A Day in the Life

Awake.
Ignore fatigue. Pretend you went to sleep before eleven.

Five-thirty.
Gym. Exercise. Burning ache in legs, chest, ignore. Savor it, if you must notice. Run until you can’t take anymore. Push your limits. Calories burnt, remember that.
Home.

Six-fifty-nine.
Shower.
Avoid the kitchen. Do anything. Make your bed, organize your books.
Bone-check. Ribs, hips, collarbones. Should be pushing through skin. They aren’t? Not thin enough, not yet. Wound check. Wrist, hip, side. Red, sore. Ignore them. Hide them. You deserve them.

Seven-twenty.
Toast. One piece. Less, if you can help it. Consume slowly. Resist the voices in your head, the ones screaming at you. Or . . . or you can listen.

Seven-thirty-five.
Anxiety. Nausea. Panic. Stress. Try to deal, try to deal.

Seven-forty-one.
Leave.
Don’t snap at your parents, don’t snap at you parents, don’t snap at your parents. It’s your fault, not theirs. Not theirs.

Eight-ten.
School.
Try not to be too irritable. Pretend you’re okay. Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong. Smile, laugh, joke. Fake. Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong.

Eight-forty-three.
Class. Concentrate. Bone-check, wound-check. Focus. Don’t think about food, don’t think about the festering lump in your stomach, don’t think about food.

Eleven-five.
Lunch.
Don’t eat, don’t eat. Calm yourself. No lunch. No. Worry, desperation clogging the back of your head. Ignore the hunger, ignore it, ignore the nagging guilt. Don’t eat. It’s not worth it. Brush off the questions, the looks. Remain quiet, unnoticeable. Disappear if you need to. Don’t eat, don’t eat. Breakfast was enough. Too much. Don’t eat, don’t eat.

Twelve-fifteen.
Class, again.
Concentrate! Ignore your headache, ignore your hunger, ignore your fatigue. Ignore the guilt, the desperate hopelessness seeping through your blood. Focus on your work. It’s more important. Worry about the rest later. Bone-check. Wound check. Over and over. Bone-wound-bone-wound. Focus. Don’t put your head on the desk, sit up and write.

Three-thirty.
Home, finally.
Dump your bag, pull out the books you’ll need. Unpack the lunch you didn’t eat. Hide in your room, ignore the headache, the hunger. Focus on something else.

Four-fifteen.
You mother is home.
Avoid questions about food. Talk about other things. When she asks, and she will, you’ll have to be honest. She asks, the truth. The disappointment. The guilt. The empty food record on the fridge. Your empty stomach, her empty pride.

Six-seventeen.
Dinner.
Put it off. Try not to look too stressed. Anxiety, panic, terror, disgust. Take small bites. Chew slowly. Push the food around. Finish.

Six-thirty-seven.
Panic. Disgust. Shaking anger. Desperation. Tears, scratches, bitten lips. Bone-check. They aren’t there. Aren’t there. Panic, because they should be. Disgusting, disgusting, fat. They should be there.

Six-thirty-nine.
Purge. Just fucking do it. You know you fucking want to. Go on, do it. Don’t bother fighting your own thoughts, your own panicked terror. It’s pointless, you should know that.

Six-forty-seven.
Wipe your face, wash your hands. Clean your teeth. You’ve failed again.

Nine-thirty-one.
Say goodnight. You’re alone now, the only one awake. Bone-check, wound-check. Ignore the sore throat and the headache. Ignore the red marks on your hands. You’re not tired, you’re not tired, you’re not tired.

Ten-twenty-seven.
Red lines on your hips, scarlet liquid drips. Slash, hack, and endure. You deserve this. Flinch against the sting, savor it. Wince at the pain, and then relish it. You deserve this.

Eleven-three.
Bone-check, wound-check, over and over. Don’t let your sheets stain. Blast music, stay awake for as long as possible. Crash into sleep, prepare to start all over again.