Chapter Text
Charlie supposes he should have expected his eating to be monitored, but it still freaks him out when he goes to take a seat at one of the colourful circular tables and a counsellor–Susana, a petite, older woman with a friendly smile and salt and pepper hair–sits with him.
Charlie's not quite sure what it is. Maybe it’s a desire to be petty and prove a point or borne from a desperation to be left alone at mealtimes, but he eats nearly everything on his plate and takes a certain smug satisfaction in the look of surprise on Susana's face.
See? He wants to say. I’m in control of it. I eat.
That moment does not happen again.
When Charlie first gets settled in, he does so right before dinner, which means that by the time they do an intake session–signing him in, getting his height, weight, and blood pressure–he only has one meal to power through and he feels okay about doing so.
But the next day, Charlie finds himself staring down the maw of three pre-portioned meals per day and the noise in his head buzzes like snow on the telly as his panic skyrockets. No sooner does Susana wake him for breakfast than he is already trying to figure out ways to get out of the meals.
Could he claim the flu? A stomach bug? Food poisoning? What would even happen if he refused to eat anything? They couldn't force him to eat, could they? Would they kick him out for being uncooperative?
He told Nick he would try, hadn't he?
His brain reminds him what's expected of him, all the food he'll have to eat. Not just today but for the foreseeable future. A wave of nausea rolls through him.
He's not sure he can do this.
Susana knocks again. "Charlie? Come on querido, time to get a move on."
He can’t do this.
Charlie releases a shaky breath and changes into a pair of sweats and a jumper. He sort of wishes he had a jumper from Nick with him. Maybe it'd be motivating. At the very least it'd be comforting.
He doesn't bother with his hair. There's no mirror in the room anyway or any other way to see what he looks like.
He opens the door to Susana's smiling face, and he feels like he’s going to be sick. "There he is!" she greets in a cheery voice. "Buenos días, Charlie.”
Feeling overcome with nerves; Charlie only offers a small smile in return. Susana seems to get it.
Her eyes soften a bit. "It's okay to be nervous, Charlie. I'll be with you the whole time, okay?"
Yeah, Charlie thinks, that's the problem.
Nevertheless, he follows her to the room he had dinner in last night. He doesn't think it qualifies to be a canteen given its smaller size. It's very colorful with plastic rainbow chairs and tables and pastel walls covered with art and what Charlie assumes to be motivational posters. He thinks he'd appreciate the whimsy of it all a lot more if he wasn't feeling so grey inside.
Susana leads him over to a table with no occupants and Charlie dutifully follows along. Though no one is actively looking at him–most all have their heads down as they shovel forkfuls of scrambled eggs into their mouths, some, Charlie notices, sit at their own separate tables with a member of staff and eat at a much slower pace–his brain tries to convince him that they're all silently judging him.
He attempts to shake it off like layers of mud coating his skin. These kids are here for reasons of their own.
Susana pulls out a chair, shoots Charlie a smile, and takes a seat in the other chair. The table she chose for them is a bit more secluded, tucked away in the corner of the room near a long row of curtain windows. No one is seated at the surrounding tables.
Yet.
Charlie takes as deep a breath as he can–no small feat with the fight his lungs are putting up–and releases a shaky exhale. His hands are clammy, and he can feel his throat going tight. Inside, warning bells are blaring, sending out alert signals to his hands and feet, causing him to remain rooted where he stands.
Not now.
You can't right now, the timing is bad.
This is all wrong.
Eat later.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Susana, sensing his hesitancy, sits patiently with a relaxed smile as if they have all the time in the world. "It's going to be okay, Charlie. We’ll go at whatever pace you need."
Eventually, he does sit down to eat, but it's not without silent tears leaving sticky trails along his cheeks. His porridge has long grown cold and lumpy, his brain yelling at him that he's ruining everything, that he's losing control, that this isn't right!
Bad bad bad. Wrong, everything is wrong.
