Halleck paused, taken aback.
“Sorry,” Emmett said. “It wasn’t an option on the questionnaire, but—”
“Which disorder?”
“I don’t know, it’s never been formally diagnosed. Binge eating maybe? Compulsive overeating?”
“If it’s never been diagnosed, then how do you know you have a disorder?”
“Because my eating is,” Emmett said, “disordered?”
The lack of diagnosis bothered Emmett as much as it clearly did Halleck. Back when he was still going in for checkups, he’d asked several times for help controlling his eating, only to be referred again and again to nutritionists and dieticians, to be treated each and every time to the same lecture about healthy choices. More lean meats, fruits, and vegetables. Less refined carbohydrates, saturated fats, and sugar. Salad, nuts, and whole graingood. Burgers, pizza, and ice creambaaaaad.
Did they really think he didn’t know that? Or did his doctors simply think he was incapable of understanding, that the vessels of his brain were too gummed up with accumulated fat for the information to reach the processing centers of his cerebral cortex? On a good day it was irritating; on a bad day, he craved violence. The problem wasn’t that he didn’t know that an apple was healthier than a Snickers. His problem was the Hunger that didn’t care.
This was not to be confused with the little-hhunger, the body’s signal that it required sustenance. This Hunger was not physical at all, but a compulsion fired straight from the synapses of his brain. It repeated every few hours whether he was hungry or not—typically manifesting as a one-two punch of craving: for salt and fat, then sugar. Burrito, then cereal. Pizza, then gelato. Tacos, then churros. Cheeseburger, then birthday cake. Never just a little bit either, never a bite or a taste. It had to be enough to fill him, stretch the walls of his stomach, even make him feel like he was going to be sick. Like at Harper’s party. What started as a gentle nudge of desire would steadily ramp up the longer he heldout. Eventually it was throwing itself around his head, a wild, thrashing animal of a thing. A thing not just to be placated, but feared.
At the worst of times, Emmett felt like if he didn’t eat, he would die.
But mostly it never got to that point. If he wasn’t actively dieting, he’d satisfy his cravings as soon as they came, usually every two or three hours, snacking, sipping, feeding the beast. At times he ate so consistently he rarely felt physically hungry at all. He might not binge like he had at Chris’s house for weeks, even months at a time.
In a way that was worse. The mindfuck of it. He’d find himself questioning whether the Hunger was still there, whether it had ever been real in the first place. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing, he would think. Maybe he didn’t have an undiagnosed eating disorder. Maybe he was exactly what the world insisted he was: lazy, mindless, braindead, weak-willed. Lard-ass. Slob. Fat shit. Monster.
Whatever Emmett was, he was desperate for help. Even more than a diagnosis, he’d begged his doctors for a referral to an in-network eating disorder specialist. He’d seen therapists on his own, as many times as his employee assistance program would allow, but even the ones claiming expertise in the subject had only worked with patients with anorexia and bulimia. Emmett had been excited to identify one LMFT who actually specialized in binge-eating disorder—whose “calling is to help people struggling with intrusive, food-related thoughts and compulsions find relief from the mental burden of preoccupation about food and their bodies”—until he learned she charged $400 per hour and didn’t take his health insurance.
So much for her fucking calling.
The doctor before Halleck had been the first to grant Emmett’s request, albeit reluctantly, and after two months of dithering, the health system had at last given in and scheduled him with one of their clinical therapists.
Sandra was gentle and kind, maybe too much so. When Emmett complained he wasn’t making any progress with his eating, she responded with reassurances like “You have to stop being so hard on yourself” and “Just the fact that you’re here shows that youaremaking progress.” Required to keep notes of everything he was saying, she didn’t stop typing the entire session, her eyes flitting between him and her monitor as he recounted the traumatic incident he had rarely spoken about before, andwhich she didn’t seem to know what to do with. She urged him to attend their healthy-eating support group, but he didn’t want to be supported by fat people and the average-bodied White women who shouldered their way in; he wanted to be supported by the medical community who never stopped making him feel like he was on the brink of death and bringing society down with him.
It didn’t surprise him to eventually learn that Sandra wasn’t an eating disorder specialist at all. The health system had decided that because his BMI was then under forty, he didn’t warrant specialist help, just had “poor dietary habits,” just needed “education.” The therapy lasted all of two months. Another weight loss failure to add to the list.
In the exam room of Cronus Health, Halleck glossed quickly over the topic of Emmett’s disordered eating. “Research shows sugar can be as addictive as opiates. If you’re struggling with cravings, you should get off it.”
“Just ‘get off it’? Like, cold turkey?”
“Sooner the better.”
“Is there anything you can give me to help with that?”
Halleck snorted. “What, like methadone for sugar addicts?”
Emmett faltered, first embarrassed and then annoyed. Was that so crazy? Hadn’t he just said sugar was as addictive as opiates?
The doctor dropped his gaze back to his clipboard. “If you’re craving sweets, try plain yogurt with fruit.” He flashed a smile. “I like strawberries.”
Yogurt with strawberries. Thanks for the pro tip, Doc.
Emmett had noted on his questionnaire that he had no family history of heart disease or diabetes that he knew about. “You’re lucky,” Halleck said. “Genetics are one of the highest risk factors for those conditions.” He dismissed the occasional prickle in Emmett’s feet as the product of low-quality shoes and ordered him to sit on the exam table.
The wax-paper covering crinkled underneath him. Halleck examined Emmett’s heart, eyes, ears, and throat. Asked him to lie back and dug into his abdomen with the gloved spade of his hand. “Fine,” he said, stepping back and peeling off his gloves. “Do you check your testicles for lumps?”
Emmett sat up. “Not—not regularly, no.”
Halleck sighed, rolling his head. “Pull down your pants.” He gloved up again.
Emmett froze in the glare of Halleck’s cold attractiveness. Not becausehe feared becoming aroused. He didn’t need to get a boner for his body to humiliate him.
