I am willingly making myself sick; killing my body for vanity. There are people on earth right now, outside of my window, dying from cancer or some other painful, terminal, disease. Yet here I am,
slowly but surely filling out my own death warrant, signing it in vomit, and handing it to the Grim Reaper on a fucking silver platter. That’s not even the scariest part. The most terrifying part
of this story is that my mind is so ill, so broken down and dysfunctional, that with no amount of coaxing and reasoning can I make myself care. My throat is raw, there are ulcers in my mouth that
is full of an angry, and swollen tongue. My teeth are decaying in acceleration as I write this, but I only see my goal. Whatever means I take will surely justify the end- wont they?
Everyone tells me to stop. They have valid arguments and their points make complete sense to me; I still can’t give up my selfish, insanity fueled habits. It’s scary, like a monster inside my brain
telling me over and over “You have to. There is no choice. Your fat ass ate it, now you’re going to go in there and fix it.” I even try to stall myself, thinking maybe it will change her mind. I’ll
busy myself reading, or on the computer, but the Monster will nag me; chewing at the back of my mind every few minutes with hateful words until finally I make myself get up and walk to the
bathroom, but even there I continue to stall. I will look in the mirror, scratching at my blackheads, looking at eyebrows that need to be plucked, studying my small eyes and my shiny red hair; but
it’s not enough. I suck my fat in and lift my shirt up, turning from side to side, speculating every angle; narrowing my eyes at every dimple, every premature stretch mark on my tired
twenty-year-old body. The Monster promises me this is how I will look, and even better, if I just carry out the deed she sent me in here to do. I will sigh, finally defeated, unable to come up with
anything else to occupy myself. My brown eyes will fall upon the porcelain weapon of destruction in the corner of the room, and the Monster inside of me will take over, forcing me toward it. It
will pat me on the back like a mother and say, “Sorry, I win. I know you tried sweetie, but then there’s always next time, right?” And then it will take my hand, and force every finger sans pinky
and thumb past my dry, cracking lips and into my raw and aching throat.
The Monster hasn’t always been here, of course. Or maybe she has. Maybe she was with me when I was born, just waiting for the right cues made in perfect order, to rear her ugly head and take me
over. I think I can remember the first time I tried it; I was fifteen years old, and I wanted to take control. Not eating, eating less, or eating healthier, were all out of the question. I have
little to no will power, and I’m not just saying that. The Monster is the one with the power, and she uses it only in the ways that she wants to. I love eating; always have. I think about it all
the time and if that sounds pathetic, that’s because it is. I’m always thinking about what I want to eat next. It seems like my whole life has consisted of me just fucking eating; and no one around
ever attempting to stop me. Unless their idea of ‘attempt’ was looking at my plate incredulously and asking, “Are you really going to eat that much?” What I needed was someone to take that shit out
of my hand and help me; really help me. Not just pretend to by trying to scare me, or making up excuses, like my Mom always did. Not that I can really blame her for anything. She was just
doing what she thought was best; what she truly believed would work. I guess it’s just my loss that she was wrong.
At first, the Monster’s way of dealing with my problems didn’t catch on, but now that she had finally surfaced she would always be lurking, waiting for her moment to shine, no matter how many years
it took her to convince me. It started out with me just doing it when I felt I had eaten too much. “Just take a little off the top, to even things out.” She would coo in my ear, and I would do it;
and it didn’t go any further than that for a long time. I would see those rail thin girls on the television giving their testimonials about how their eating disorders owned them, and I would think
to myself “Those girls are weak. I could never be like that.” I thought I was in control, I knew that I could never really be Bulimic, like they were. They did it everyday, and talked about how it
spiraled out of control even after they had reached their original target body image, until it took them further than they had ever wanted to go. I was so self-assured that I could control mine;
that I would never, ever be like any of them. I was fucking stupid.
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