9I open my eyes slowly, stinging, like new wounds being met by salty water. And I blink to force the tears away. I told myself I was getting better, it's what I told everyone. I think I said it so much that even I started to believe it. I took my medicine like a good little girl, but little did they know that I hid a few every once in a while. I have over 50 pills sitting ready if I need them. Do I sound better to you? If I were actually better, would I need that reminder that I have a way out of this? If I were really better would I keep the blade by my side at all times? Just because I haven't used it, doesn't mean I'm better. Just because there are no new scars doesn't mean the old ones don't still sting. And they do, even if I try to tell myself they don't. Even if I lie to you and say they don't.
-~*~-
I'm still waiting for that day when the sun won't rise. But at the same time I'm waiting for the day when I can wake up and say "good morning" to my reflection without cowering away at the sight of myself, waiting for the day when I can actually mean "good morning". I'm writing this to remind myself of what this was like. Writing, simply because I can't explain it any other way than showing myself. I remember a time when I'd skip breakfast. The scale said I weighed 88. I'd been stuck at 88 for years. Eighty eight. Eighty eight. Flashing in my mind at all times. You'd think I'd stop looking at the scale. You'd think 88 pounds at 4' 11" was enough. That IS what you're thinking, isn't it? And I don't blame you for thinking it. But if you spent one day in my clothes, one day of sucking in your stomach each hour of the day, just so that bag of chips you ate for lunch didn't show. Maybe, just maybe, then you'd understand how horrible 88 was.
-~*~-
I let him kiss my neck and put his hand up my shirt. I'm hoping he can take this pain with him when he touches my bare skin. But he doesn't even notice that I'm crying. I don't care that this means nothing. His kisses are empty but anything is better than the loneliness of sitting at home. His car smells like dust and old nachos. I doubt he even knows my name. His fingers are cold and are the only things that remind me that this is reality. I'd rather be sleeping. I'd rather be sitting on the tiled bathroom floor, throwing up this ugliness I feel inside. He's ugly. Not ugly looking, just ugly. A horrible and ugly person. I wish he'd just hold me. I wish I could find someone who didn't want to touch me in places that make me numb. I hate guys. I wish they'd look into my eyes and see this pain. His palms sting against scars he doesn't even know are there and I wish that he could hear my thoughts. I'm telling him to stop. But my mouth won't open. I'm screaming for him to stop. Why can't he hear me?
-~*~-
The smile in the mirror isn't my own. It came in a tube labeled lipstick. And these eyes aren't mine either. Mine have bigger bags under them. And I can thank my good friend Cover Up for these eyes. Cover Up has many uses. And I'd probably be off in some hospital at the moment if it weren't for the miracle it works on my arms every morning. You say you wish I'd be myself. You don't want to see me. You want to see the doll, porcelain skin and painted lips. As far as you are concerned that IS me. As far as I'm concerned that's what I'll never be. The mask I put on every morning covers the redness from the tears I cried the night before. And the clothes hang loose on my body so no one can see the ribs poking out of my sides. You say I look beautiful. You say you love me. Well, you lie.
-~*~-
Another morning and the sun shines through the window onto my half naked body, sprawled across the bathroom floor. My legs are bruised, as well as my wrists and my side. I bruise so easily lately that I buy new Cover Up weekly. I must have passed out again and fallen to the floor. I don't even bother counting the times this happens and I'm not surprised to wake covered in bruises and shivering. The sun lights my skin with an eerie glow. And all I can see are the bones and the skin and the fat, the scars, the bruises. I can't see the beauty. This is hideous. Another morning to throw on baggy clothes and pants that are to big for me. Because if I wear pants that are too big I feel just a little bit smaller. I hate to think that these clothes used to fit this body. This skinny almost perfect body. Only a few more pounds, I swear, then I'll be happy.
-~*~-
So this is what crazy feels like. I've been crazy all my life and I didn't even know it. They say its all in my head, the fat that is. They say I'm deathly skinny. I say they are the ones that are crazy. How can they not see what I see? How could they call THIS skinny? They say it's a condition called Anorexia. I told them I know what anorexia is, and this is not it. They are pretty, skinny, and have detailed bone structures and pale skin. That isn't me. I'm not Anorexic, I told them. They don't believe me. They say, I need to come back next week. I think, I'll be gone by then.
-~*~-
So we start the countdown till I leave this place. 6 days and counting. The scale says 80. Two days ago it was 82. Last week I was 85. But the mirror tells me otherwise, as I grip my sides and pull at the fat around my thighs.
$472.68. Birthday money, Christmas money, money from skipping lunch, and 472 dollars and 68 cents is what I have to show for myself. It won't be enough, and at 16 with no car, a job doesn't sound too likely either. I pray that someone will come and take me away from this. My arms are yet again bloody and scarred. But this time I don't wipe the blood. Instead I watch it fall to the tile floor, hoping that it will take me with it down the bathtub drain. But, when I open my eyes I'm still where I was when I closed them. And I let out a sigh of disgust at the figure I see before me.
