Nervosa

As the phone began to ring, I began to inch closer to it. With every step I took towards the small end table with the phone on it, I began to shake. As my hand began to drift closer towards it, a fresh gash of paranoia ripped into me. That was a new dreaded feeling for me, it made me feel as if someone was watching me 24/7.Everyday, as soon as I got home, I locked all the locks on the door. Even if my mother was sitting on the couch reading some paperback love story, I made sure all the doors were locked tightly. When the phone rang, it took me until about the last ring until I finally picked it up. Even if I did pick it up, it took me so long to say a simple 'hello', they usually ended hanging up anyways. When I went anywhere outside of my secure walls of my bedroom, I made sure just about every inch of my skin was blocked off from everyone else. If I saw someone laughing, just looking somewhere in my direction, they were automatically laughing at me. I guess to them, either way I went, I was a walking freak show. If I took off my layers, they were laughing at my shirt clinging to my body because my stomach just would not fucking suck in. If I had my coat on, they were laughing at the fact that I was the only one wearing a fucking trench coat on the hottest fucking days in Jersey. Sometimes you just can't get away from the laughs, the stares, the gossip, no matter what direction you turn.

The phone ended its loud ring before my hand even got to it, if they really needed something from here, they'd call back. "Michael, please take a shower already." My mom said as she opened my door up, only allowing me to see the top of her head as she leaned in. I let out a groan before walking to my closet. I grabbed whatever clothes I could find and drug them into the bathroom with me, acting as if they weighed a hundred pounds. As I looked up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, making me drop the clothes I held in my right hand. I stared at the reflection staring me back down, feeling a set of tears trickle their way down either side of my face. I was a mess, at least that's what the image before me was speaking. I lifted up my shirt to look at the pinkish-red scabs forming on my stomach. I picked at some of them until I felt the skin break, and small lines of blood crease down my skin. I grabbed the knife I kept underneath the bathroom sink, running my fingers up and down the edges, feeling how dull it was. I sighed in agony as I walked back into my room, grabbing what I needed off of my dresser. As I walked back in, I locked the door, and unscrewed the screws with the knife I had kept hidden. I pulled the razor blade out of the socket of my pencil sharpener, leaving it on the counter until I was under the scalding water. I brought the small object to the bottom of my stomach, a small piece of skin that had yet to be cut open. I pushed it down onto my skin as hard as I could, and began to move it to the opposite direction, shredding my skin as I did so. I could see the crimson pour from the area, and before making it all the way across my stomach, I dropped the blade, and grabbed hold of my bleeding stomach. "Fuck!" I screamed as the pain of my stomach rushed through my nerves. "You alright Michael?" I gave myself a minute before even opening my mouth, fear of my body screaming for help rising into my throat."y-yeah, I just dropped my, my uh, shampoo bottle on my feet." I heard her say alright before she began to walk past the locked bathroom door.

As I laid in bed, I began to think back to the time when Gee and I were still little kids. I remember having to stay inside most of our childhood, and having to use our own minds to find something good to do. We weren't like most siblings, we were never at each others throat about anything and everything. Our mother found it a bit odd that even after we began school, the time when kids usually broke off from their household and began to want to be with their friends instead, Gee and I weren't like that. Gerard and I have always been close, closer than most brothers would usually be. Maybe that's why I took it so hard when he left, I felt alone. When he left, I felt like he was sick and tired of me, rather than going to get an art degree and make something of himself. I felt as if he wanted to leave me and his life behind and start from scratch. Sometimes I still feel that way, as if he'd rather be dressing in drag than to even be near me. I guess I can overreact sometimes, but you'd understand if you were like me. It's pretty much like growing up with someone, and thinking they'd always be there with you, then having them cut from your life with limited phone calls and letters. I didn't like where I was in my life, not at all, it took it's toll out on me. I felt a few hot tears pour from my eyes as I thought about how fucked up I am. The one person that ever got me to mutter a word when I became like this is gone, I spend most of my time over a bathroom sink staring at my own vomit, and unless you count a few bites of an apple here and there, I haven't eaten anything in the past two and half months. I felt sobs break as I thought back to the time I had shoved a finger down my throat. I had weighed myself later that night, and scale read 119 pounds. I felt so humiliated with myself, how fucking fat I was. Now, if I were to way myself, I weigh almost 87 pounds. That's only 32 pounds in four fucking years, I'm fucking pathetic. I'm not stopping until the scale hits 0, whether it kills me or not. At least I'll die happy.