The Friend's disgusted.
I can tell it plainly in her face when I slip on my dress.
It's not all that revealing. It used to be just at me knees. But since I started eating well again I've grown, inches shooting up and down my spine and stretching me like taffy.
It's black lace dress with a button up top,
something a princess trapped by a dark lord in a once beautiful land would wear. The dark lord destroyed the land with his spite. Someday, someone will come to save her. But when she returns to her kingdom, nothing will be the same, and she'll be miserable. She'll turn into dandelion puffs that float away on the wind, away from her savior before they can tell her that everything can be saved. She has no more wishes left.
Once, The Friend tried it on and it looked fantastic on her. Sometimes, I want to make her wear my clothes, a doll, just because they look so much better on her. It's not because of her face.
It's because she's thin.
She's thin and I'm not.
(Everyone has always said they felt bad for me for going through
puberty so early. By now, I have hips and chest and a comparison-ally
small waist. I'm always either a grown up in a little body or a child in a
big body. I can't figure out which I am right now.)
Everyone says they love my body, those who are brave enough to lie so softly, but I hate it, hate it, hate it. What everyone says are healthy curves are lumps of terrible fat all over the place.
I haven't eaten today. Wait, that's a lie. I have. The Friend offered me an apple flavored, thin twizzler (20).
I can't say no when she's already on watch from Last Time, when everyone is watching me.
The day before, yesterday, I listened to my stomach screaming until dinner. There, I pretended to eat. It's a skill. I did eat one potato sliver. And drank some apple juice, maybe 90 calories worth. Later, I had about an eight of a cup of sunflower seeds.
It's bad, I know. Blahblah, starving yourself won't work.
It's not like it's my choice (excuses, excuses). Food terrifies me.
I made a sandwich the other day, and brought it to my room with me.
I tried to tears to eat it.
And couldn't.
Right as I'm typing this, The Friend looks over and asks "Wouldn't it be cool if you only had to eat like, every few months?"
Comments like that put me on edge, teetering on a high cliff between hiding and blurting out the truth.
Even though I know the people that love me would be very direct if they knew, people say little things like that and I wonder if they're guilting me out of silence, if they're coaxing me into the light. That idea...It scares me.
Like last night, when my Mom was driving me over here and I wouldn't put a jacket on because I wasn't cold. She's convinced I don't wear warm clothes so that the cold makes me lose weight. It's not true. I'm just more resistant than her and her disease.
"You don't eat well, you don't sleep well, the least you can do is keep yourself warm!"
I was hurt and angry by it.
It means more than it sounds like.
Every time I've had problems, she's known and just bad mouthed me about it. This isn't an example, obviously. An example would be calling me an emo kid or saying that my cutting was a fashion statement when I started cutting three years ago.
Anyways, what she said in the car on the way over was just a hint that she was catching on.
And I can't let her.
She'll scream and have more excuses to say she hates me, that I'm a little bitch, to hit me. She hasn't hit me in a long time, she's tried to, but my dad was always there to catch her hand.
Now, my Dad is away for a month for work.
And I'm wondering when the fighting will break out again.
I wonder if I'll run away.
And I wonder if I'll eat tomorrow.
I relapsed a few days ago. Or a few weeks. Maybe I've been breaking down for months. I don't know. My little, itty bitty spans of two or three days of eating under 200 calories decided to have a party and clump together until they are a wall I can't climb. They're nice guests, though; cleaning up the trash that's been left in my insides.
Suddenly, I was more disgusted than ever. There was no trigger, just a loaded gun that some stupid kid finally played with. W
hen The Last Time boiled down into fury and everything about me that was flawed, I was given papers to list my triggers, endless lists to write the causes of my flaws. Endless pills to make me immune. Endless therapy so I could sleep. Endless plates of food to make me better stop screaming through my stomach.
They gave me the concrete definition of THE TRUTH: you are not fat. you are not ugly, your eyes are broken, you see yourself wrong (body dysmorphia). you lie and steal and manipulate because your brain is unbalanced (borderline personality disorder). you cut your skin because it makes you feel (we don't know what to call this, besides batshit).
THE TRUTH is this: i am fat (your eyes all are broken, you should borrow my glasses). i lie and steal and manipulate because my brain is a pile of mush that fell apart when I turned twelve (i can't handle life, i can't handle being one solid person). i cut my skin to shreds because i deserve it (they're right, i'm still batshit).
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