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A/N: 16.10.2020
Warning: this book deals with some triggering content such as mental health and eating disorders. Readers discretion is advised.
Yeah, we’re going there.
P.s: I’ll be doing early updates on Patreon from now on, so if you’d like to be ahead a couple chapters, it’ll be in the “My blooming treehouse” tier. Link is in my Wattpad bio 😉
🌻🌻🌻
A week had passed since I moved into my new apartment. I bought some flowers and plants to decorate the house, but kept the walls empty and plain. My clothes and underwear were neatly folded in the closet and drawers, and all my books were stacked on the shelf. Nothing else in this house belonged to me. Well, there was also me in it. I guess to some extent I belonged to myself. Anyway, I digress.
By the time I snapped out of my thoughts, night had already fallen. I got up from my desk and pulled out a small notebook that was gifted to me by one of my doctors before I had left my hometown. It was a notebook where I wrote down all of the new dishes I’d make. I called it the Recipe Book That I Never Use, but the doctor told me, “It’s not catchy enough, Conan.” So he re-baptized it to simply, The Recipe Book. Though, I still secretly called it The Recipe Book That I Never Use, but that’s between you and me.
I flipped through the pages and stopped at ‘Turkey sandwich.” I followed the instructions one by one: two slices of bread, a slice of turkey, mayonnaise, shreds of lettuce, and cheese.
I carefully stacked the ingredients one by one and cut the sandwich into two triangles. I sat at the table and smiled, happy with the result. But that was it. I was happy with the result, but had no desire to eat the finished product. I picked up the sandwich nonetheless.
“I will eat,” I said aloud.
So I took a bite, and chewed. I took another, and then another, and then stopped at my fourth after realizing that all I had been doing was chewing but not swallowing. It took me a while before I could. And then I put the sandwich down because I couldn’t take another bite.
My stomach already burned and my chest twisted. Or perhaps it was my stomach that twisted and my chest that burned. I wasn’t good at expressing my pain, I just knew that eating felt wrong. Because eating meant living, and perhaps I didn’t want to live.
I stared at the plate, hoping that I’d grow some kind of appetite, some sort of desire to give my body some energy, wishing that the sandwich would miraculously disappear from the plate and go into my stomach, but nothing.
I gave up.
“Next time,” I whispered to myself, the way I always did. I didn’t want to waste the sandwich so I put it in the fridge. I felt relieved when I left the kitchen, as if a heavy burden had been removed from my shoulders.
I quickly washed up in the same cold water that I had been showering in for the past few days. Though, some part of me enjoyed the stinging cold water that pricked my skin. When I finished, I scurried to my safeplace: my bedroom. I crawled onto my bed and turned off the lights, snuggling under the sheets. I counted my fingers and then wiggled my toes to make sure all ten of them were there.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I heard my phone buzz. Philip was calling me. I knew it before checking my screen, because no one else called me on Sunday nights but Philip.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Conan,” His soothing, calm voice made me nervous because I knew what he would say next. It was a question he’d always ask me. “How are you?”
I stared at the ceiling.
“Good, I think.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Good is good. Good is great,” I could hear him scribble down notes. Doctors like him were told to be optimistic with their patients. Apparently, it helped the “healing process.” I didn’t quite understand what they meant by the Healing Process, because I didn’t have any physical wounds to heal. Perhaps it was a metaphor. Or perhaps they were trying to repair something that was invisible. But if the wounds weren’t visble, then did that mean they didn’t exist? Again, I digress.
“Have you taken your meds like a good boy?”
I didn’t like it when Dr. Philip called me that, but I didn’t know how to ask him to stop. The request seemed too strange and awkward, and I didn’t want to upset him, so I didn’t say anything.
“Yes, Dr. Philip, I’ve been taking my meds.”
“Have you been eating three meals a day?”
“I’ve been trying.”
I could hear more scribbles and felt somewhat discouraged.
“What about sleep?”
“Trying as well.”
“Have you contacted your family yet? Told your friends how your new life is in the Big City? That’s quite a big change for you. Why did you decide to move away?”
There were too many questions.
“Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Have you found a local doctor in the city?”
I felt as if Dr. Philip was an interrogator for the FBI rather than a doctor.
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“With?” He sounded both disappointed and enthusiastic.
“Reading books. And writing. Lots of writing.”
“Oh, that kind of busy. Well, I’m glad you’re being productive, but make sure you get out a bit, okay? Get some fresh air and make new friends. Oh, and find a local doctor soon. We need to check up on your health every now and then.”