-~*~-
Your voice is filled with tears, I can hear you choking back the sobs between your words. I can feel them well up behind my own eyes as I listen to you say you want to die. I wish so much that I could talk you down from this ledge, but I may as well be next to you. Please stop telling me how horrible this world is, how pointless living is. I have too many of those thoughts on my own. I have to pry my hand from the phone when you hang up. I'm not ready to let you go just yet. I'm still holding on to the hope that we can get better. If you can't get better, how can I have any hope for myself? I was leaning on you for support, where would I be without you? Probably fat and hideous. You're the only one who ever understood. I can't do this alone.
-~*~-
She's dead, they tell me. Dead? Wrist slit, bathroom floor, bloody tiles. It all sounds so familiar. Who's dead? Am I dead? Did I finally succeed? I wake up shaking and sweat pouring across my face. The clock says 3 am, and I close my eyes as I turn on the light by my bed. My journal is still open by my side. The entry I started, half finished. Words that don't make sense to even me. Sentences of gibberish, I must be crazy. I shake my head at the thought of it. I'm not crazy, just unhappy. But that's all about to change, I tell myself as I grab a tin container labeled "Mints". Pearly white with aqua stripes. Perfect cylinders. Smooth and malleable. And in the light of the morning they seem to glow in my hand. Beckoning to me. And I'm not so sure I WANT to turn them down.
-~*~-
But at some point, before my hand reaches my mouth my mind wonders to you. And without noticing, the pills fall from my hand onto my carpeted floor. This isn't the end, I hear your voice whisper into my ear, You're stronger than this. And I can feel the tears streaming down my face as your voice echoes in my head. Words only hours ago I whispered to you through a clenched jaw. I'll be strong if you will. I'll be strong if you PROMISE me that you wont let me fail. You say you want to be 80 pounds, I say you're gorgeous as you are. It's always the same conversation for us. Neither of us believe the words we hear and that's ok, because I understand. It's all ok because I know what it is that you see in the mirror.
-~*~-
I ate again today. And I feel so much worse than I did before. Nothing seems to help, but the feel of the cold bathroom floor on my bare skin. I'm naked and I look at this body of mine. I was once blessed with a wonderful chest, it drew jealousy and admirers. But with the loss of weight, they were the first to go. I don't miss them much, I guess I assume my ribs make up for the lack of. I run my fingers across my skin. Its so soft, so thin. I can feel my ribs through the layer of fat and I suck in my stomach to make myself feel better. I tell myself this is beauty. These scars are beauty. Words etched into my skin. Poetry written on flesh. I tell myself the stretch marks will fade and all will be beautiful. I will have the perfect body. And every one will be jealous. But the tears in my eyes remind me that I'm not so sure.
-~*~-
One day till I leave and your voice is on the other side of the phone, telling me not to go. Telling me, not to leave you. I say I'd take you with me, but you refuse. I say I'm going. But your tears pull me back to reality of what I'm leaving behind. I've been so selfish, planning my escape from captivity, so selfish I forgot how much I love you. And I cry to you between sighs of apologies. I tell you about the night I cut my wrists. About how it was your voice that saved me from my self. And I cry "thank you"s into the phone. And I hope you can hear them through the drone of tears and sniffling.
-~*~-
4 am. Wide awake. Should I? Or not? I'm scared, I'm fat, I haven't eaten In over 4 days. 76 pounds And counting. One away From 75. One closer To being nothing But air.
-~*~-
My mother found me in the bath tub. I had a plastic bag over my head. No air. Ironic.
-~*~-
Hospitals, white walls and doctors. I leave only when they say I can. I eat what they tell me to. Go where I'm told to go. And when they turn their heads, I dig my nails into my wrists until they bleed.
-~*~-
My mother said you called for me. I cry. I should have been their for you. I cant imagine what's going through your head right now. I send telepathic messages of sympathy. But I have no way to know if they're helping. I used a plastic fork I got at lunch time, to carve your name into my skin. They asked me who you are, but I couldn't explain. You're everything. You are these scars. You are the only smiles I ever honestly smile. You are my understanding. You are the reason I'm alive. You are every problem I've ever faced, and at the same time ever problem I've over come. You are "anorexia" and you are my best friend.
-~*~-
Not better, Only fatter. Losing control. They took my life, And shoved it down my throat. I watch the other girls here eat, and feel myself get sick to my stomach. I'm full, I tell them. They make me eat. I feel sick. I don't listen when they tell me my "progress". I imagine I weigh nothing. And I shower and let the water run over me, as if there's nothing there. I am nothing.
