Chapter Text
Chapter 9: I Have No Clue Where to Start
“This is your fault.” Andy hissed through gritted teeth.
“How is it my fault?” Pete threw up his arms up but was on brink of tears.
“It always is, isn’t it?”
“Fuck you.”
Joe subconsciously growled before words formed in his sentence, the space that they were all crammed in crowding him not only physically but mentally. “Is anybody going to fix the problem or just scream back and forth?” He asked, equally fed up.
“Why don’t you do it then?” Pete questioned. Joe sighed heavily going back to his pacing and fiddling with a few strands of hair. Somehow arguing hadn’t gotten them anywhere, funny how that always seemed to be the case.
Patrick though, he just tried to tune out everyone’s voices as he scrolled through his social media stream on his phone where he’d locked himself into the bathroom and focused to the tunes of a song that reminded him of high school and better times. He hadn’t come out since the concert last night and it was afternoon now.
That concert had been a marvellous occasion really, everything went perfect. When he was on stage to sing he performed too. Pretending everything was as terrific as the background effects flashing behind them. Trying to expend as much energy as possible with each movement and his mind shifting away when he wasn’t called to talk.
After the performance he had started to panic about being forced into eating dinner though, so he locked himself up. An anxious headache as company. Dragging his diary, phone and computer with him. He was sweaty, cold and tired but he didn’t sleep or shower. Looking for temporary online dopamine pitstops to suppress the failure his diary revealed.
He was the same as ever on stage. He wanted to be the same offstage. He wanted it to be 2004 again when they used to do stupid dares and they were friends not whatever this was. Nobody was treating him that way though. Maybe it was because he’s come back from the hospital, with two little trophies of orange bottles that were so beautifully advertised to him with problems that were just normal emotions in his mind. Just him overreacting, nothing new.
Or perhaps the shift in treatment was because he tried not to take them. That hypocritical Pete that didn’t take his own medication like 40% of the time had pitched in with Andy and Joe to check that he took them after they discovered he skipped the first few scheduled doses.
They’re vigilance isn’t useless. Despite the fact they give him practically no privacy, there’s an epiphany when Joe tells him for certain that the moments of dizzying, disorienting, suffocating stress he assumed were nothing but a sign of weakness, are in fact panic attacks. Something he didn’t know how to feel about. Worst he doesn’t know how to feel when he’s assured the medication he’s not taking will lessen them.
He supposes when he takes them it helps him, somewhat anyway. He knows that the doctor said they’d like him to check in if there was a problem because the anxiety medication can cause suicidal thoughts and physical unpleasantries he’s not going to go into. He’d never go back there though, and because he’s never going to take it. Intrusive concerns linger like starving wolves that a side effect might mean putting on weight. Fuck he knows it.
Pete knocked on the door hesitantly calling his name with a gentle tone. “Patrick?”
“Hey, Stump!” Andy yelled without much hesitance realising they were otherwise being tuned out henceforth required him banging forcefully on the door. The fragile blonde wanted to ignore it, but he felt scared and jumpy when the argument was directed at him and if Andy was yelling, so he listened. “So, we all really want you to get out of the bathroom more than anything right now. Meaning, we’re not going to force you to eat but you’ve got to get out of there alright? We still want you to eat something but mostly we just want to see you’re okay.”
He’s surprised how easily he gets them at times like this, he’s perfected battering off meals. But knowing he can work it motivates him to get out of the bathroom that he doesn’t recall if he enjoyed being in or not. That and the slight hunch that his destructive habits are having detrimental effects on long lasing friendship. They all look like they’d been labouring day and night on docks and having to worry about their poor wife Belinda and the kids that were always wondering why they didn’t get a birthday present. It’s first time they’ve been worried like this since the Best Buy incident and he knows Pete’s already seeming like that again at least, not to mention Joe and Andy’s mental state.
“Thanks.” Joe says quietly in contrast when his friend remerges like he was in for a minute only.
“I’m sorry.” He blurts out for no reason staring at them. They hate you now.
Pete puts his arm around his shoulders murmuring, “It’s alright now. It’s alright”
Andy gives him a look that he knows means this is going to come up again later. He knows that if he has something to say then its not. Life was like that. Joe got that when he just walked off with Andy back to their bus. You just wasted their time with this, why are you doing this? He feels the knot in his stomach tie itself around a few more times as Pete pulls him into a hug. You’re not going to have to eat though. Make up for those hundreds with some zeros.
“It’s not your fault Pete.” He assures him ignoring the way Pete trails his hands around where he knows that even through the stiff denim jacket you can feel the defined outline of his shoulder blades. He doesn’t want to deal with what everyone is trying to force him to confront so instead he’ll deal with Pete’s recent depressive mood over the incident. Easier to heal others than yourself. “Have you eaten?”
“I could ask you the same thing but we both know the answer.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich.”
He doesn’t make it to the kitchen before he’s hit by another wave of light headedness and staggers to a halt. No, no, no we’re losing that skill. It’s only been a day we need to try again.
Pete wordlessly takes him to sit down because he knows by looking at him that he’s going to pass out otherwise. He knows all he can do is give him water because food is the enemy. So gently he directs him to a seat and drops him down uttering words in his ear. “It’s hard to look after someone else when you’re dying a little too isn’t it.” With passive aggressive undertones.
“I’d easily die for you Pete.”
“Would you live for me?”
Honestly, he doesn’t know. It’s a hard question to answer when he thinks that anything would be better than living these days. The only reason he’s not dead is because he knows how people will think about the coward who died, and he doesn’t want Pete to follow suit when he’s not there to stop him. So, he evades it by taking the glass of water Pete offers.