“Because you don’t trust me?” I asked curiously.
“It’s not that we don’t trust you, it’s just that we want to make sure you’re healthy. We care about you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise you’ll look for a doctor?”
“I can’t make promises, but I’ll try,” I said. And I would. I just didn’t know whether or not I’d succeed. I probably wouldn’t, but that’s what I liked about trying. Nothing was certain.
“I believe in you Conan, okay?”
I wriggled my toes.
“Okay.”
“Contact me or your family if there’s anything wrong. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you getting ready to sleep now?”
“Yes, I was about to.” I wasn’t great at keeping up conversations or asking questions, but Dr. Philip was a professional at it. Although, I much preferred conversing with Parker, even though we’ve only spoken once. His questions seemed more genuine and casual. Dr. Philip’s questions were more like a list of sentences to ask his patience to make sure they were still in tact.
Speaking of Parker, I wondered what he was doing. I hope he’s doing well. Maybe I should go upstairs to see how he’s doing. No, no, then I might be a bother. Or should I? I don’t know, maybe…
“Conan?” Said Dr. Philip. I snapped out of thoughts and realized that I had missed his question.
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“Have the Dark Thoughts been coming back?”
I stiffened.
“No, not since I moved in,” I told him.
“That’s good. Maybe moving to the city was a good idea after all. It’s a nice place to be in. Lots of people, full of life…” he said, and continued talking about how great the Big City was despite never living here. I found it strange how people always talked like professionals about things they’ve never experienced.
“What’s one of the first things you’d like to do there?” He asked.
“I’d like to ride the city bus,” I smiled. There was a pause.
“The city bus?” He echoed.
“Yes, the public transportation that takes individuals to their desired destination,” I smiled happily.
“Oh, I see. Yes, of course, the bus,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Is there anything else you’d like to do there? Something to look forward to?”
Dr. Philip liked to project me into the future. He told me to always look ahead and find goals to look forward to, saying it’d help me.
“No, I can’t think of anything right now,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. There are so many things you can do in life, Conan. So many,” he said. I didn’t know what else to say and the silence that followed his last spoken word began to extend. I tried to find something to fill the silence.
“Okay.” Was the best I could think of.
“Find a doctor soon, okay? And keep me updated on how you’re doing.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, Conan.”
That was the social cue to hang up.
“Goodnight Philip George,” I paused. “Can I call you Philip George?”
Dr. Philip’s full first name was Philip George. I saw it once on a file when I was in his office.
“Yes, Conan, you can call me Philip George.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Philip George. Goodnight, Philip George.”
Even though we were on the phone, I had the strange sense that he was giving me The Look. He hung up, and I tucked my phone under my pillow.
What a nice man.
🌻🌻🌻
Please don’t forget to leave a vote!
What’s your favorite snack? I currently have a thing for dried banana slices and peanuts 😂
P.p.s: I’ll be doing a live on Instagram tomorrow (october 17th) at 3 p.m UTC.
9****
A/N: 16.10.2020
Warning: this book deals with some triggering content such as mental health and eating disorders. Readers discretion is advised.
Yeah, we’re going there.
P.s: I’ll be doing early updates on Patreon from now on, so if you’d like to be ahead a couple chapters, it’ll be in the “My blooming treehouse” tier. Link is in my Wattpad bio 😉
🌻🌻🌻
A week had passed since I moved into my new apartment. I bought some flowers and plants to decorate the house, but kept the walls empty and plain. My clothes and underwear were neatly folded in the closet and drawers, and all my books were stacked on the shelf. Nothing else in this house belonged to me. Well, there was also me in it. I guess to some extent I belonged to myself. Anyway, I digress.
By the time I snapped out of my thoughts, night had already fallen. I got up from my desk and pulled out a small notebook that was gifted to me by one of my doctors before I had left my hometown. It was a notebook where I wrote down all of the new dishes I’d make. I called it the Recipe Book That I Never Use, but the doctor told me, “It’s not catchy enough, Conan.” So he re-baptized it to simply, The Recipe Book. Though, I still secretly called it The Recipe Book That I Never Use, but that’s between you and me.
I flipped through the pages and stopped at ‘Turkey sandwich.” I followed the instructions one by one: two slices of bread, a slice of turkey, mayonnaise, shreds of lettuce, and cheese.
I carefully stacked the ingredients one by one and cut the sandwich into two triangles. I sat at the table and smiled, happy with the result. But that was it. I was happy with the result, but had no desire to eat the finished product. I picked up the sandwich nonetheless.
