Smoothie Girl

I don't belong here. I'm sick, not crazy.

I squinted into the light as the girl, unknown to me except by her howls, thumped the floor. She rose from the ground, tore every pseudo-inspirational poster off the dank walls and hurled them towards me. "What are you doing here? Cause a pretty little white girl like you sure ain't in here for trying to kill your mama like me." I mumbled something indiscernible as she moved to her next victim. Three white-cloaked men appeared, shot a liquid into her backside, and dragged her away.

Before I could even catch my breath from the encounter, another girl appeared before me, tall and smiling brightly. She had ribbons of fresh scars curling down her legs like red silk on a pale tapestry. I knew it wasn't polite to ask about them, but I kept staring anyway. "Hi!" She exclaimed. "I'm Abby. Don't worry about Amber over there." She pointed in the direction of Hulk Chick's room, where the nurses dropped her on the floor like a sack of unconscious, drugged potatoes. "They gave her booty juice, and once she wakes up, she'll be just fine." Booty juice? I must be in the loony bin. She chattered on, but I forgot the girl's name as soon as I learned it. I blamed it on the double doses of anti-depressants I received.

Her name might have been unremarkable, but she did have one distinguishing feature besides her scars- a shirt with a grinning, ecstatic smoothie cup on it. The smoothie almost looked as happy as the girl did; I could not figure out why a girl so seemingly optimistic about life would be in a place as dark and haunting as this, where the upper and downer drugs were as popular as candy. She clasped my hand, something she would do countless more times during my time at the hospital. Smoothie Girl told me what I had to do to survive this place. Otherwise, she said, you'll be hanging from the same noose the orderlies took down three days ago. Don't talk to the boys. Guard your toiletries. Don't make eye contact with the girl in 2B; she's extra crazy. For the first time in years, I had thoughts about something else besides counting calories and taking tiny bites. I rejoiced in the idea of something else to obsess over.

A nurse roughly grabbed me and started to escort me to an examination room. The nurse led me down the hall, flickering and faint from the fluorescent lights. My vision went fuzzy; the nutrients I kept from myself were taking a tremendous toll on my body. I was weak, blurry-eyed and forever shivering from chills that no one else felt. The nurse examined every inch of my body with rough hands and cold stares. I felt as though I committed a crime, even though my only offense was not eating enough. She tore off my clothes and looked for drugs or weapons. With each piece of clothing she tore away, she stripped away pieces of my dignity too.

Group therapy is a torture the Nazis should have used on prisoners. Smoothie Girl, Hulk the Poster Tear-er, and I, among others, herded like cattle into therapy. The therapist, prim and proper in a high-waisted suit, speedily declared we were going to share why we were here today. She looked like she had downed too many Red Bulls that morning. Smoothie Girl sat by me, holding my hand, reassuring me I didn't have to talk if I did not want to. I received a gift from my mother that morning. It was a sketchbook, a consolation gift of sorts, for being in a place where I bunked with wannabe child murderers and kiddie drug addicts. It felt magnificently comforting to have a small token from home, and Red Bull lady couldn't keep me down. But alas, I was picked on first. She haughtily asked me what I did to be sent here. Because I refused to eat? Because my mother has lost her marbles and thought I needed help? A million options poured through my head, but not one erupted from my lips. I kept my head down and scribbled into oblivion. Red Bull pressed with more questions, each one more disrespectful than the last. Red Bull did not quit until she had her greedy answers. Her questions felt like arrows pointed at my fragile self. It did not take a rocket scientist to understand why I was in this place, where the Ensure drinks followed me around like a lost puppy. It felt like I had a giant letter "A" on my chest, but instead of an adulterer, it brazenly declared "Anorexic." Smoothie Girl eventually had enough and rose and half-yelled: "She just wanted to have an adventure with the crazies, okay? Does Mak look like she wants to talk? She can barely move. And instead of asking her why she's here in this stupid place, why don't you and your little friends get her the medical help she needs?" She huffed and sat back down, ruffled and angry as if I was her attacked baby bird.

On the last day of my stay, Smoothie Girl helped me pack. Her smile was shiny, and her hair fell in waves as if she had just walked out of a shampoo commercial. It amazed me how beautiful she was; she stuck out so boldly in this horrific place."I don't think I could ever make all of what happened here up if I tried," I told her. "Why would you want to?" She chuckled. I never figured out the reason for Smoothie Girl's placement at the hospital, but maybe, just maybe, her purpose at the hospital was to help me survive long enough to stand on my own. Maybe, just maybe, my purpose is to help others as she helped me, one smoothie t-shirt at a time.