Susanna sits with him for the entire hour it takes him to force spoonful’s into his mouth, offering support that would usually freak Charlie out when eating amongst strangers. Still, it isn't quite enough to stop the howling winds in his mind.
At some point, Susana puts him out of his misery. He can tell she doesn't want to stop his meagre attempts at eating, but she looks at the clock on the wall and lets out a small sigh.
"Come querido, we don't want you to be late to your intake appointment with your therapist.”
Charlie hasn’t met his therapist–Geoff–yet, though the staff that checked him in the night prior mentioned in passing that he would be meeting with the older man the next day.
By this point the room is mostly cleared with everyone having finished nearly thirty minutes ago–even the kids who also had counselors sitting with them and hot shame bubbles up like lava in his belly.
"I'm sorry," he blurts, though he's relieved he won't have to eat any more of the lumpy grains. His sorrow comes from the fact that Susana has wasted her time and will continue doing so because Charlie simply cannot do this.
He's just going to keep disappointing her. Just like he’s disappointed his parents and probably his friends as well. The sooner she realises it, the better off they'll both be.
Nevertheless, he stands from the table and averts his eyes from the mocking porridge that is congealing and sitting abandoned on the too-colourful laminate.
Geoff’s office is small and cosy with two plush, creme couches facing each other, a row of windows along a spring yellow wall, and a desk. On the walls are different motivational posters and drawings that look to be done by different age groups just like out in the dining area. On Geoff’s desk is a mug with pens and pencils and, Charlie notes with delight, a Pride flag.
“Hi, Charlie, I’m Geoff,” an older man says, holding a hand out for Charlie to shake. He has grey hair and round glasses, with eyes that sparkle and a pleasant grin. His hand is cool in Charlie’s. Susana smiles and without another word, makes her exit, the door closing softly behind her.
Geoff gestures at one of the couches and sits on the other. Charlie hesitantly sinks onto the plush fabric and clamps his hands between his legs, squeezing his thighs tightly to keep himself grounded. His heart is pounding. He reminds himself to breathe.
Geoff gives him a friendly smile, a clipboard balanced on one knee and a cup of tea in hand.
“So, is this your first time seeing a therapist?"
Charlie nods and reminds himself not to flee from the room.
"Okay, absolutely no problem. Lots of patients here are new to this. Am I correct in my assumption that you're a bit nervous?" He tilts his head to the side.
Charlie nods again, though it's begrudging. He hates being perceived, especially by a stranger. "I guess I just...don't really know what to expect?"
Geoff sets his mug down on a side table and clasps his hands over his chest. He looks the picture of relaxation with his laid-back posture and loose shoulders; even Charlie feels himself settle, though most of his guard is still up.
"That's perfectly fine. This is just a "getting to know you" session. We won't dive into anything too deeply today; I just want surface-level basics about your history so that I can help you when we do get into some more of the larger details. Now, please keep in mind that these sessions are for you, and you are allowed to be as truthful as you want. I would like to encourage you to be as truthful as you can be so that you can get the most out of our sessions together but that doesn't mean you have to. I understand that we sometimes aren't ready to talk about certain things yet. That being said, anything you say will remain between us unless I feel you are a danger to yourself or others. With me so far?"
Charlie's not even sure what he wants to say but the pressure to say anything at all has been alleviated. He feels himself ease further into comfort. "Yeah," he breathes.
Geoff grins. "Very good. And as you talk, I may write some information down. Don't let that intimidate you. I am simply an old man with a waning short-term memory.” He winks.
Unable to help it, Charlie feels his lips curl up and Geoff's eyes twinkle.
"Let's begin. I know the medical side of why you're here, but I want to hear your side, whatever you're comfortable telling me. What brings you here?"
Charlie's not entirely sure how Geoff manages to put a small Charlie-sized hole in his walls to coax him out, but he does.
So, Charlie talks.
It starts as a quiet retelling, the words leaving Charlie's mouth as little more than a whisper while he picks at the skin around his thumb with his nail. The only indication Geoff is hearing any of what he's saying are the occasional notes he jots down on his clipboard.
