The Choice

“I guess.” She walked to the board and pushed her thin hand out
from her sleeve to take the pen.
“Draw me a picture of yourself, right now. How do you see
yourself?”
She uncapped the pen and drew quickly, her lips pursed. She
turned so I could see her drawing: a short, fat girl with a void, blank
face. It was a devastating contrast—skeletal Emma beside a blank, fat
cartoon.
“Can you remember a time when you felt different? When you felt
happy and pretty and fun loving?”
She thought and thought. But she didn’t say, “I don’t know.”
Finally she nodded her head. “When I was five.”
“Could you draw me a picture of that happy girl?”
When she stepped away from the board, I saw a picture of a
dancing, twirling girl in a tutu. I felt my throat catch, a spasm of
recognition.
“Did you take ballet?”
“Yes.”
“I’d love to hear more about that. How did you feel when you were
dancing?”
She closed her eyes. I saw her heels pull together in ĕrst position. It
was an unconscious motion, her body remembering.
“What are you feeling right now as you remember? Can you give
that feeling a word?”
She nodded, her eyes still closed. “Free.”
“Would you like to feel that way again? Free? Full of life?”
She nodded. She put the pen on the tray and tugged her sleeves
down over her hands again.
“And how does starving yourself get you closer to this goal of
freedom?” I said it as warmly, as kindly as I could. It wasn’t a
recrimination. It was an effort to bring her into an unĘinching