“I will eat,” I said aloud.
So I took a bite, and chewed. I took another, and then another, and then stopped at my fourth after realizing that all I had been doing was chewing but not swallowing. It took me a while before I could. And then I put the sandwich down because I couldn’t take another bite.
My stomach already burned and my chest twisted. Or perhaps it was my stomach that twisted and my chest that burned. I wasn’t good at expressing my pain, I just knew that eating felt wrong. Because eating meant living, and perhaps I didn’t want to live.
I stared at the plate, hoping that I’d grow some kind of appetite, some sort of desire to give my body some energy, wishing that the sandwich would miraculously disappear from the plate and go into my stomach, but nothing.
I gave up.
“Next time,” I whispered to myself, the way I always did. I didn’t want to waste the sandwich so I put it in the fridge. I felt relieved when I left the kitchen, as if a heavy burden had been removed from my shoulders.
I quickly washed up in the same cold water that I had been showering in for the past few days. Though, some part of me enjoyed the stinging cold water that pricked my skin. When I finished, I scurried to my safeplace: my bedroom. I crawled onto my bed and turned off the lights, snuggling under the sheets. I counted my fingers and then wiggled my toes to make sure all ten of them were there.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I heard my phone buzz. Philip was calling me. I knew it before checking my screen, because no one else called me on Sunday nights but Philip.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Conan,” His soothing, calm voice made me nervous because I knew what he would say next. It was a question he’d always ask me. “How are you?”
I stared at the ceiling.
“Good, I think.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Good is good. Good is great,” I could hear him scribble down notes. Doctors like him were told to be optimistic with their patients. Apparently, it helped the “healing process.” I didn’t quite understand what they meant by the Healing Process, because I didn’t have any physical wounds to heal. Perhaps it was a metaphor. Or perhaps they were trying to repair something that was invisible. But if the wounds weren’t visble, then did that mean they didn’t exist? Again, I digress.
“Have you taken your meds like a good boy?”
I didn’t like it when Dr. Philip called me that, but I didn’t know how to ask him to stop. The request seemed too strange and awkward, and I didn’t want to upset him, so I didn’t say anything.
“Yes, Dr. Philip, I’ve been taking my meds.”
“Have you been eating three meals a day?”
“I’ve been trying.”
I could hear more scribbles and felt somewhat discouraged.
“What about sleep?”
“Trying as well.”
“Have you contacted your family yet? Told your friends how your new life is in the Big City? That’s quite a big change for you. Why did you decide to move away?”
There were too many questions.
“Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Have you found a local doctor in the city?”
I felt as if Dr. Philip was an interrogator for the FBI rather than a doctor.
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“With?” He sounded both disappointed and enthusiastic.
“Reading books. And writing. Lots of writing.”
“Oh, that kind of busy. Well, I’m glad you’re being productive, but make sure you get out a bit, okay? Get some fresh air and make new friends. Oh, and find a local doctor soon. We need to check up on your health every now and then.”
“Because you don’t trust me?” I asked curiously.
“It’s not that we don’t trust you, it’s just that we want to make sure you’re healthy. We care about you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise you’ll look for a doctor?”
“I can’t make promises, but I’ll try,” I said. And I would. I just didn’t know whether or not I’d succeed. I probably wouldn’t, but that’s what I liked about trying. Nothing was certain.
“I believe in you Conan, okay?”
I wriggled my toes.
“Okay.”
“Contact me or your family if there’s anything wrong. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you getting ready to sleep now?”
“Yes, I was about to.” I wasn’t great at keeping up conversations or asking questions, but Dr. Philip was a professional at it. Although, I much preferred conversing with Parker, even though we’ve only spoken once. His questions seemed more genuine and casual. Dr. Philip’s questions were more like a list of sentences to ask his patience to make sure they were still in tact.
Speaking of Parker, I wondered what he was doing. I hope he’s doing well. Maybe I should go upstairs to see how he’s doing. No, no, then I might be a bother. Or should I? I don’t know, maybe…
“Conan?” Said Dr. Philip. I snapped out of thoughts and realized that I had missed his question.
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“Have the Dark Thoughts been coming back?”
I stiffened.
“No, not since I moved in,” I told him.
“That’s good. Maybe moving to the city was a good idea after all. It’s a nice place to be in. Lots of people, full of life…” he said, and continued talking about how great the Big City was despite never living here. I found it strange how people always talked like professionals about things they’ve never experienced.
“What’s one of the first things you’d like to do there?” He asked.
