Post by Naveah Elaine Withers on Sept 6, 2012 22:03:38 GMT -5
I slip into the bathroom and shut the door, making sure it doesn't bang. My head is hurting, and I'm getting dizzy - I must have forgotten to bring my drink upstairs. I look down at my feet, noting the fact that I have a hard time staring over my stomach. Ugh.I step forward, and I realize I have to glance up - it's required of me, calling to me. That mirror, glassy surface reflecting every flaw I have. Wouldn't it be nice to see "fairest of them all" written across it's surface? Wouldn't it be magical if that were actually true?
My eyes wander up until they meet their own reflection. Brown eyes, wide with fear and anticipation, dark circles beneath them, the cover-up make up from this morning rubbing off. I can't focus on just my eyes, though; I can't control them as they wander. Down my nose, which is much too squishy-looking... to my cheeks, which are way too puffed out and chubby for my taste. Similar in facial features to a chipmunk, you might say.
I can feel my own gaze travel down my neck, and it makes me shiver. I reach up with my hands to pull away my sweater, slip out of my jeans, bare it all for myself. My eyes appraise me, and I don't like what I see. Unconsciously, I notice my fingers move to where they always do. First, my stomach, where I grab the fat that I hate, pinching my skin until it's red and uncomfortable. Then to my hips, where I try to pull off that chunk of skin guarding my hip-bones. Wouldn't it be grand if I could just... yank all of the unwanted things off of my body? Take a pair of scissors and get rid of everything I don't need? All that plushy cellulite that pads me like the white walls of an insane asylum. It traps me in a cage, a cell that is my own body, and I want out so desperately.
From my hips, I look down at my legs, using the mirror to help. My fingertips run over my thighs, the scars healing, a purple-red that is hard to see. The dark brown burns, the shapes, letters, and lines I have cut into me. They are not deep, not thick enough for me. They mark the days when I die inside, and I want to scratch them away, claw those permanent scars out of my skin. Why had I done it? I like to say I wear my scars proudly, but when I'm alone, I have to break. They are ugly, attributing to my already disgusting looks. I have to pull my hands away, as my nails are making crescent marks in my upper thighs. I sigh, running the pad of my left index finger over the longest scar I have, a four or five inch line that almost reaches my knee. That line, the bending, curving streak of red that I can't manage to hide. Sure, mom, that's a scratch from the bunny. No, I'm not lying, why would I lie?
Removing my hands, I squint at my reflection, imagining thick black lines that I could draw. The blue prints I would make on my body, marking off how I want to look. Snip that fat off, trim my thighs and legs to half their size - no, a little less than that, just to be safe. Curve my waist, make it a thin hourglass. My arms need to be as thick as my bones, no more, no less. Let's make those cheek bones prominent, and hollow out my face. I'm picturing this version of me, shaded in and scooped out. I turn to the side, and metaphorically draw those lines more, making my waist width barely natural, smoothing off my ass, taking more off the thighs and the backs of my flabby calves. I can really see myself like this, stick thin and a desirable creature - and then I blink. Now it's gone, and I realize I have so far to go.
I take my glasses off so that my reflection is blurred; I am disgusted with myself. Every question runs through my mind, all the ones I have asked before and more. Why can't I be skinny? Why can't I be strong enough to go through with this? Why did I have those sixty calories today? Why did I have to get the fat genes of my family? What kind of guy likes the fat girl? When will I no longer be "that fat friend?" When will I have people admire me, and when can I wear the clothes I think are sexy? So many questions that start with the letter W - what, why, when? They plague me, because I don't have good enough answers. Because you eat too much, because you no will power, because you're stupid and unlucky. No one likes the fat girl, you'll never be the "skinny friend" unless you do something about it. You can't wear that until you reach your goal weight, so get going. I turn away from the mirror, close to tears, and turn on the shower. The water has to be hot, hot enough to burn me. I wish I could scream "I'm melting" and feel those calories slide off of me, see the fat disappear before my very eyes. But that would be too much to ask, wouldn't it?
Climbing in, I go through my normal shower business. I shave my legs, because my hair grows impossbily fast. I have to wash my hair twice, because it's always such a tangled mess now a days. I wash my face with special acne face wash, because all this stress has me breaking out. When I'm finished scrubbing all the suds off of my body, I hang up my louffa and stop. My hands fall to my thighs with a smack! and I grimaced. Fat, fat, fatty the fat ass. Reaching up to my neck, I allow myself to do the one thing I can't do in public, or even in front of my own eyes. I put my fingers against my collar bones, feeling the hollow that grows every day. I tap my nails against the thick bone, hook my fingers around it, as if I were going to pop it out. Every time I tap a short beat against my bones, I can feel it reverberate through my body. The water washes down my back, running over my closed eyes and through my sopping mob of hair. I ignore it, though, just feeling my own bones, tap, tap, tap. That popping sensation I get from hitting my collarbones travels down my rib cage, my spine, mixing with the gentle tune of my heartbeat, and the rush of my blood. I can feel everything in the time I take out of my day to be surreal. My pulse is quick and irritated, my fingers are hitting a tattoo on my body, my stomach is sucking in unconciously. My eyes are squeezed so tightly they hurt, and my skin around my chest is getting red from my gentle touches. I imagine it as if I were playing the piano on my bones.