Water weight, so much harder to get rid of. There’s the comfort of familiarity feeling when the cold water running down into an empty stomach. I need to drink. I’ll be dehydrated and die otherwise, it’s zero calories. He drops it when he’s finished half. Water soaked into your skin, bones, muscles, flesh and adding to the scales. He stares at it a little, what would it weigh. He so fucking weak it feels like a lot more than it probably is. This is getting ridiculous, we can’t be hydrophobic.
“I’m sorry Patrick.” Pete said slouching into a seat beside him. “I’m supposed to help you get better and I don’t have a fucking clue where to start. You’re so thin, you don’t have to starve yourself. I hate seeing you like this, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” His voice grated along his throat when tears brimmed his eyes. They’d been trying to get there for a long time. Patrick didn’t respond.
This didn’t feel like 2004, it didn’t even feel like last month.
That was Fall Out Boy and another hit from their album. Speaking of that Jamie you heard that those fella’s are up for an award. One of the top nominations into the category against all the big names.
Oh well Steve, I’ve been listening since teen angst. These guys are good stuff telling ya’
“Are you ready for the interview?” Patrick inquired.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” Joe responded wistfully but without the privilege of eye contact.
“Everything alright?”
“It’s fine Patrick. Really.”
“Um, you sure. I mean, I might not understand it, but I’ll listen.” Believe it or not he knows how hypocritical that sounded. One because he would never talk when someone offered but he tries to see it as he’s not accusing anyone of anything just offering to be there. If you understand that difference, it means a lot to some. Secondly, he’s also being hypocritical because he’s wringing his hands under the thick sleeves of Pete’s borrowed hoodie from ages ago he’s only wearing to remind him of Pete and looking for distractions.
“It’s alright.” Joe sighed brush a hand through his flamboyant locks.
“If you don’t want to go for the interview that’s cool.”
He stared blankly on the electrical box of distractions. “That’s not it at all.”
“Come on, I know you want to be in more interviews so what’s up?”
“You know it’s still an hour and a half before we got to go. You need to stop worry about these things so much. Besides neither of us are going if you don’t eat your lunch you know.” He nodded towards the plate of food at the table, scarcely touched apart from maybe two forkfuls in comparison to how the slightly taller had eaten most of his. What was he expecting though, him to be instantly fixed?
“I am eating it. It’s just… difficult.” There was a better way to phrase it, alas his head was foggy. He didn’t know what that better wording might have been. Perhaps it would have been that he didn’t want it at all.
Joe smiled at him. He looked like he was remorseful already mourning a death that hadn’t happened. In most though he wasn’t, in most his expression was something needing deep analysis and decoding. “And we appreciate your trying. Try not to focus on the food, the TV is on for a reason.”
Patrick wants to tell him that mindless eating is something that he knows can cause weight gain because you’re not realising how much you’re eating and he’s trained himself never to do that, but he would never do that to a friend. His main issue with the television is that he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to not focus on the food and yet still finish the food but it’s also not okay to talk about the interview playing on his mind whilst eating when that’s a distraction.
Life’s funny like that, you never really know things just pretend you do so others feel jealous of your surety in everything.
He drags his fork along the plate moving everything further into their organised little piles, taking another bite of finely cut food. He doesn’t know why they want to watch him eat when there’s boxes he ticks for every meal anyway because nobody trusts him. Mistrust placed correctly but it’s offensive all the same.
His planning saved for night-time diary entries is made by someone else. There’s a rough plan on the meals, they figured out pretty quickly he was unable to stomach much anymore when he threw up after being forcefully sat down and having two full meals. A google search said his stomach was smaller, his brain said it was a sign.
All in all, he was still only eating 900 calories a day and 1200 calories or more on tour days. He usually managed to batter off at least 200 calories though. With the, “What if I have more of x instead of y?” or the part that if it’s not the whole band he’s making his own separate meals because he doesn’t trust them, but they want to see him eat.
He’s not blaming them the pamphlet on how to help a loved one with an eating disorder told them what to do, intentions are well meant.
In all honesty having someone so closely monitor you is nerve wracking but you can’t exactly have them leave. It’s like when you’re doing a test and the teacher is behind you, they aren’t looking at you but because this is something that matters than everything feels like it’ll mean more than it really does, and you freeze up thinking about the teacher instead of the question.
He thinks that they are making it worse in that way.
“The interview isn’t live right? They’re going to edit it I mean.” He asks taking a tentative mouthful and dropping back down his fork. Wait I’m not supposed to talk about that.
“Uh… I’ll be back in a minute.”
Whilst Joe disappeared somewhere Patrick managed to slip a small portion into his jacket before his return. He really does only take a minute, probably because since changing buses to Joe instead of Pete – an act done in order to avoid the way Pete looked at him at night and cried when he though Patrick didn’t hear – he’d come to the realisation that the two of them lived in not just filth but messy filth. It’s harder to hid stuff and easier to find things in clean environments.
“Alright,” Joe said slipping into the seat beside him with his phone open and at an irritatingly low percentage. “Here’s the email for the interview. Want me to read it out?”
He listens to every word as Joe narrates the email with some added commentary to attempt to muscle out a laugh that only fetches a shy uncertain smile. Patrick finds himself too focused on mentally double checking the checklist whilst they run through it. Because even when he ends up not finishing the meal he knows he’s going to make the interview. The threats like those don’t really work.
Everyone has come to understand that making him sit and each is drawn out. That no if there’s matter a knife to his throat there will be no clean plate that’ll be out by the end of it and that even a snack is going to take twenty minutes sometimes. Even the pitiful murmurs just get snapped at. Just nobody wants to wait that long, so nobody does. They leave eventually. He leaves it unfinished.
He wishes the shock of hospital made him get better. If anything, it’s making it worse and now he can’t pretend it’s fine.