Charlie mentions his home life and old school. How his mum was overbearing and how he tended to blend into the shadows at his old school. Geoff listens intently, only speaking to ask clarifying questions. As Charlie speaks, his words get louder until he's talking at a regular volume. As though he's merely speaking with a friend, and not a medical staff member.
Could he consider Geoff a friend? Does he even want that?
The older man radiates genuine hospitality and friendliness, though Charlie can sense some mischief there too. Something about that has him relaxing to the point where he is no longer clenching his hands between his legs, and he doesn’t feel quite so tense.
When he gets to the part about the start of the bullying at Truham, Geoff quietly hands him a box of tissues. Charlie didn't even know he was crying up until that point, but Geoff makes no mention of it, so Charlie wipes his eyes and continues talking for the rest of their time.
Although he kept everything surface level as Geoff had asked, and knows there were things he forgot to mention, he feels the smallest of dents has been made in the overwhelming pile of thoughts.
Eating is another beast entirely.
It takes him nearly as long to eat his chicken soup as it did his porridge at breakfast. By the end of the ordeal, the soup is cold and unappealing. Charlie is frustrated and sharp-tongued despite Susana's encouraging words.
He does not participate in art therapy at all that week and instead sits sullen in the corner ignoring Susana’s attempts to get him to join. He has one other session with Geoff as well that week, but Charlie says almost nothing for the entire hour.
Part of him wants to test the staff here; see how long their seemingly never-ending patience and goodwill will last before they begin to realise how hopeless Charlie's chance of recovery is.
It feels like he'll never get out of here; never get better.
He just doesn't see how he can.
He doesn't call Nick that first week and a half; he can't bring himself to.
When Tori and the rest of his family come to visit, sans Olly because his parents worried it would confuse or upset the young boy too much, she informs Charlie that she's been keeping in touch with Nick sporadically to update him. Charlie admits he's not ready to speak to him yet. If he does, he'll cry, and he's done enough of making Nick feel bad for him.
What would he even say? 'I hate it here, but I think I'll be stuck here forever because there’s just no helping me?’
In the end, he settles for allowing Tori to send Nick Christmas wishes on Charlie's behalf.
The holiday is a bit of a sombre affair. Not that Charlie is expecting it to be cheery. The clinic has some lights strung up in the common room as well as a fake white tree in the corner and it's good enough, Charlie thinks.
He sits outside on a bench with his family and listens as they catch him up on the last several months of their lives. His dad tells stories about Olly that make Charlie smile. He misses his little brother dearly and wishes his parents would’ve brought him, but he can understand why they didn’t.
It's significantly warmer here but Charlie still huddles down in his jacket like it's a protective shell. When asked, he doesn't tell his family he’s struggling; that this isn't working and that he may just be incurable. He doesn't want to worry or disappoint Tori and his dad, and he doesn't want his mother to tell him to try harder. So, he tells them he's working on it, and they move on.
New Year’s is no better. Not that Charlie was ever a massive celebrator of the holiday but something about ‘ringing in the New Year’ at an inpatient facility fills him with immense melancholy. He thinks about Nick and how he might be spending the New Year. Is he enjoying himself? Is he celebrating with his family or friends? Is he as miserable as Charlie is? What about the rest of their friends?
God, he misses them.
Two weeks and some days in–Charlie can't be sure of the exact amount; he's already lost count. It feels like he’s been here forever–he refuses to come out of his room for breakfast. He cocoons himself in his sheets and ignores Susana as she tries to rally him downstairs. But he can't get up. There are too many thoughts in his head, and they weigh him down, rendering him incapable of movement.
There’s no lock on his door and he’s not allowed to barricade the door in any way, but the staff have always let him be, so long as he cooperates and goes where they require him to. But, with the weight of sixteen years pressing him into the firm mattress and silencing him, his door opens without his permission and two members of staff step in.
One of them is Susana, who gives him a relieved if sympathetic smile. The other is a man Charlie doesn't recognise. He looks unenthused by Charlie's behaviour.