Sighing, I pull away my hand after a moment and just lean against the wall. I'm fatigued, close to passing out due to exhaustion. The rain from the shower head feels like a monsoon. I wonder if I can drown, from just standing here. I wonder if I'll make it through tomorrow without passing out. I'm cold, even though the water must be scorching. It's not a freezing that brings goosebumps to my arms; it's an inner ice age, a type of coldness that makes my lungs compress and my heart pound too fast. There is a thirst in my body that makes my throat constrict, and a hunger that rips from my stomach to my chest. I can feel the growling that I cannot hear, and I know my breath smells from not eating in a while. I remind myself to bring gum to school tomorrow, and put my hand against my stomach, feeling it churn wickedly. It's cramping hard enough to make me want to moan and cry; why is this so hard for me? It's almost enough to make my get out of the shower, go downstairs and eat. Almost enough to make me imagine all the things I would take a bite out of... a juicy green apple, a bowl full of my favorite chocolate ice cream, a plate of steaming ravioli and maybe some candy or sugary cereal. I'm craving a bowl of off-the-cob corn and a big slice of pumpkin pie, with a mug full of hot chocolate and marshmallows.
I get out of the shower, and I dry off quickly. I don't know what I'm going to do; my body is on autopilot, and I'm tense, waiting for something bad to happen. I pull on underwear and slip back into the same bra. I grab a nightgown to pull over my head, run a brush through my hair, and avoid my own gaze in my reflection. I know that my sad eyes will make me cry. I hang my towel up, rush out of the bathroom, and turn off the lights and the fan. I can't control myself as I rush down the steps, and hang a left, walking joltedly straight for the fridge. There are no lights on, and as I open the fridgerator door, I'm practically blinded. There are so many things I want from in here... the milk is right in my reach, and the hot chocolate packets are nearby. There's a bowl of corn up on the top shelf, and half eaten ravioli in the back. Greek yogurt and mashed potatoes and left over chicken crowd the middle shelf. My hand reaches out, fingers curling around the gallon of milk's coarse plastic handle. I pick it up...
I put it back down. I'm not hungry, I convince myself. I don't want anything. I shut the fridge and realize how close I was. I almost broke every single one of my rules! But I had the willpower to keep going on the right path. The devil in my mind almost had me sure I was starving, but the other devil decided I'm not. That was almost a tragedy... Thankfully, it was just a false alarm. Almost is scary sometimes. I run out of the kitchen and race up the stairs, diving into my bed when I get to it. That was close... I murmur to myself, before the tired in my body passes me into a nightmare filled sleep. I am aware of my finger tips lightly pressed against my collarbones, then I drift off.
My eyes wander up until they meet their own reflection. Brown eyes, wide with fear and anticipation, dark circles beneath them, the cover-up make up from this morning rubbing off. I can't focus on just my eyes, though; I can't control them as they wander. Down my nose, which is much too squishy-looking... to my cheeks, which are way too puffed out and chubby for my taste. Similar in facial features to a chipmunk, you might say.
I can feel my own gaze travel down my neck, and it makes me shiver. I reach up with my hands to pull away my sweater, slip out of my jeans, bare it all for myself. My eyes appraise me, and I don't like what I see. Unconsciously, I notice my fingers move to where they always do. First, my stomach, where I grab the fat that I hate, pinching my skin until it's red and uncomfortable. Then to my hips, where I try to pull off that chunk of skin guarding my hip-bones. Wouldn't it be grand if I could just... yank all of the unwanted things off of my body? Take a pair of scissors and get rid of everything I don't need? All that plushy cellulite that pads me like the white walls of an insane asylum. It traps me in a cage, a cell that is my own body, and I want out so desperately.
From my hips, I look down at my legs, using the mirror to help. My fingertips run over my thighs, the scars healing, a purple-red that is hard to see. The dark brown burns, the shapes, letters, and lines I have cut into me. They are not deep, not thick enough for me. They mark the days when I die inside, and I want to scratch them away, claw those permanent scars out of my skin. Why had I done it? I like to say I wear my scars proudly, but when I'm alone, I have to break. They are ugly, attributing to my already disgusting looks. I have to pull my hands away, as my nails are making crescent marks in my upper thighs. I sigh, running the pad of my left index finger over the longest scar I have, a four or five inch line that almost reaches my knee. That line, the bending, curving streak of red that I can't manage to hide. Sure, mom, that's a scratch from the bunny. No, I'm not lying, why would I lie?
Removing my hands, I squint at my reflection, imagining thick black lines that I could draw. The blue prints I would make on my body, marking off how I want to look. Snip that fat off, trim my thighs and legs to half their size - no, a little less than that, just to be safe. Curve my waist, make it a thin hourglass. My arms need to be as thick as my bones, no more, no less. Let's make those cheek bones prominent, and hollow out my face. I'm picturing this version of me, shaded in and scooped out. I turn to the side, and metaphorically draw those lines more, making my waist width barely natural, smoothing off my ass, taking more off the thighs and the backs of my flabby calves. I can really see myself like this, stick thin and a desirable creature - and then I blink. Now it's gone, and I realize I have so far to go.
