Fifty Two Weeks

People are talking about me.

Their hands are cupped and they are whispering biting remarks, their eyes darting beneath narrowed lids as I walk past.

I can hear all the whispers circulating me as I walk past, snagging on my skin and tearing at my clothes. “Look at her, isn’t she disgusting. Look at her clothes, look at them clinging to her skin, it’s revolting. Look at all the fat hanging off her, she should die; she should die the fat shit.”

I can see how they all look at me. Shredding me up with their eyes: laughing at me. They think I’m disgusting; they’re sick when they look at me.

I’ve started to isolate myself from everyone. I stay in the library or in the toilets and come out just before the bell goes. It’s easier that way, no one asks questions about food or gives me those sideways looks. They’re always asking me, “Aren’t you eating anything?” They’re laughing at me, they know I don’t need the food, they know I need as little food as I can get.

*

I don’t sleep well.

I’ve given up trying at all now really; I just sit on my bed, all the little whispers circulating round in my head. Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror and force myself to understand what a mess I am. I write down everything I hate about myself and I make myself realise how disgusting I am. I need to be thin; I need the whispers to stop.

But it’s not working.

People are staring at me more and more now: not bothering to look away when I see; I’m not important enough for them to care am I? I lowered my food intake even more but it’s not working, they’re still whispering, they’re still laughing

I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to be thin, I’m trying so hard. But no matter what the scales tell me, when I look in the mirror all I can see is fat, all I can see is these disgusting lumps.

*

Something happened.

Marcy, a girl in my class with bright red plaits and an army of freckles smattered on her nose, came up to me the other day. We had never really talked before – probably more my fault than hers. She came up to me, and she hesitated for a moment, then she asked me, “It’s not really any of my business or anything, but are you okay?”

I’m not sure why this supposedly simple question threw me. Maybe, it’s because no one had really asked how I was feeling in such a long time, maybe it’s because I really didn’t want to know. Either way, that simple question from that fiery headed girl shook me more than any of the whispers or stares.

I just looked at her for a moment, trying to think of an answer, yes or no seemed to have lost their meaning. But Marcy just waited for me, it was as if she realised how big of a question she had just posed to me.

“I don’t know, Marcy, I really don’t know.”

And those words were probably the most truthful I have ever spoken.

*

I’ve been thinking about Marcy’s question constantly: the hours I normally would spend staring at my stomach I spent running those few words through my head over and over. All I could think was, “Yes or no, yes or no.” But they aren’t big enough anymore; they don’t hold enough significance as they did when I was a child.

*

I’ve decided, I’ve decided the answer the terrible question that should be so simple.

I’ve decided, after all these hours of consideration, after nails bitten to the stub and my brain rubbed raw: I’ve decided that no I’m not okay, I’m really, really not. I’m not okay with this constant paranoia, I’m not okay with having parents that don’t care enough to make sure I keep my dinner down, I’m not okay with hating everything about myself.

I’m not okay.

But when I tentatively returned, for the first time, Marcy’s smile, I realised something. I realise no matter how not okay I am right now, how heart-stoppingly, lung-shatteringly not okay, it’s okay because I will be.

I will be okay.

And I suppose that’s why yes and no aren’t important enough anymore: because they don’t take into account fiery headed girls.