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There are fairy lights and tinsel put up on the wall with thumbtacks in the kitchen. In the window, there’s an advent candelabra with one flickering bulb and a slightly dented Christmas star dangling from a cord. On the table, the first advent candle is burning; the flame flickering, newly lit and unstable.
Eskild had helped her out last weekend, taking all the decorations down from the attic. And although it's a little much, it's cosy, too.
Mismatched and homely, like the flatshare has been for all of the five years she’s lived here now.
On the stove, the pot of water comes to a boil. Noora removes it from the hub. With a spoon, she lowers in two eggs, and puts it back on the heat. Brings the water back up to a gentle simmer; the eggs knock into each other with hollow thuds as it starts to bubble again.
She stares at them, suppressing a sudden shiver of cold despite her woollen sweater.
In the back pocket of her jeans, her phone vibrates. Once, twice, before it goes still. Has to be an e-mail. Probably from their course coordinator; wishing them good luck on the exam and a merry Christmas.
For the last time.
There’s a tightening sensation in her stomach, heart speeding up, and she can't bring herself to read further than the subject line, before she puts her phone back. Watches rain-mixed flakes of snow fall past the window in the darkness outside. Then she sets the kitchen timer for eight minutes and waits.
After this, there’s only her dissertation left. And then, she's in free-fall.
«so messy. so irresponsible. you’re such a failure.»
Plain boiled eggs, that is her solution for now. Egg whites in particular. Seventeen for each, and three grams of protein. Two of them are enough. For a month now, that’s kept her going through the day. Have been enough to feed her brain during the morning lectures. Two keeps her sated until she can have one potato, one fish cake and a hundred grams of green kale in the evening.
Or something similarly calculated.
At five. As always.
It's always odd to realise that a relapse is on the verge of happening. Because it means that it has already arrived. Once the insight is planted -- that perhaps this isn’t the way to live, that she doesn’t have to live like this -- the acknowledgement of it is the equivalent to pulling the trigger.
The thoughts take their chance, wrench the door open, obscure the starry sky by drowning everything in a landslide it seems impossible to dig herself out of. Old values slot into place, as well as the sensation of clarity --
«can't you see that there's a solution to this confusion and pain? it's easy, it's familiar. it'll be a punishment and a comfort all wrapped into one. it’ll narrow the world down. let’s focus on the details. get rid of this sticky neediness. let's take the control back, explore that endurance, the strength of will, it'll go away soon and you'll be purged of sin, be humble and pure -- »
Noora had watched a TED talk by a young woman once, after the first time around, when she was trying to understand it all. In that speech, she'd said that it wasn't about external influence, not really. Not magazines, not the media, not movie stars or models but that it came wholly from within.
She’d said that the illness was comparable to a religion: if she lived like this, abided these rules and deprived herself, she would be rewarded. She would see the light and God's love, would be invited and accepted for who she was. The only thing she had to do was to abstain from food. For the greater good. Lots of people starve every day; who gave her the right to eat?
Who said she was deserving enough to feel full?
«you're not. you're not working hard enough to earn that. you’re too lazy dumb irresponsible messy messy messy.»
The woman had said that all of it, the cause and the reason, was partly genetic. But it was also rooted in the utter inability to emotionally connect, to let oneself feel anything without reprimanding oneself; it was rooted in the perpetuating spiral of nauseating inadequacy, existential dread and the question of whether she was allowed to even exist without earning her place.
If she was allowed to breathe before she’d obtained perfection inside and out.
«you're not. you deserve nothing. your thoughts are not good enough, not pure enough, not morally pristine enough, you’re a hypocrite and you’re rotten all the way to the core.»
It doesn’t matter that she goes stargazing every time she stands up too fast, Noora still doesn't know if she is.
«you're not. you never will be.»
The kitchen timer rings, shrilling and loud enough to drag her back to the present. She puts the pot under cold, running water. When the water’s gone cold, she takes the eggs out. Puts them on a folded tea towel, knocks one twice against the counter and starts peeling it.
Shard by shard comes off, revealing the smooth surface beneath.
Sometimes, even an egg seems too much.
With the yolk, a big one has seventy-eight. Full of nutrients. It was the first number she memorised. Now, it's reflexive. One plus one equals two, egg equals seventy-eight. A shard of shell pricks her finger, and she hisses, a burst of something hot shooting through her brain along with the pain.
A boiled egg is not too much. A grown woman needs twelve hundred to sustain basal metabolic function, two thousand to maintain a healthy weight.
«you’re special though. you can survive on eight hundred. “No. I'll get gastroparesis.” «your old rings will fit.» “And cognitive impairment.” «you’ll have control.» “And arrhythmia.” «you’ll have a purpose -- » “I’ll be dead.”
It's the only thing that works, talking back that is. It's ineffective, and at times it takes so much energy, is so hard, she wants nothing more than to throw a tantrum; bang her fists against the kitchen tiles in frustration, anger and pain. Lose the armour; ruffle her shirt and hair, smudge her lipstick off and just scream into the void get me out of here, i can't do this anymore, i just want to live
Talking back against the voice, no matter how truthful it appears, is the only weapon she has. That, and telling someone to help her. But admitting that she’s slipping, it seems too much like a failure -- reinforces it, gives it energy and strength; it coaxes with the promise that all will be alright again, if she just abides, loses another kilo.
Or two. Just enough to see her ribs. It's not that much in the scope of things.
Another vibration in her pocket. One long this time; that equals a text. She takes her mobile out of her pocket.
From Eva <3:
Hi bby! You’ve been so quiet lately, so good luck today. You’ve got this *flex emoji* Lunch at KB after?
She places two fingers at her throat. The carotid moves under the skin, stressed. Lunch means eating there, means unknown food, means lack of control. Her vision narrows down --
Quickly, Noora takes the now peeled egg between her fingers. The light from the kitchen fan bounces off of the shiny surface. A beat -- «you’re going to regret that» -- before she bites into it. The still creamy yolk makes her taste buds go off like fireworks and she eats the whole thing in three bites.
As she chews, more like a machine than a person, she takes out one crispbread from the can. It has fibres in it, so she can afford the extra calories. Maybe even two grams of butter. It’ll keep her alert enough to fight back; will give her enough strength to tell Eva the truth: tell her what’s actually going on.
Because Eva won’t judge. She will have the patience to wait for Noora to order something safe, to calculate everything if she has to, hinder her if not, and let her make her way through a sandwich without judging.
Noora just has to fight her way there.
«she doesn’t want to see you, no one wants to see -- »
“Now I think you should shut the fuck up.”