Anorexia

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Health and Fitness  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this a little while ago when I was struggling with weight and addicted to thinspo blogs. It's just how I construed all of the anorexic people I saw. It's just summing up their daily routine and their gradual demise.

Submitted: November 19, 2011

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Submitted: November 19, 2011

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Waking up in the mornings and feeling dizzy before you even rise. That was the hardest part for her, but it was followed by the most rewarding part, so she put up with it like all the other hard parts. The most rewarding part was the half minute, whole minute, half hour in which she would trace her body in bed with cold fingertips. The wash of relief as her fingers dipped between each rib and then stroked the hollow cave of her stomach was... beyond words, for her. It was the feeling of accomplishment. It was the feeling of being almost there. 
 
But it was followed by a bad part. She had a mirror next to her bed, and she’d uncurl from her stiff foetal position to go and stand in front of it. The mirror saw different things to her.
The mirror saw something crooked and twisted out of recognition; not a body, but a skeleton wrapped in skin. The mirror simply observed the grotesque image of her body, not sharing his views with her for fear of her fighting back, or else he might have just been plainly indifferent. Maybe he thought it fun to watch her body disappear, like a stop-start movie of something disintegrating into nothing.
 
It might be wrong to place the blame on a mirror, but nobody else got to see her in her final weeks. Why didn’t he act to save her? Why didn’t he tell her the truth?
 
He let her believe that there was a swelling between the abrupt angles of her hipbones, and that there was a bulge to her thighs. What would it have taken to say no, there’s nothing there, followed perhaps by a term of endearment that would have helped her to feel like she was worth something. What would that have taken, honestly? 
 
She woke each morning, following the same old routine in the same old palette of emotions. After the dose of disgust that came from the mirror, she’d wrap herself in her sister’s old silk dressing gown, which frayed at the bottom and hung loose off of her sharp frame. She’d make a coffee- black- and sit in front of the television to watch Loose Women. She’d rise in an hour or so, make herself a salad of lettuce and honey roast ham, and help herself to another coffee. At some point in the day she’d attack her body with a dose of exercise. Once a fortnight she’d make the dreaded trip to the supermarket and spend four or five hours picking out food, before returning with empty shopping bags and collapsing back into bed, too weak to even undress. Her phone was continually ringing, and she never picked it up. It was her mother, it was her sister, it was an old friend. It made no difference- they all spoke the same words and made the same pleas. In her final few days, she took to turning her phone off and burying it in her bedside drawer beneath stacks of bills and letters she hadn’t the strength to send. And every day, without fail, the mirror jeered and taunted her.
 
She disappeared, eventually. She hadn’t been that significant to anyone in the end. She’d faded from everyone’s daily routine, except maybe from the mirror’s. And the mirror was her greatest enemy, and he drove her to destruction. 
 
It was a poison that corrupted her mind and ripped apart her virtue. It was a disease that she caught from magazines and websites. It was something incurable that she didn’t wish to cure. It was her undoing, in the end, and she was barely alive in all of her youth, which was sad.
 


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