.
    “This is an urgent matter. I really need you to look at me and listen.”
    It’s hard to want to try.
    I need to not give up.

    “Look. I’m fine.”
    So she says.
    She will tell me anything to make me leave the matter alone.

    I give her a firm look.
    I’m scared.
    She knows what’s going on,
    She refuses to just simply tell someone that she needs help.
    “No, Charity, you are not by any means ‘fine’ as you so confidently put it.”
    “I know better.”
    “I may not be working in the medical field, but I’m most definitely not dumb.”
    “It’s painfully obvious what’s going on.”
    “I know what’s going to continue to happen to you if it doesn’t stop.”
    These are all the things I tell my beloved older sister.

    She whirls around and her voice changes into anger with her next words.
    “Let me guess,” she says.
    “You want me to play the sick damsel in distress and ask for help.”
    “No, actually cry for help like a little baby unable to cope with the world.”
    Is that how she really feels?
    Is there something else I can say to her?
    I need to do something about this.

    I approach her.
    “Come on. Admit it. You’re in trouble.”
    “Help” or “Help me” is all she has to say.
    All she has to do is ask for help.
    I know full well she’s not going to.
    Maybe she’s already too far gone.
    A person can’t get better if she doesn’t want to.
    It’s a given.
    She has to want to get better.

    She shoves me and I fall backwards onto my butt on the floor.
    “Will you get off it already?!”
    I need to get through to her.
    Determined to get through to her,
    I stand up, reach for her, grab her by the wrist and look deeply into her face.
    I feel the bones sticking through her thin, pale, dry skin.
    I see the look of fear and pain in her eyes.
    “Why can’t you just come to me? I’m right here.”
    “I need you to continue to fight and live. I need my sister.”
    These are the things I tell her.

    Tears gather in her eyes and she sniffles, weakly nodding.
    “Sorry, bro. I’m just out of control is all.”
    So she admits to it.
    She finally admits to it.
    Maybe there is some hope after all.
    I want things to be normal.
    I don’t want my sister to disappear on me.
    She needs help.
    She knows it too.

    I let go and wrap my arms around her.
    “You know you can tell me anything, right,” I tell her.
    I sniff at her fragile, easily broken and falling out hair.
    I gently touch her hair and there are clumps in the palm of my hand.
    I can’t help but to stare at it as tears blur my vision.
    So this is what it’s coming to.
    The hair she’s loved and tended to for most of her life.
    It’s all coming out.
    She’s dying.