The "You're Not Fat" Campaign

It is nighttime.

My stomach is growling so loudly. I am shocked that the nurses can't hear it.

The nightlight is too bright and I stand up and push the trash can in front of it. I lay back down, but I cannot sleep.

I am not tired.

I am hungry and sad and cold and scared but I am definitely not tired.

I stand and walk over to the bathroom to examine the damage done to my face.

The girl staring back at me in the mirror is sad and scared and her face is covered in raw red gashes. Her eyes are purple-shadowed and red-rimmed and bloodshot. She does not look anything like the Laura McKee that I know.

The girl staring back at me is not me.

But she is me.

I do not recognize myself anymore.

I can feel myself beginning to panic, so I walkstumblewalk back into my room and begin to pace.

Twelve steps from the door to the window, pivot on right foot, twelve steps, pivot on right, twelve steps, pivot.

Faster faster faster faster go go go go go.

I focus on the squik squik squik of my hospital socks on the bare tiles.

Twelve steps, pivot on right, twelve steps, pivot on right, squik squik squik.

I collapse on the floor and cry.