“I’d like to ride the city bus,” I smiled. There was a pause.
“The city bus?” He echoed.
“Yes, the public transportation that takes individuals to their desired destination,” I smiled happily.
“Oh, I see. Yes, of course, the bus,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Is there anything else you’d like to do there? Something to look forward to?”
Dr. Philip liked to project me into the future. He told me to always look ahead and find goals to look forward to, saying it’d help me.
“No, I can’t think of anything right now,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. There are so many things you can do in life, Conan. So many,” he said. I didn’t know what else to say and the silence that followed his last spoken word began to extend. I tried to find something to fill the silence.
“Okay.” Was the best I could think of.
“Find a doctor soon, okay? And keep me updated on how you’re doing.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, Conan.”
That was the social cue to hang up.
“Goodnight Philip George,” I paused. “Can I call you Philip George?”
Dr. Philip’s full first name was Philip George. I saw it once on a file when I was in his office.
“Yes, Conan, you can call me Philip George.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Philip George. Goodnight, Philip George.”
Even though we were on the phone, I had the strange sense that he was giving me The Look. He hung up, and I tucked my phone under my pillow.
What a nice man.
🌻🌻🌻
Please don’t forget to leave a vote!
What’s your favorite snack? I currently have a thing for dried banana slices and peanuts 😂
P.p.s: I’ll be doing a live on Instagram tomorrow (october 17th) at 3 p.m UTC.dd
A/N: 16.10.2020
Warning: this book deals with some triggering content such as mental health and eating disorders. Readers discretion is advised.
Yeah, we’re going there.
P.s: I’ll be doing early updates on Patreon from now on, so if you’d like to be ahead a couple chapters, it’ll be in the “My blooming treehouse” tier. Link is in my Wattpad bio 😉
🌻🌻🌻
A week had passed since I moved into my new apartment. I bought some flowers and plants to decorate the house, but kept the walls empty and plain. My clothes and underwear were neatly folded in the closet and drawers, and all my books were stacked on the shelf. Nothing else in this house belonged to me. Well, there was also me in it. I guess to some extent I belonged to myself. Anyway, I digress.
By the time I snapped out of my thoughts, night had already fallen. I got up from my desk and pulled out a small notebook that was gifted to me by one of my doctors before I had left my hometown. It was a notebook where I wrote down all of the new dishes I’d make. I called it the Recipe Book That I Never Use, but the doctor told me, “It’s not catchy enough, Conan.” So he re-baptized it to simply, The Recipe Book. Though, I still secretly called it The Recipe Book That I Never Use, but that’s between you and me.
I flipped through the pages and stopped at ‘Turkey sandwich.” I followed the instructions one by one: two slices of bread, a slice of turkey, mayonnaise, shreds of lettuce, and cheese.
I carefully stacked the ingredients one by one and cut the sandwich into two triangles. I sat at the table and smiled, happy with the result. But that was it. I was happy with the result, but had no desire to eat the finished product. I picked up the sandwich nonetheless.
“I will eat,” I said aloud.
So I took a bite, and chewed. I took another, and then another, and then stopped at my fourth after realizing that all I had been doing was chewing but not swallowing. It took me a while before I could. And then I put the sandwich down because I couldn’t take another bite.
My stomach already burned and my chest twisted. Or perhaps it was my stomach that twisted and my chest that burned. I wasn’t good at expressing my pain, I just knew that eating felt wrong. Because eating meant living, and perhaps I didn’t want to live.
I stared at the plate, hoping that I’d grow some kind of appetite, some sort of desire to give my body some energy, wishing that the sandwich would miraculously disappear from the plate and go into my stomach, but nothing.
I gave up.
“Next time,” I whispered to myself, the way I always did. I didn’t want to waste the sandwich so I put it in the fridge. I felt relieved when I left the kitchen, as if a heavy burden had been removed from my shoulders.
I quickly washed up in the same cold water that I had been showering in for the past few days. Though, some part of me enjoyed the stinging cold water that pricked my skin. When I finished, I scurried to my safeplace: my bedroom. I crawled onto my bed and turned off the lights, snuggling under the sheets. I counted my fingers and then wiggled my toes to make sure all ten of them were there.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I heard my phone buzz. Philip was calling me. I knew it before checking my screen, because no one else called me on Sunday nights but Philip.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Conan,” His soothing, calm voice made me nervous because I knew what he would say next. It was a question he’d always ask me. “How are you?”
I stared at the ceiling.
“Good, I think.”
