Me Too (Mark)

After finishing a delicious meal at my house, Steve excused himself to go to the restroom. Without a second thought, I let him. I noted that he poked and prodded the food quite anxiously and then wolfed it down like he didn't need to chew. Maybe something was on his mind. He tends to miss high notes when something's on his mind, which is why he wasn't doing as well in rehearsals and gigs.

Then I heard an unearthly squelching noise that I knew all too well.

Had I made him sick? Was it something else? I made a beeline to the restroom and found Steve hunched over the toilet. 

       "Are you okay?" Stupid question, I know. But it generally works. Steve nods, flushed everything down the toilet and rinsed his mouth out. "Do you think you're sick?"

       "No...I just need to do this."

       "Why?" 

       "Because I'm disgusting." 

I could have sworn that my heart fell out of my body at that moment. As he was sitting on the bathroom floor, Steve looked small and helpless, like the weight of a feather could shatter him. I tried to put an arm around him, but he pushed it away, saying that I could never understand what it was like to be under constant scrutiny by the public. Well, I did. One of the things a pageant girl learns is how to smile when she feels nothing. Not sad. Not disappointed. Just nothing. One wrong facial expression or pose can cost you the crown.

I can't count how many boys who want to be just like Steve. They run around in leather armor clanking wooden swords and defeating imaginary dragons. Some of them are my trumpet freshmen. They practice faithfully every day hoping to be able to play the way Steve does. My stomach churned at the thought of one of them making a beeline to the bathroom to throw up their lunch. What was I feeling? Shocked? Angry? Both. I took a deep breath. Neither of us would benefit from me snapping.
       "Why do you think you're disgusting?"
       "Because everyone thinks something wrong with my face or my body."
       "Steve! There's nothing wrong with you. Never mind what other people think."
       "What about what I think? I can't show people something I'm disappointed in." I opened my eyes to the guy on the bathroom floor. He needs compassion, not a simple push on the back.
       "I want you to be around for your fans and, if not for their sake, for mine." He seemed to be opening up. "Hearing you throwing up scared me and I don't know how long it's been going on."
       "It started in high school, then it kind of died down when I met Caitlin, started again when I was dating Landon because I wanted to be as thin as he was." We love our angry beanpole, but emulating him is generally ill-advised. "Then I started focusing on loving myself and got better, but now, it seems that no one likes me the way I am."
        "I do--and that's why I hate seeing you destroying yourself. I'm calling an eating disorder clinic so you can get the help you need." Steve leaned against me as I punched the number in. I told the lady on the other end about our situation and held back my tears as I answered the series of questions.

The next day, we went to the clinic and were met with the shuffling around of anxious parents, furtive teenage girls, and women who looked around as if comparing themselves to those around them. Some of them gave Steve dirty looks and exchanged whispers about the Me Too movement. Usually, a guy has to literally almost die in order to receive treatment for an eating disorder, but this clinic knows that eating disorders don't discriminate.

Words drifted through my head as I took everything in. Why would the facility prohibit calculators, especially for a high school student who has to do math homework? And what's with the restrictions on clothing? I had body image issues both before and after my transition, but nothing clinical. I read through their visitation policies, but a wave of anxiety interrupted my thoughts. My heart started racing and I thought I would faint. Is this what Steve felt for no apparent reason? How did he live like this?