The Absurdity of Fairy Tales

twelve

trigger warnings: depression, eating disorders, discussions of suicide.

..

I know a monster that

Thirsts for my flesh.

I am that monster.

..

After that, everything's all too simple.

Sinking back into my old habits is terrifyingly easy. They'd been waiting for me all along, I think, and going back to them is like going home. Counting calories and skipping meals is comforting in its familiarity.

Welcome back, they say, wrapping their arms around me. We missed you.

(I missed you too, I say back, and smile.)

First, I tell myself that I'll just lose four pounds. Four pounds, that's all. I can control it this time, and I'll just lose four pounds, because I looked it up online and 109 pounds is a good weight for a seventeen-year-old five-foot-five girl. But now it's been a week and I've already lost six pounds and God, I need to lose more, more, more. I can control it this time. I'm stronger now; I won't fuck it up like I did three years ago. I'll just lose three more pounds. Three pounds. That's it. Because 104 pounds is still healthy, right?

(That's what I said last time, too, but hey, that won't happen. Not this time.)

Only problem is I know people will notice. When I got out of St. Valentines, they re-taught me how to eat, and they did it well. Before, I ate freely and without abandon. Now, I can't even look at food without seeing the numbers. They hover above every bite, blinking and flashing red. Warning: this makes you fat and ugly. I can't eat anything without feeling sick, so most of the time, I don't even try. The only time I eat is when Nan's watching me, and I usually throw it up after anyway.

In some sick sense of the word, you could call me a professional. I know all the tricks; I know how to trick myself into feeling full, to supplement water with food, and what foods have low calorie counts. I know how to lie through my teeth when someone asks me if I'm okay; I know how to offer to make the food so no one suspects anything's wrong. And it's horrible, it really is—God, I fell down the fucking rabbit hole and I don't know if I'll ever make it back to the surface again—but right now, I don't care. So long as I'm losing weight, nothing else matters.

I don't write much anymore; my notebook is for calorie totals now. And without Nick or my friends, I end up spending a lot of time doing nothing, just staring into space. Sometimes I listen to music; sometimes I don't. Sometimes I just put the earbuds in and listen to the static. I end up running a lot, too, and doing secret crunches on the floor of my bedroom late at night when Nan won't catch me. And through it all, my mind loops over the same torturous overdrive—fat fat fat fucking fat lose weight c'mon you're pathetic you piece of shit.

It's an endless cycle; depression comes along, too, and along with that, the sleepless nights spent staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars painted on ceiling of my bedroom. Sometimes, when the sky is completely dark and my stomach aches and I can't take the silence anymore, I creep downstairs to make chamomile tea. It's always cold now, even though the temperatures are rising.

There's always something so different about nighttime, especially the quietness of it: there are no distractions, nothing I can use to forget myself with. In the silence, I can't ignore the voices inside my head, and they press in from all sides, yelling at me. Fat. Stupid. Worthless. Freak. You're toxic. I heard somewhere that who you are is how you act when you're alone, and if that's true, I'm screwed.