Paperweight by Meg Haston

swooping and untethered. One violent gust and I will come undone.
    â€œYou’re not crazy,” she says again. “I think the smells are triggering for you. Bringing back memories that are tied to food, or particularly traumatic times during your eating disorder. But you’re perfectly sane, and you’re safe here. Do you hear me?”
    â€œI hear you.” Hearing and believing are two different things.
    â€œWould you take a few deep breaths for me?” she asks. “In through the nose and out through the mouth?”
    I obey her because I don’t know what else to do. My heartbeat slows a little. I still want it all in me: the sugar and the salt and the bread. I need to fill myself up until there is no more room for the past.
    â€œCan you put into words what was happening for you in th—”
    â€œDon’t make me go back,” I beg. “Please.”
    She angles her body toward me. I can feel her gaze on my face, almost like she’s touching me. “What could happen if you tried this exercise, Stevie? What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
    â€œNothing. I don’t know. I just . . . Don’t make me go back in there.”
    Finally, she looks straight ahead. She stretches her legs out in front of her and crosses her ankles. “It can feel really scary, trying to find that middle ground.”
    I shrug and stare at the dirt.
    â€œIt could even feel impossible. For over a year now, you’ve dealt in extremes, right? Restricting or bingeing and purging. No in-between, no gray.”
    I shrug again. What she doesn’t understand is this: I have no choice. For me, the middle ground doesn’t exist. I starve or I stuff myself. I’m blacked-out drunk or pissed-off sober. I worship Josh and I hate myself. I blame Eden and I need her. If I can’t live, then I’ll die. There is no middle—not for me.
    â€œI think, though, that if you try this exercise, you’ll see that you’re capable of moderation, Stevie. I really believe that.”
    â€œYeah.” There’s no point in explaining to someone who is okay.
    â€œStevie, if this group is too much for you today, we could stay out here and talk.”
    I shake my head. I don’t want to talk to her anymore. I don’t want to open my mouth, not for food and not for words.
    â€œSo are you willing to give it a shot?” she asks.
    My skin starts to hum. I’ll fake it , I tell myself. Slip some food under the table .
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œGood. I’m really proud of you for pushing yourself.” Shrink stands and offers me a hand. It’s small, and colder than I thought it would be.
    Inside, I pretend not to notice as the other girls’ eyes follow me to the counter. I breathe through my mouth and peel a thin paper plate from the stack. It’s silent at the table. Then Jenna speaks.
    â€œIt’s weird,” she says. “The last time I ate this stuff at home was in my room, by myself. I would hide food all around my room and then binge on it at night. And I know my mom found the wrappers and stuff when she was cleaning. But she never said anything.” Her voice gets small. “I still can’t figure out why she never said anything.”
    Simple. She doesn’t think you’re worth saving, I think.
    Ashley’s voice: “I feel like maybe . . . your mom just couldn’t admit to herself what was going on with you. Maybe it was just, like, too hard for her.” Her voice is pinched.
    I force myself to look at the food again. It’s even uglier now than it was before: the ice cream misshapen in the carton, the chip bag concave and shimmering with grease. At the end of the line, an unmarked brown bag. I peer inside. The smell alone is enough to make me sick.
    Fried chicken.
    Shrink did this on purpose. She wants to keep sending me back to that day on the porch and she doesn’t get that it hurts exactly the