“That’s good, that’s good. Good is good. Good is great,” I could hear him scribble down notes. Doctors like him were told to be optimistic with their patients. Apparently, it helped the “healing process.” I didn’t quite understand what they meant by the Healing Process, because I didn’t have any physical wounds to heal. Perhaps it was a metaphor. Or perhaps they were trying to repair something that was invisible. But if the wounds weren’t visble, then did that mean they didn’t exist? Again, I digress.
“Have you taken your meds like a good boy?”
I didn’t like it when Dr. Philip called me that, but I didn’t know how to ask him to stop. The request seemed too strange and awkward, and I didn’t want to upset him, so I didn’t say anything.
“Yes, Dr. Philip, I’ve been taking my meds.”
“Have you been eating three meals a day?”
“I’ve been trying.”
I could hear more scribbles and felt somewhat discouraged.
“What about sleep?”
“Trying as well.”
“Have you contacted your family yet? Told your friends how your new life is in the Big City? That’s quite a big change for you. Why did you decide to move away?”
There were too many questions.
“Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Have you found a local doctor in the city?”
I felt as if Dr. Philip was an interrogator for the FBI rather than a doctor.
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“With?” He sounded both disappointed and enthusiastic.
“Reading books. And writing. Lots of writing.”
“Oh, that kind of busy. Well, I’m glad you’re being productive, but make sure you get out a bit, okay? Get some fresh air and make new friends. Oh, and find a local doctor soon. We need to check up on your health every now and then.”
“Because you don’t trust me?” I asked curiously.
“It’s not that we don’t trust you, it’s just that we want to make sure you’re healthy. We care about you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise you’ll look for a doctor?”
“I can’t make promises, but I’ll try,” I said. And I would. I just didn’t know whether or not I’d succeed. I probably wouldn’t, but that’s what I liked about trying. Nothing was certain.
“I believe in you Conan, okay?”
I wriggled my toes.
“Okay.”
“Contact me or your family if there’s anything wrong. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you getting ready to sleep now?”
“Yes, I was about to.” I wasn’t great at keeping up conversations or asking questions, but Dr. Philip was a professional at it. Although, I much preferred conversing with Parker, even though we’ve only spoken once. His questions seemed more genuine and casual. Dr. Philip’s questions were more like a list of sentences to ask his patience to make sure they were still in tact.
Speaking of Parker, I wondered what he was doing. I hope he’s doing well. Maybe I should go upstairs to see how he’s doing. No, no, then I might be a bother. Or should I? I don’t know, maybe…
“Conan?” Said Dr. Philip. I snapped out of thoughts and realized that I had missed his question.
“Sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“Have the Dark Thoughts been coming back?”
I stiffened.
“No, not since I moved in,” I told him.
“That’s good. Maybe moving to the city was a good idea after all. It’s a nice place to be in. Lots of people, full of life…” he said, and continued talking about how great the Big City was despite never living here. I found it strange how people always talked like professionals about things they’ve never experienced.
“What’s one of the first things you’d like to do there?” He asked.
“I’d like to ride the city bus,” I smiled. There was a pause.
“The city bus?” He echoed.
“Yes, the public transportation that takes individuals to their desired destination,” I smiled happily.
“Oh, I see. Yes, of course, the bus,” he said, before clearing his throat. “Is there anything else you’d like to do there? Something to look forward to?”
Dr. Philip liked to project me into the future. He told me to always look ahead and find goals to look forward to, saying it’d help me.
“No, I can’t think of anything right now,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. There are so many things you can do in life, Conan. So many,” he said. I didn’t know what else to say and the silence that followed his last spoken word began to extend. I tried to find something to fill the silence.
“Okay.” Was the best I could think of.
“Find a doctor soon, okay? And keep me updated on how you’re doing.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight, Conan.”
That was the social cue to hang up.
“Goodnight Philip George,” I paused. “Can I call you Philip George?”
Dr. Philip’s full first name was Philip George. I saw it once on a file when I was in his office.
“Yes, Conan, you can call me Philip George.”
I smiled. “Thank you, Philip George. Goodnight, Philip George.”
Even though we were on the phone, I had the strange sense that he was giving me The Look. He hung up, and I tucked my phone under my pillow.
What a nice man.
🌻🌻🌻
Please don’t forget to leave a vote!
What’s your favorite snack? I currently have a thing for dried banana slices and peanuts 😂
P.p.s: I’ll be doing a live on Instagram tomorrow (october 17th) at 3 p.m UTC.
[text_hash] => 22e2f4ba
)