"Get up Mr. Spring," he says, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth set in a stern frown.
Susana takes a different, almost motherly, approach. She walks into the room and sits at the edge of the bed. "What's going on? Are you feeling unwell, Rulo?"
Charlie shrugs. How does one explain this level of hopelessness, this...feeling of weights around your ankles and bearing down upon your shoulders? Was this how Atlas felt when he was sentenced to carry the entire weight of the world? Was this Charlie’s punishment for being a bad friend; a terrible brother; a disappointing son?
A disgusting, vile, fa-
"We can't let you skip breakfast, Charlie. Would you like me to see if we can make an exception and you can eat breakfast in here?”
Charlie would rather not eat breakfast at all. The idea of food settling in his stomach; of adding any more to the unbearable weight, makes him incredibly uncomfortable. It presses the oxygen from his lungs until it suffocates him.
"I'm not hungry," he mumbles, a glare aimed at nothing in particular.
"You need to eat, Mr. Spring," the male nurse says from his spot by the door.
"I'll just waste it again," Charlie huffs.
Can't they see? Aren't they aware of how futile their attempts are?
They should be.
"I know it's hard, Charlie, but you can do it. I know you can," Susana assures in a soft voice. She looks at the male nurse and nods. He leaves the room and then it's just the two of them.
"How could you possibly know that? You don't know me," Charlie says in disbelief.
Susana gives him a sad smile, her gaze forlorn and hazy. "I have a brother who struggles with an eating disorder. Bulimia. Back then the belief that only females could have such a thing was even more prevalent than it is now.
“I picked up on my brother's habits and struggles a lot sooner than my parents and siblings. It was difficult to watch him go through this and feel helpless to do anything about it. When he eventually worked up the nerve to tell our parents, I sat by him the entire time and held his hand.
"We didn't have any viable clinics near us that treated boys with eating disorders at the time and it was too expensive for my family to send him away to a clinic, so we all rallied together and worked hard to help him in any way we could. No one worked harder than my brother though. I'm telling you this because I spent my formative years watching that man climb mountain after mountain, facing no small manner of hardships, but eventually, he reached that final peak. He still has off-days and struggles, as is normal for anyone in recovery, but he made it out of the hardest part and he's living the life he didn't think he'd be able to have. And I know you can too."
Charlie sits with that for a minute. It's clear from Susana's face that she's being honest and sincere, and he wants to believe her. He sits up and the male nurse hands him a plate of buttered toast. It's better than the porridge and Charlie is able to eat all four slices, though an unexpected wave of guilt hits him after he does so.
That day in therapy, Charlie opens his mouth and allows words to drip from his lips, the dam that blocked the river last time no longer existing. Geoff doesn’t even have a second to dish out a greeting before Charlie sits and says, “I think I’m a lost cause.”
The older man blinks at him and slowly takes the seat across from him. “Okay. And what’s brought this on?”
Gesticulating wildly, Charlie rants, “Everyone is expecting me to get better and to not feel like I’m going to die or that the world will end every time I eat but those feelings haven’t gone away, and I haven’t gotten better! I feel guilty and anxious every time I eat, like I fucked up and now I’m going to be punished for it or something.”
Geoff writes something on his clipboard. Charlie wishes he could see what it is.
“This feeling you have. Can you explain it in more detail? Does it apply to any other areas of your life?”
Charlie raises a brow. He wasn’t expecting this derailment in conversation and almost wants to tell Geoff that the anxiety around eating isn’t as important as the overarching situation, and that’s that Charlie cannot do this.
But against all of that, he says, “It’s like…like I have these rules in my head. I can’t eat until I finish an essay to a certain standard, or unless I pass an exam, or I’ve let an even number of hours or days go by. Like, I feel like I have to earn the right. If I don’t control it then…” His throat gets tight. “Then something bad will happen,” he ends in a whisper.
Geoff sets his clipboard down and puts a finger on his bottom lip. “Charlie, have you heard the term, obsessive-compulsive disorder? OCD for short.”
