Sequel: Anorexia is Beauty is Terror. ›
***ing Hypocrites
the girls like me, we're bad.
The headache never goes away. I can pump myself full of Excedrin and Tylenol and try whatever other pain reliever I have on hand but it never goes away. The ringing in my ears just gets louder. My head stays fuzzy. But the results! Sure, my stomach throbbed and rolled and churned, but it was thin and flat and beautiful. People envied it. I was envied- imagine that!
Somehow through this I remained beautiful. Last time, it didn’t happen. But I suppose this wasn’t like last time, when I did it on purpose. Last time my hair became greasy and thin and my fingers were beautiful and thin and my arms were boney and scary. But this time my fingers are still fat, childlike. My arms are thick and graceful. This time I was just forgetting to eat. Food wasn’t appetizing anymore, everything tasted like vomit and it made me want to vomit and it made my head spin over and over again and I hated it so much. I couldn’t play soccer or football without wanting to double over within a few minutes, even though I wouldn’t let myself show that weakness in front of the boys who I respected.
And now I was shaking shaking shaking. Chills and hot flashes ran their course through my body, the consequences of yard work. I had to go in from it- my hand was trembling so hard I couldn’t pull the weeds. My brother labeled it as fatigue since we’d played soccer earlier when he saw me on my bed. I labeled it as I couldn’t fucking concentrate without feeling ill and my blood pressure was through the roof from the amount of movement I was doing.
That was the worst thing about this. My hands shook so severely. I couldn’t write my fantasies in notebooks anymore or draw the fairies I used to love because all the lines were crooked. Ugly, like my insides. Outside I may seem to be comfortable with myself, because I am. I’m thin; a little heavy about my chest, but that was all right since all girls I’d seen were. My collarbones were beautiful, rigid against the skin there. I’m beautiful to the person in the mirror. Inside, my mind works against me, yelling at me on occasion and tricking myself into thinking I’m not hungry even when my stomach snarls. My stomach must be shriveled, taken from the size of my fists to the size of a quarter. Then again, my fists were tiny. So maybe, it was the size of my foundation container instead of a quarter.
Why do I think I’m so beautiful but still do this to myself? Why do I just let it happen, even though I know I should be fixing something? My head spinning like this isn’t natural, I know that. I know that I should really get help about it. But I can’t let my parents know I’m a failure like that. I’m scared of how they’ll react, knowing that they’ll think it’s their fault I do this to myself. But it’s not. It’s all my fault. I could’ve stopped this the first time it happened. I could’ve asked for help from someone. But I didn’t. I can fight it on my own, I thought. This time, I’m sure I can do it again. It’ll take some time but I can do it again.
Perhaps this is really the worst part about it; NO ONE KNOWS. NO ONE CARES. NO ONE CAN HELP BECAUSE IT’S MY FAULT. THEIR WORDS WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO GET THROUGH MY HEAD. MY HEART WOULDN’T ACKNOWLEDGE THEM IF THEY DID.
Plus, I’m able to be a hypocrite without anyone knowing. I tell them not to go down this road. It’s something you’ll battle for the rest of your life. It’s something that you shouldn’t let happen to yourself when you’re a beautiful young teenager. You should be having fun with friends, not starving yourself. You should be out there playing all the fucking sports in the world, not ruining your body. So I can tell people that, let them see inside of my little secret and lie that I’m over it now. That I can handle it if I relapse, that I don’t need anyone to talk to but I’ll be there if they do, when in truth, I can’t handle a relapse. I need someone to talk to, but I just can’t trust them enough. I’m scared of it.
Ha, look. I’m being a hypocrite right now. I’ve been saying I can handle a relapse, but guess what? I can’t. I’ll keep lying to myself though and saying I can, because that’s what girls like me do. We let ourselves be fucking hypocrites.
Somehow through this I remained beautiful. Last time, it didn’t happen. But I suppose this wasn’t like last time, when I did it on purpose. Last time my hair became greasy and thin and my fingers were beautiful and thin and my arms were boney and scary. But this time my fingers are still fat, childlike. My arms are thick and graceful. This time I was just forgetting to eat. Food wasn’t appetizing anymore, everything tasted like vomit and it made me want to vomit and it made my head spin over and over again and I hated it so much. I couldn’t play soccer or football without wanting to double over within a few minutes, even though I wouldn’t let myself show that weakness in front of the boys who I respected.
And now I was shaking shaking shaking. Chills and hot flashes ran their course through my body, the consequences of yard work. I had to go in from it- my hand was trembling so hard I couldn’t pull the weeds. My brother labeled it as fatigue since we’d played soccer earlier when he saw me on my bed. I labeled it as I couldn’t fucking concentrate without feeling ill and my blood pressure was through the roof from the amount of movement I was doing.
That was the worst thing about this. My hands shook so severely. I couldn’t write my fantasies in notebooks anymore or draw the fairies I used to love because all the lines were crooked. Ugly, like my insides. Outside I may seem to be comfortable with myself, because I am. I’m thin; a little heavy about my chest, but that was all right since all girls I’d seen were. My collarbones were beautiful, rigid against the skin there. I’m beautiful to the person in the mirror. Inside, my mind works against me, yelling at me on occasion and tricking myself into thinking I’m not hungry even when my stomach snarls. My stomach must be shriveled, taken from the size of my fists to the size of a quarter. Then again, my fists were tiny. So maybe, it was the size of my foundation container instead of a quarter.
Why do I think I’m so beautiful but still do this to myself? Why do I just let it happen, even though I know I should be fixing something? My head spinning like this isn’t natural, I know that. I know that I should really get help about it. But I can’t let my parents know I’m a failure like that. I’m scared of how they’ll react, knowing that they’ll think it’s their fault I do this to myself. But it’s not. It’s all my fault. I could’ve stopped this the first time it happened. I could’ve asked for help from someone. But I didn’t. I can fight it on my own, I thought. This time, I’m sure I can do it again. It’ll take some time but I can do it again.
Perhaps this is really the worst part about it; NO ONE KNOWS. NO ONE CARES. NO ONE CAN HELP BECAUSE IT’S MY FAULT. THEIR WORDS WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO GET THROUGH MY HEAD. MY HEART WOULDN’T ACKNOWLEDGE THEM IF THEY DID.
Plus, I’m able to be a hypocrite without anyone knowing. I tell them not to go down this road. It’s something you’ll battle for the rest of your life. It’s something that you shouldn’t let happen to yourself when you’re a beautiful young teenager. You should be having fun with friends, not starving yourself. You should be out there playing all the fucking sports in the world, not ruining your body. So I can tell people that, let them see inside of my little secret and lie that I’m over it now. That I can handle it if I relapse, that I don’t need anyone to talk to but I’ll be there if they do, when in truth, I can’t handle a relapse. I need someone to talk to, but I just can’t trust them enough. I’m scared of it.
Ha, look. I’m being a hypocrite right now. I’ve been saying I can handle a relapse, but guess what? I can’t. I’ll keep lying to myself though and saying I can, because that’s what girls like me do. We let ourselves be fucking hypocrites.
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... yep.unedited and it will remain so. this doesn't need to be my best work. this needs to be a piece that's confusing and messed up because that's how my brain works and that's what you need to understand.
sorry mibba.