Status: The end. Thank you all so much for reading.
Wrists
insane .
My father and sister went out to take of some things together, leaving my mother and I in the house. While she was eating lunch and watching T.V. downstairs, I snuck into her bathroom, stripped off all of my clothes, and turned to face the mirror, for once in a long time. I didn’t give myself time to think about it—I just undressed, turned, and looked.
Bones, bones, bones. My arms were covered in bones, my legs were getting there, my torso was nothing but ribs. My lower stomach still had a small disgusting pouch, and my thighs were still a little normal looking, but the rest of me resembled a dying man. I was dying.
I wanted to put all my clothes back on and hide forever; I wanted to scold the demons in my head for making me still believe that I had more to lose so my family cold notice my inner turmoil, but I shoved it all out and stepped on the scale anyway.
The number that flashed back:
99.8 lbs.
I’ve hit under 100 pounds. What was wrong with me? Was Elijah right—was it time to tell them all? Was it time to get help? Because why did I feel as if reaching 90 lbs would mean I would be noticed more? Was I that fucked up?
I re-dressed myself, stumbling down the stairs.
I needed to talk to her. If anyone had to know in the house, it had to be her.
I reached the living room, peeking from around the corner at the back of her head. She was watching Oprah, laughing every once in a while, an empty plate sitting on her lap. She looked peaceful, calm, content. A wash of sickness came over me.
I couldn’t do this.
Not yet.
Not yet.
I ran back to my room and locked the door behind me.
Bones, bones, bones. My arms were covered in bones, my legs were getting there, my torso was nothing but ribs. My lower stomach still had a small disgusting pouch, and my thighs were still a little normal looking, but the rest of me resembled a dying man. I was dying.
I wanted to put all my clothes back on and hide forever; I wanted to scold the demons in my head for making me still believe that I had more to lose so my family cold notice my inner turmoil, but I shoved it all out and stepped on the scale anyway.
The number that flashed back:
99.8 lbs.
I’ve hit under 100 pounds. What was wrong with me? Was Elijah right—was it time to tell them all? Was it time to get help? Because why did I feel as if reaching 90 lbs would mean I would be noticed more? Was I that fucked up?
I re-dressed myself, stumbling down the stairs.
I needed to talk to her. If anyone had to know in the house, it had to be her.
I reached the living room, peeking from around the corner at the back of her head. She was watching Oprah, laughing every once in a while, an empty plate sitting on her lap. She looked peaceful, calm, content. A wash of sickness came over me.
I couldn’t do this.
Not yet.
Not yet.
I ran back to my room and locked the door behind me.