Charlie furrows his brows. “Isn’t that the thing everyone always claims to have? They like to keep things straight and orderly and whatnot?”
Geoff bobs his head side to side in a so-so gesture. “Sort of. But not quite. I feel like the terms have gotten a bit misconstrued over the years. The “straight and orderly” you refer to is most often a perfectionist personality trait. You’ve heard the term “a place for everything and everything in its place?”
Charlie nods.
“So perfectionist people often don’t want to stop having their rituals or keeping things a certain way because it gives them a sense of control and order. Now, here’s where the wires get crossed. People with OCD may also have these rituals and keep things orderly because it gives them a sense of control. However, this particular need for control is attached to anxiety and catastrophisation. They don’t necessarily want to perform a ritual but feel entirely out of control without it. It’s an impulse, or, like you’ve mentioned, a rule that your brain makes up and must follow. Not doing so makes it feel as though something extremely negative will happen.
“In fact, over the years I have heard from a few OCD patients that they are the most disorganised people. Things are always getting misplaced, dishes stacking up in the sink, or laundry being left in the basket long past a wash. But it’s these rituals, these impulses, that they focus heavily on and feel like they must complete perfectly, or they have to start all over. Things that dictate how they live their lives to keep the anxiety at bay. Does that sound like something you’ve ever experienced?”
Charlie thinks back to when he was in the fight with Nick and kept pushing back the time to eat something because he wasn’t focusing for the right length of time on his assignments. It feels silly when it’s all laid out like that, but it was a rule. Still is. Even hungry and knowing he should eat; he doesn’t let himself until enough time dedicated solely to his studies has passed. He likes having control over that, over dictating what his priorities are. It makes him feel powerful, like he can do whatever he wants without his mum or anyone else telling him otherwise. Or, at least he thought he did. Then he thinks about his panic attack in Mr. Ajayi’s room. How he couldn’t get the count right on his arm and he desperately wanted to retrace his steps to start from the beginning, but Mr. Ajayi was staring at him, and he couldn’t and broke down. He didn’t like that feeling.
Reluctantly, Charlie nods.
Geoff writes in his notes. “Okay, so I would like to talk more about your eating habits. You said you restrict your food intake until you feel you have satisfied other requirements. In the A&E they had you answer some questions about your eating. Are you okay to go over those?”
Charlie clenches his jaw but gives an imperceptible nod. He remembers that questionnaire. He didn’t understand how a little slip of paper could tell him anything, but he filled it out regardless.
Geoff pulls out that same slip of paper and lays it on the table between them.
“Under the question, ‘Has thinking about food, eating or calories made it very difficult to concentrate on things you are interested in’, you answered with a five. Have you had moments where you found that you couldn’t focus on your other things because your mind was preoccupied?”
Charlie tells him about the fight with Nick and how thoughts of Nick and the fact that he hadn’t eaten kept distracting him from studying and that’s why he kept pushing it back further and further.
Geoff hums. “We’ll get back to the fight itself at a later time. For right now, can you see how that might tie into the OCD to create a feedback loop? You gave yourself this rule that you couldn’t eat until your studies were completed satisfactorily but your thoughts of food kept you from completing your task. You’ve indicated that you think about food nearly all the time, regardless of the impulses or desires to withhold. Can you tell me what this means in your experience?”
“I’m just always thinking about what I have to eat and where… I just have to make sure everything’s right first.”
“What happens when things aren’t right, Charlie?”
“I can’t eat. My hands get clammy, and my throat closes up, and I get really nervous.”
Geoff purses his lips. More notes.
“Okay, thank you. Let’s see. When asked if you have ‘a definite fear of losing control over eating?’ you said, six. This answer follows the trends we’ve discussed thus far. For the question ‘How many of these times did you have a sense of having lost control over your eating at the time you were eating?’ you answered four. Can you expand on that?”
