Disgusting.
D I S G U S T I N G
The air was frigid and cold, making goosebumps rise on my skin. I shivered slightly as I turned on the water. It was so freezing outside, the hot water took it’s sweet time warming up, so you had to turn it on before you got into the shower.
My breath hitched in my throat as my least favorite part of shower time hit. The time when I had to see myself.
With shaky hands, I lifted up my huge sweatshirt, then my long sleeve shirt, then the tank top. I was so cold these days, I had to wear multiple layers. Just as I was about to remove my pants, I caught sight of my reflection.
I was disgusting, but I couldn’t look away. I turned, facing the mirror, seeing all the lumps and ripples of fat. My arms were as big as most people’s legs, and they jiggled when I moved them. Fat had given me two chins, and a small child could fit inside my stomach, I was sure. I might as well have been pregnant, I was so huge. I was so much more than ugly.
Leaning my hands against the cool bathroom counter, I made sure not to hit any of the products that lined it. It wasn’t just my body I hated. My face needed improvement too, improvement all the foundations and moisturizers in the world couldn’t do. I still tried to cover it up, to cover up the ugly. My mom did too; some of the bottles lining the counters were hers, meant to hide the age.
I looked tired. My hair was up in a messy ponytail, and I had bags underneath my eyes. I wasn’t surprised. I hardly ever slept at night, spending as much time possible exercising. I had to do something to whittle the fat away, but it never worked.
A friend of mine had noticed. She saw how I never ate lunch, claiming to eat a large breakfast, and so she snooped. She had told me I had an eating disorder. Only skinny people had those, though, and I wasn’t skinny.
She’d talked to me just that day, though. “Confidence is the sexiest thing a woman can have. It’s sexier than any body part.” She said someone named Aimee Mullins had said it. I disagreed with Ms. Mullins, because confidence couldn’t melt away my fat. My flabby fat wasn’t sexy at all.
I turned, so that my reflection was sideways. I looked even bigger from this angle. Lightly, cautiously, I touched my stomach. Once I felt all that fat, my face crumpled.
Steam was filling the bathroom now; my water was ready. I couldn’t move, though, as sick as I was with shame. I was so fat, I was so ugly, I was so awful. The layers of lard that covered me thickly were absolutely disgusting, and I knew it. I hated it. I hated myself.
I wasn’t strong enough to lose all the weight. I wasn’t strong enough to even keep back the tears. But I would try. Oh yes, I would try.
Trembling, I pulled the scale out from the cupboard underneath the sink. What was the number today? How bad was it?
I stepped on the scale and waited for the little red numbers to pop up and tell me how fat I was. God, how much weight was on my body now?
101.
God damn it! How could I go back over the hundred mark?! I was finally, finally, at 99 pounds, but then I had to ruin it all!
I ran over to the toilet, shoving my finger down my mouth as I went. By the time my face reached the bowl, the contents of my stomach, the solid form of my anger and hatred and shame, fell into the clean white bowl. I purged until there was nothing left.
By then, I was crying much harder, but still quietly. I didn’t want my mother to see my like this, see all my lumps and layers and fat. I was too disgusting for anyone to see.
My back to the mirror, I removed the rest of my clothes and tried not to look at how disgusting I was. As I stepped into the shower, my tears really let loose.
I was so tired. I just wanted to sleep until I was finally thin, finally good enough. I was never good enough for anyone. Why would I be, as fat as I was? As ugly? As repulsive and disgusting and worthless?
I would do better. I would try harder. One day, one blessed day, I would be thin.
My breath hitched in my throat as my least favorite part of shower time hit. The time when I had to see myself.
With shaky hands, I lifted up my huge sweatshirt, then my long sleeve shirt, then the tank top. I was so cold these days, I had to wear multiple layers. Just as I was about to remove my pants, I caught sight of my reflection.
I was disgusting, but I couldn’t look away. I turned, facing the mirror, seeing all the lumps and ripples of fat. My arms were as big as most people’s legs, and they jiggled when I moved them. Fat had given me two chins, and a small child could fit inside my stomach, I was sure. I might as well have been pregnant, I was so huge. I was so much more than ugly.
Leaning my hands against the cool bathroom counter, I made sure not to hit any of the products that lined it. It wasn’t just my body I hated. My face needed improvement too, improvement all the foundations and moisturizers in the world couldn’t do. I still tried to cover it up, to cover up the ugly. My mom did too; some of the bottles lining the counters were hers, meant to hide the age.
I looked tired. My hair was up in a messy ponytail, and I had bags underneath my eyes. I wasn’t surprised. I hardly ever slept at night, spending as much time possible exercising. I had to do something to whittle the fat away, but it never worked.
A friend of mine had noticed. She saw how I never ate lunch, claiming to eat a large breakfast, and so she snooped. She had told me I had an eating disorder. Only skinny people had those, though, and I wasn’t skinny.
She’d talked to me just that day, though. “Confidence is the sexiest thing a woman can have. It’s sexier than any body part.” She said someone named Aimee Mullins had said it. I disagreed with Ms. Mullins, because confidence couldn’t melt away my fat. My flabby fat wasn’t sexy at all.
I turned, so that my reflection was sideways. I looked even bigger from this angle. Lightly, cautiously, I touched my stomach. Once I felt all that fat, my face crumpled.
Steam was filling the bathroom now; my water was ready. I couldn’t move, though, as sick as I was with shame. I was so fat, I was so ugly, I was so awful. The layers of lard that covered me thickly were absolutely disgusting, and I knew it. I hated it. I hated myself.
I wasn’t strong enough to lose all the weight. I wasn’t strong enough to even keep back the tears. But I would try. Oh yes, I would try.
Trembling, I pulled the scale out from the cupboard underneath the sink. What was the number today? How bad was it?
I stepped on the scale and waited for the little red numbers to pop up and tell me how fat I was. God, how much weight was on my body now?
101.
God damn it! How could I go back over the hundred mark?! I was finally, finally, at 99 pounds, but then I had to ruin it all!
I ran over to the toilet, shoving my finger down my mouth as I went. By the time my face reached the bowl, the contents of my stomach, the solid form of my anger and hatred and shame, fell into the clean white bowl. I purged until there was nothing left.
By then, I was crying much harder, but still quietly. I didn’t want my mother to see my like this, see all my lumps and layers and fat. I was too disgusting for anyone to see.
My back to the mirror, I removed the rest of my clothes and tried not to look at how disgusting I was. As I stepped into the shower, my tears really let loose.
I was so tired. I just wanted to sleep until I was finally thin, finally good enough. I was never good enough for anyone. Why would I be, as fat as I was? As ugly? As repulsive and disgusting and worthless?
I would do better. I would try harder. One day, one blessed day, I would be thin.