"Why do you do it?" my brother asked me. Though his words appeared on the computer screen before me I heard them plain as day, as if his six-two form were sitting there beside me. Worrying. Fretting. Over me.
"I'm…not exactly sure," I replied, my fingers struggling and trembling over the keys. "It's hard to explain. You wouldn't understand."
"I understand it enough to know that it's stupid," he shot back. "It's stupid and harmful and I'm not going to let you die on me. You're going to get help. Whether I'm there or not. Whether you want it or not."
My eyes fluttered over his decision, the cutting edge to the font of his words. Minutes passed before it actually crashed down into my being, before I could understand what he meant.
Everything fell into place for me there, for lack of a better term – whether I'm there or not, he said. Because he was leaving. Because our father had kicked him out, leaving no other option but for my brother to pack his things and resort instead at a friend's house. A friend's house that was three hours away. And I realized that I would be fighting this battle, this demon residing in my body, on my own.
That's when the shaking began. The tremors, thundering through every fiber that made up my body. The deep breaths came next, accompanied by the tornado of harmful, horrid thoughts whipping against my head. I fought back against them with soft reassurances of calmness, of tranquility.
It was with every bit of determination I had stored up inside me that I desperately tried to mentally pull myself back from the one thing, the one escape, that had become all too familiar for me. I was anxious to keep my skin from turning that seductive shade of crimson, the one that fed me the sick sense of accomplishment that the messed up part of my head strived for.
That was when my brother's words of advice rang true to me – there was no other choice, no seemingly better, easier option. No easy way out. Not this time.