“It’s not so bad when I can control what I’m eating and when. But when I’m in a group setting, or even with someone who doesn’t know, I’m expected to eat, even if I can’t or don’t want to. It makes me feel like I’m losing all of the control I tried so hard to have. I’m not always eating with people. I prefer to eat alone. Nick is the only one I really felt comfortable not eating in front of.”
“I see. To the question, ‘Over the past 28 days, how concerned have you been about other people seeing you eat?’ you answered 28 which follows the answer you just gave me. Lastly, to the question, ‘How uncomfortable have you felt about others seeing your shape or figure, for example, in communal changing rooms, when swimming, or wearing tight clothes?’ you answered with a six.”
Charlie picks at his cuticle. The sharp bursts of pain help ground him. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He just wants to go back to his room and curl up under the covers so he can work out what all of this means for him. “Yeah, I guess.”
“What is your self-image like?”
Charlie shrugs and lets out a hollow laugh. “Guess I don’t have one. I try to avoid looking in the mirror, and I’m n-not exactly nice to myself when I do.” His mouth trembles and he suddenly finds himself choking back tears. “I l-like to wear baggy clothes when I can. They give me extra protection.” He feels himself shrinking back into the sofa, his arms curling around himself like a barrier.
Geoff gives him a gentle look. “Okay, Charlie. Those are all things we can get into further at another time if you would like. Thank you for answering my questions. I just want to write some things down, okay? Can you take some deep breaths for me while I do?”
Charlie nods and does what Geoff says, relieved to be done answering those questions. They were hard enough to answer the first time around without him having to explain or justify his answers. Meanwhile, Geoff takes more notes but the silence in the office grows too loud. The only sound is the quiet scratch of the ballpoint pen against the page and Charlie can’t take it anymore.
“So you think I have OCD, then?” he blurts.
Geoff nods and gives him a friendly smile. “I do. Disordered eating as well. Now, there are a few categories of disordered eating, but I suspect you may have anorexia. I think these impulses you are experiencing tie directly with the anorexia, creating a bit of a hefty mix. Nothing to be ashamed of,” Geoff adds when Charlie’s face falls. “Mental health looks different for everyone. For you it's controlling when you eat–the OCD–and how much–the anorexia. Both will take some work to treat but, Charlie, you are not a lost cause. Far from it. I promise you. You are in the right place and with the right tools at your disposal, we will help you get to a place where these two diagnoses are manageable.”
“But how? I’m a nervous wreck anytime I have to eat a meal in front of anyone. It takes me a bloody hour in the morning just to make any kind of difference in my breakfast and even then I can’t bring myself to finish any of it. I feel so wasteful. I would rather eat little things that I know are okay.”
Geoff introduces the concept of ‘safe foods’ or recipes that contain items that feel okay to eat and how they will start there, by planning out a little menu full of foods that Charlie feels comfortable with. It takes the rest of the session to discuss, during which Geoff explains how eventually, he wants to incorporate the “plate-by-plate” approach into Charlie’s list of safe foods. Charlie voices his fear of being unable to follow through on something like a meal plan if he ever goes back to Truham. Geoff tells him they’re going to take things one step at a time, starting at the clinic where he will inform the kitchen to start implementing this change to his meals.
“We will continue building upon it during our sessions together until you have yourself a nice little planner with some options to choose from. I want to affirm you by saying that I think it’s okay to eat alone if that feels more comfortable for you. You can’t do that here yet, because the staff needs to be sure you are getting enough intake, but upon release–because I have full confidence that you will be released, Charlie–if large group settings make you feel uncomfortable, you can make a plan to eat beforehand, something safe that doesn’t cause you stress to make. However, this should not be an excuse to eat nothing at all. There is a level of accountability and responsibility that needs to be upheld on your end and in the next few weeks, we can talk more about this. Okay? Do you have any questions before we wrap up for today? I am very proud of you for talking about this and sharing these hardships with me. I’m sure that wasn’t easy.”
Charlie leaves that session feeling weighed down with information that is being filtered through his brain as best it can, but something about finally having names–diagnoses–to put to his experiences feels…freeing.