When the Sun Sleeps.
Tracie's Prologue
Tracie.
You know how kids always say they're anorexic because their weight is the only thing they can control?
Give me a fucking break.
These are the kids who can't quite muscle their way to straight As, who didn't make the cheerleading squad or who don't have the guts to tell their best friend they're in love with him. These kids don't know shit about having no control.
I guess you could call me anorexic, but only if you looked purely at the not-eating side of things instead of the inside-your-head things. I know I'm fat (I do own a mirror), but I honestly don't care enough about how I look to go to all the effort of convincing my parents that I still eat just because of that. Which is quite a lot of effort - although, if they ever took the trash out, they'd notice there's a lot more than vegetable peels in there.
I've been homeschooled my whole life, a fact which has nothing to do with my parents' distain for the public education system (which they'd like everyone to believe) and a whole lot to do with their OCD-like syndromes when it comes to me doing...well, anything. I can't make a phone call, take a walk, or buy a shirt without getting their express permission - the last one because they only hand out money when they know exactly what I'm gonna use it for. I'm not allowed to buy CDs (aka Evil Satan Music, apparently - lucky they haven't yet heard of Limewire). I'm not allowed to read Harry Potter. I'm not allowed to take public transport. Ever.
So I hate my body, and I actually DON'T have any control over my life (as opposed to the sad, sad people who've simply managed to convince themselves that they don't), but these aren't the reasons I don't eat. And I'm not even sure what those reasons are. I guess I could say it's because I want to die, which I do. I REALLY do. But you probably wouldn't believe me, because we all know there are much faster ways of getting that to happen. The only reason I'm not dead yet is because I know that the sight of me all bloated and disgusting from hanging/drowning myself (my two favourite options) would really fuck up someone's mind. Even if I happen to hate those two someones. We don't own a gun (obviously), and it's not like I could get to a train track, what with the fact that I'm not even allowed to lock my bedroom door. I've debated jumping in front of a car, but I really don't want to put the driver through that. Plus there's a big chance I might not die. And let's just say I don't frequent a lot of skyscrapers from which to jump.
So I don't eat. But here's the shocker: I'm not dying very fast. I do cave in and eat every now and then, usually because my head hurts too much or I can't breathe properly. And yeah, I feel guilty every time I do it - not because I'm stupid enough to think that eating a few cubes of tofu is going to make me fatter, but because I've just proved to myself that I'm too weak to even starve myself to death. Eating that tofu just kept me in the world that much longer.
And yeah, I know there are millions of people who are much, much worse off than I am. Half of Africa is starving because they actually have no food, and here I am in my house in New York, refusing to eat because I hate my mommy and daddy. I'm a terrible, selfish, ungrateful person, and I know that. Which is just a part of the reason why I don't think I deserve to be in this world any longer, contaminating the ozone and drinking precious water. The sooner I leave - without causing anyone severe mental trauma - the better. So I walk around resisting the urge to twist a tie around my neck and hang myself from something - That tree branch? That shower pole? That children's swing set? What? WHAT!? – rather than the urge to go for a jog or weigh myself again to check if I’ve lost that quarter of a pound in the past five minutes. To put it simply, not eating is my way of convincing myself that I’m doing my best to put a stop to the giant karmic pollutant that I am. Despite the fact that every time I empty my plate into the bin I can’t help but see the faces of thousands of starving African children.
And before you ask, no, I've never told anyone this before. I don't believe in all that "talking about it helps" crap, plus it's not really something that people need to know. Anyways, I know exactly what they'd say to me: that I have depression, anorexia nervosa, a mental disorder, a chemical imbalance, or a combination of the above. But in reality, I just see the infinite problem that is my existence, as well as the fact that death is the easiest solution. The only solution, actually. That's not a chemical imbalance, and it definitely isn't anorexia.
That's just common sense.
You know how kids always say they're anorexic because their weight is the only thing they can control?
Give me a fucking break.
These are the kids who can't quite muscle their way to straight As, who didn't make the cheerleading squad or who don't have the guts to tell their best friend they're in love with him. These kids don't know shit about having no control.
I guess you could call me anorexic, but only if you looked purely at the not-eating side of things instead of the inside-your-head things. I know I'm fat (I do own a mirror), but I honestly don't care enough about how I look to go to all the effort of convincing my parents that I still eat just because of that. Which is quite a lot of effort - although, if they ever took the trash out, they'd notice there's a lot more than vegetable peels in there.
I've been homeschooled my whole life, a fact which has nothing to do with my parents' distain for the public education system (which they'd like everyone to believe) and a whole lot to do with their OCD-like syndromes when it comes to me doing...well, anything. I can't make a phone call, take a walk, or buy a shirt without getting their express permission - the last one because they only hand out money when they know exactly what I'm gonna use it for. I'm not allowed to buy CDs (aka Evil Satan Music, apparently - lucky they haven't yet heard of Limewire). I'm not allowed to read Harry Potter. I'm not allowed to take public transport. Ever.
So I hate my body, and I actually DON'T have any control over my life (as opposed to the sad, sad people who've simply managed to convince themselves that they don't), but these aren't the reasons I don't eat. And I'm not even sure what those reasons are. I guess I could say it's because I want to die, which I do. I REALLY do. But you probably wouldn't believe me, because we all know there are much faster ways of getting that to happen. The only reason I'm not dead yet is because I know that the sight of me all bloated and disgusting from hanging/drowning myself (my two favourite options) would really fuck up someone's mind. Even if I happen to hate those two someones. We don't own a gun (obviously), and it's not like I could get to a train track, what with the fact that I'm not even allowed to lock my bedroom door. I've debated jumping in front of a car, but I really don't want to put the driver through that. Plus there's a big chance I might not die. And let's just say I don't frequent a lot of skyscrapers from which to jump.
So I don't eat. But here's the shocker: I'm not dying very fast. I do cave in and eat every now and then, usually because my head hurts too much or I can't breathe properly. And yeah, I feel guilty every time I do it - not because I'm stupid enough to think that eating a few cubes of tofu is going to make me fatter, but because I've just proved to myself that I'm too weak to even starve myself to death. Eating that tofu just kept me in the world that much longer.
And yeah, I know there are millions of people who are much, much worse off than I am. Half of Africa is starving because they actually have no food, and here I am in my house in New York, refusing to eat because I hate my mommy and daddy. I'm a terrible, selfish, ungrateful person, and I know that. Which is just a part of the reason why I don't think I deserve to be in this world any longer, contaminating the ozone and drinking precious water. The sooner I leave - without causing anyone severe mental trauma - the better. So I walk around resisting the urge to twist a tie around my neck and hang myself from something - That tree branch? That shower pole? That children's swing set? What? WHAT!? – rather than the urge to go for a jog or weigh myself again to check if I’ve lost that quarter of a pound in the past five minutes. To put it simply, not eating is my way of convincing myself that I’m doing my best to put a stop to the giant karmic pollutant that I am. Despite the fact that every time I empty my plate into the bin I can’t help but see the faces of thousands of starving African children.
And before you ask, no, I've never told anyone this before. I don't believe in all that "talking about it helps" crap, plus it's not really something that people need to know. Anyways, I know exactly what they'd say to me: that I have depression, anorexia nervosa, a mental disorder, a chemical imbalance, or a combination of the above. But in reality, I just see the infinite problem that is my existence, as well as the fact that death is the easiest solution. The only solution, actually. That's not a chemical imbalance, and it definitely isn't anorexia.
That's just common sense.