-~*~-
-I'm too small for his arms now-
-I'm too small for this hole that I've made-
-But I'm too big for the casket-
-With my name engraved-
It's a rhyme. I made it up in therapy today. Nothing's new, other than a few pounds. I guess that basically just explains how I've been feeling lately. I'm too small for so much. and yet I'm too big to be small enough to die. Ok, so it made much more sense to me. They say I'm doing better, but they know nothing. They've stolen everything I ever had control over. I'm a hopeless case. They tell me there is no such thing as a hopeless case, but I don't see any hope for me.
-~*~-
They've given up on feeding me. I sneak into the bathroom and throw it all up anyway. They've attached me to an IV. Food, constantly being shoved into my body. I've found that the IV hurts to pull on, and I do it at any chance I get, just to remind myself that I'm the victim here, that they are the ones tying me down and force feeding me.
-~*~-
I'm too tired to think. I spent last night curled up under my covers, muffling my screams with a pillow. They came in to find me with the pillow over my head, and they thought I was attempting suicide. I didn't bother telling them otherwise. They say they are disappointed in my progress lately, or lack there of. But they didn't particularly like my sarcastic response.
-~*~-
I have a new roommate. They think I need to make friends who will support me getting better. But last time I checked, she's just as bad as me. Her name is Sarah, and she weighs so little that she can stand on the snow in the hospital garden, and not sink through. If anything, she makes me strive to be less, not more.
-~*~-
Sarah is so beautiful. She sat on my bed last night and told me how she got into this mess. She's a dancer. A perfect little ballerina. The kind of girl I always imagined I'd be. 68 pounds of air, looking at her I wonder if she could float away like the balloons that used to slip from my grasp at the fair. If I were her, I'd float out of this place and never come back down to earth.
-~*~-
I'll eat, and I'll talk in group. It's the only way I'll ever leave this place. I'll be good, even if it means I cry my fat self to sleep every night. I cant take this anymore. I miss you.
-~*~-
I've lost track of the days, but I know my weight. I forget the month even, but I know that at 6 o'clock sharp I will eat. That at 10 pm, I will be in my bed. And that I will be woken promptly at 8 am only to eat again at 9, and so on every day until they say that it's good enough. Until they say I'm fat enough for the real world.
-~*~-
I cried in group today, Sarah held my hand. They say it's good to cry, but they don't realize how much it hurts. The scars are fading and I make sure to smile at the nurse who brings me my medication ever day. I say thank you to the women at the food counter and in return she gives me the smallest serving she has. I get the feeling that she understands. I introduced Sarah to her and now we all have a secret together, a bond that we all share, we all only eat when being watched. Having friends in the right places helps here. I've decided to make friends with the cleaning women. the one with keys to all the rooms, even the bathroom.
-~*~-
Sarah's hand is getting smaller in my hand, and I cant decide if it's because mine's getting bigger or if she's getting thinner. Even when she eats she doesn't gain. We wake each other up every morning at 3 to do push ups and sit ups. I hold her feet then she holds mine. We're back in bed by wake up call and no one has any idea of our little work out sessions. No one other than Tammy, the food lady.
-~*~-
I borrow paper from the crafts room and slip her notes when I can. She says I remind her of herself at my age. She's a rather large women and I cant picture her my age, let alone this small. She says it was a place like this that made her what she is now. She chose me. She'll be skinny through me. She wants me free. She says that when I'm out I have to write to her, and tell her what it's like being so beautiful in the world. She brought tears to my eyes. I think she's more beautiful on the inside than I'll ever be.
-~*~-
88, imagine that, 88 pounds. No one understands how much I hate this number. 76 to 88. They say I need to be 100. They say 100 is healthy. 12 pounds.
-~*~-
89 and I cant get my self out of this bed. 89 pounds and I look in the mirror and don't recognize myself. I'm just so very tired, I don't even push the spoon away when they raise it to my mouth, and it takes all the effort in the world just to swallow.
-~*~-
92
-~*~-
96
-~*~-
Sarah is gone. They took her away from me. Woke up, and she was gone. No one will tell me what happened. I wish she took me with her. Tammy tried to talk to me at lunch, but I couldn't make out a word of what she said. So lonely here.
-~*~-
100 pounds. Yes, I've done the impossible. Now they say I need to stay a week, just to make sure I'll actually stay healthy once I leave. I wont tell them that I don't plan on staying 100. I just can't wait to hear your voice again. That's all that keeps me here still breathing. Every breath is for you, dear. Please, still be there when I get back. Just promise me that much. Promise.
-~*~-
Who am I? I think they stole part of me at that hospital. I don't feel the same. I'm not myself. The blade doesn't cut like it used to, blood doesn't bleed like it used to. I miss the release. Why can't I write like I used to. Words don't come as easily as they used to. The only thing I can manage to do lately is cry. I dream about you. About promises we made when we were ten. How when we grew up we'd be rich and drink tea together in a fancy garden. The closest I've gotten to our dreams is the hospital's garden, which smells like decaying old people and slightly like daises. I'm sorry I can't promise you those things anymore. I know better than that now.
-~*~-