I take my glasses off so that my reflection is blurred; I am disgusted with myself. Every question runs through my mind, all the ones I have asked before and more. Why can't I be skinny? Why can't I be strong enough to go through with this? Why did I have those sixty calories today? Why did I have to get the fat genes of my family? What kind of guy likes the fat girl? When will I no longer be "that fat friend?" When will I have people admire me, and when can I wear the clothes I think are sexy? So many questions that start with the letter W - what, why, when? They plague me, because I don't have good enough answers. Because you eat too much, because you no will power, because you're stupid and unlucky. No one likes the fat girl, you'll never be the "skinny friend" unless you do something about it. You can't wear that until you reach your goal weight, so get going. I turn away from the mirror, close to tears, and turn on the shower. The water has to be hot, hot enough to burn me. I wish I could scream "I'm melting" and feel those calories slide off of me, see the fat disappear before my very eyes. But that would be too much to ask, wouldn't it?
Climbing in, I go through my normal shower business. I shave my legs, because my hair grows impossbily fast. I have to wash my hair twice, because it's always such a tangled mess now a days. I wash my face with special acne face wash, because all this stress has me breaking out. When I'm finished scrubbing all the suds off of my body, I hang up my louffa and stop. My hands fall to my thighs with a smack! and I grimaced. Fat, fat, fatty the fat ass. Reaching up to my neck, I allow myself to do the one thing I can't do in public, or even in front of my own eyes. I put my fingers against my collar bones, feeling the hollow that grows every day. I tap my nails against the thick bone, hook my fingers around it, as if I were going to pop it out. Every time I tap a short beat against my bones, I can feel it reverberate through my body. The water washes down my back, running over my closed eyes and through my sopping mob of hair. I ignore it, though, just feeling my own bones, tap, tap, tap. That popping sensation I get from hitting my collarbones travels down my rib cage, my spine, mixing with the gentle tune of my heartbeat, and the rush of my blood. I can feel everything in the time I take out of my day to be surreal. My pulse is quick and irritated, my fingers are hitting a tattoo on my body, my stomach is sucking in unconciously. My eyes are squeezed so tightly they hurt, and my skin around my chest is getting red from my gentle touches. I imagine it as if I were playing the piano on my bones.
Sighing, I pull away my hand after a moment and just lean against the wall. I'm fatigued, close to passing out due to exhaustion. The rain from the shower head feels like a monsoon. I wonder if I can drown, from just standing here. I wonder if I'll make it through tomorrow without passing out. I'm cold, even though the water must be scorching. It's not a freezing that brings goosebumps to my arms; it's an inner ice age, a type of coldness that makes my lungs compress and my heart pound too fast. There is a thirst in my body that makes my throat constrict, and a hunger that rips from my stomach to my chest. I can feel the growling that I cannot hear, and I know my breath smells from not eating in a while. I remind myself to bring gum to school tomorrow, and put my hand against my stomach, feeling it churn wickedly. It's cramping hard enough to make me want to moan and cry; why is this so hard for me? It's almost enough to make my get out of the shower, go downstairs and eat. Almost enough to make me imagine all the things I would take a bite out of... a juicy green apple, a bowl full of my favorite chocolate ice cream, a plate of steaming ravioli and maybe some candy or sugary cereal. I'm craving a bowl of off-the-cob corn and a big slice of pumpkin pie, with a mug full of hot chocolate and marshmallows.
I get out of the shower, and I dry off quickly. I don't know what I'm going to do; my body is on autopilot, and I'm tense, waiting for something bad to happen. I pull on underwear and slip back into the same bra. I grab a nightgown to pull over my head, run a brush through my hair, and avoid my own gaze in my reflection. I know that my sad eyes will make me cry. I hang my towel up, rush out of the bathroom, and turn off the lights and the fan. I can't control myself as I rush down the steps, and hang a left, walking joltedly straight for the fridge. There are no lights on, and as I open the fridgerator door, I'm practically blinded. There are so many things I want from in here... the milk is right in my reach, and the hot chocolate packets are nearby. There's a bowl of corn up on the top shelf, and half eaten ravioli in the back. Greek yogurt and mashed potatoes and left over chicken crowd the middle shelf. My hand reaches out, fingers curling around the gallon of milk's coarse plastic handle. I pick it up...
I put it back down. I'm not hungry, I convince myself. I don't want anything. I shut the fridge and realize how close I was. I almost broke every single one of my rules! But I had the willpower to keep going on the right path. The devil in my mind almost had me sure I was starving, but the other devil decided I'm not. That was almost a tragedy... Thankfully, it was just a false alarm. Almost is scary sometimes. I run out of the kitchen and race up the stairs, diving into my bed when I get to it. That was close... I murmur to myself, before the tired in my body passes me into a nightmare filled sleep. I am aware of my finger tips lightly pressed against my collarbones, then I drift off.
