December

The waters looked calm today. My reflection was a faint black outline that couldn’t stare back with judgemental or guilty eyes. But it reminded me I was there. It reminded me of what I’d been doing for several months after every meal. That was easy to handle. I know what I’ve been doing. I’ve been making myself better for everyone to see so I can be happy. I have to be skinnier, I tell myself, so people will look at me with admiration and approval in their stares instead of disgust and contempt. As long as I’m skinny I’ll be pretty. When I’m skinny, someone will fall in love with me. I will finally fit in here. Oh, I can’t wait to be accepted. Just a few more pounds! Some people are already noticing. I can see my collar bones. At night I lie awake and poke at my ribs and my hips. Sometimes it hurts but I like that I can feel them. I feel a lot better about myself that way.

With my goal in mind, I reach a finger into my insecure little mouth and disturb my black reflection (who needs to be just a bit skinnier).



I gained a pound last week. When I saw the digital numbers stop at 102 lbs I wanted to throw the scale at the wall. I thought surely it had to be broken already. But it wasn’t broken, I was. I cried that night. I tried to retrace my steps. Obviously I hadn’t been careful enough. My whole life had been revolving around the question “how many calories?” for months. I blamed the extra saltine cracker I’d had at lunch. I realized what I was doing wasn’t enough! I was still gaining weight! I’d never be pretty if the number didn’t go down. So I’ve decided to just stop eating. No one will care; no one notices me anyway. I can fool anyone who watches me too closely. I can distract them with hectic food-cutting and mixing and rapid-fire questions. It will be easy. I’ve already gone three days living off of practically nothing. I count my ribs at night to help me get to sleep. When I’m asleep, I dream of being skinny. I dream of being good enough.

With my goal in mind, I nestle down into my mattress and press two fingers to my right side. One, two, three…



I’m too weak to count my ribs anymore, but I know they’re visible. My clothes finally hang off of me, just like I want them to. They say I look different. My eyes are sunken in and my cheekbones are sharper. They say I look pale. I say I look like I should. I look like I could be accepted into their world. But I still don’t feel good enough. I’m beginning to think I won’t ever feel good enough. But I’m trying, doesn’t that count for something? Can the ones who look at me so differently see that I’m trying? I’m worried. Christmas is approaching in a few days. It’s looming over me like a foreboding cloud. I can already picture the spread in front of me: turkey, ham, five different kinds of salads, stuffing, potatoes, cranberry sauce, and more calories on the side. It makes me feel sick, picturing all the gluttony. How do they do that to themselves? How do they put that much food into their bodies? I would much rather stay away from it all. I just want to waste away. I want to be perfect. I am 92 pounds of perfection now.

With my goal in mind, I struggle to run my shaky fingers through my brittle hair. A clump of it comes out in my palm. I let it fall to the ground with the rest.



I am in the hospital. They are trying to save me. There are cords connected to my whole body. I have a catheter installed. I disappear beneath my ugly hospital gown. My head barely makes a dent on the pillow. They are giving me a lot of attention. They are trying to make me eat. I refuse. They are feeding me through a tube along with an IV and there’s nothing I can do about it. I want to rip them out but I don’t have the strength. “They’ll never like me if you do this!” I tell them. But they don’t listen to me. They don’t understand. They already think they’re perfect. I don’t think I’m perfect. I was so close and now they’re trying to fix me. But I think they’re too late to do anything. I can hear the doctor talking about me when they pull the curtains around me at night. He says I’m wasting away. I’m not trying to fight. He says I may not rehabilitate. I might die. At least I will die almost perfect, just like they wanted me to be.

With my goal in mind, I groan breathily. The needles and cords make me uncomfortable. But I’m too weak to fight back.



Perfection is an unattainable goal. I realized that too late. Society didn’t want me to be skinny. Society wanted me carted off in a pine box, inlaid with cheap satin and a tiny pillow. At least the box was pretty, because what was inside it sure wasn’t. Society was inside that box. It was ugly, it was unfortunate, and it was heartbreaking. It was hopeless. It was wasted. It tried to please everyone and accomplished nothing but a slow and tragic suicide. Everyone was crying at the box but no one wanted to look at it for too long. People cried for society and for what it could do to people. At least they finally thought I was pretty in my box. But it was too late.

The dirt showered down on top of the box; on top of society, on top of me. The earth swallowed me up just like society had done when my heart still beat. It made me sad.

I never achieved that goal of mine.