It Is Easier To Hate Than To Forgive

 

 

      After all this has passed, after the sadness has eaten away at you, you will become desperately hungry for any other emotion than sadness. This is when the anger will set in. Now it is your angers time to turn you into yet another person you don’t recognize.

      Soon, the sun will rise and set on your anger, and it will blind you from any semblance of rationality and sanity and will strip you of any sense of power. Your resentment will control you; you will be putty in its destructive hands, a puppet to its wishes. In a fit of white hot rage, you will feel it grow into you, and you will grow into it, and soon, the two of you will become one body and mind. Everything will infuriate you. Every word will rub against your skin like sandpaper and will dissolve what little resolve you still have. Every smile and laugh will feel off and wrong in some fundamental way. Things that used to make you happy will feel abrasive and caustic, and each day will feel rough and unpleasant.

       This is the anger taking over. Sadness has had its fun, and now anger wants a turn.  Anger is very different from sadness, yet they are insidiously alike. Sadness, which you know like the back of your hand, is a friend, a safe haven, an excuse for those days when the sun just doesn’t shine. You know sadness; you are infinitely familiar with it. It knows you, and you know it. The both of you do your little dance and go on about your life. Sadness is normal.

 

        Anger, on the other hand, is a rotten guest. You did not invite it inside, yet one day, you walk downstairs and see it sitting on your living room couch, suitcases in hand, staking its claim and making itself comfortable. All day long it will stare at you and assess the most effective way to drive you insane.

 

        It will do just that. The unfamiliarity of it all is enough to drive you mad. Once it arrives, everything is on high alert: every feeling is intensified, every situation heightened. You feel as though you are high, drunk, intoxicated with your own resentment. You are literally stumbling through your days, trying to cure yourself of something that is sharing your mind.  It will be incredibly difficult to fight--almost impossible. And it drains you of your determination and power and fortitude, so you are left defenless against it. They say it's better to forgive than to hate, but it is far, far easier to hate and never bother with forgiveness.  

 

        It will stay for quite some time, unfortunately. You see, resentment is patient; it waited calmly and eagerly for the moment sadness would no longer fuel your fire and it could ride in on a white horse and save the day. It has studied you for years, found and memorized every single nook in which you keep your darkest, most personal hatreds and vexations that you do not want brought to the surface. 

 

         But eventually, they will come, and they will become all you can see. You were bound to feel other emotions sometime, but you never dreamed it would be this intense and this unnerving, but prepare yourself, because anger will strike soon. And once it does, you won’t be the same person. You will hate life. You will hate others. You will hate yourself.

A House That Is Not A Home

Everyone around me knowns something is not right.
     From strangers on the street to my dearest friends and family, they all know something is foundamentally wrong.  Their understanding is skin deep, but it is there nonetheless.  I have passed out tokens of my pain, pieces of my struggle, and allotments of my sickness.  To them I have given every ingrident they would need to facribcate a perception of my agony.  Yet they say nothing.  They do nothing because to them, I am nothing. 
     I am but a disappointment, a glaring smudge on their picture picture life that is tainted by my existances.  They have this way of seeming so concerned, so outwardly afflicted by my troubles, that people outside of our home are wholly convinced I am well taken care of.  To some extend this is true.  But beyond this empty notion of the perfect parents, I am nothing but a scared child, bruised and broken, crying on the bathroom floor, riddled with scars and crying out for help. 
     My panic falls on deaf ears.  My family is content with leaving me to myself to fix my wounds and heal my scars.  They do not wish to taint their hands with the messiness of my blood. 
     I understand, yes, but I also cringe when I see this for myself.  With a great sense of clairity, I realize why they don't wish to entangle themselves with my problems, but they are my family. 
     I would do anything for them, but they, they will not even look at me.  I cannot count the days they have not been here for me when I needed them. 
     And when they suddenly feel as though it's time to replenish our reputation of the perfect family, I am given attention.  Suddenly, I am worthing caring for.  From there, we are bombarded with acknoledgement and appraisals of how truly wonderful and functional and happy our family is. 
     But that is all lies. 
     Those strangers were not in my room, crying with me on my floor, when my parents brought three small children into our home and expected me to love them and take care of them as if I was not a child myself.  A child who so desperatley needed her parents.  When I needed my family the most, that was when they brought into our home three more children they were not fit to take care of. 
     It was me who was left with the burden of taking care of them.  It was me who cried herself to sleep at night while my mother read them a story and stayed with them until they fell asleep.  It was me who was forced to sit and watch while those children received more love and affection in that year in a half than I have ever felt in my entire life. 
     My family expected me to accept them as sisters, but they took away the only haven I ever had.  Before, my home was just that: a home.  A safe place, a sanctuary, but now it is a reminder of how I was never enough.  When those children came into my home, it proved that my family was capable of loving the broken and healing the wounds of scarred children. 
     That was when I realized I was too great a burden. 
     That was when I realized it was all lies.  I was never what they wanted. 
     You see, my family is so good at faking.  They are conissuerous at trickery and deceit.  They can make strangers believe almost anything, but those strangers never see what goes on when their fake smiles fade and their attention drifts to anything but me.  They don't see what goes on in the dark of my house that is no longer a home.  They don't see that my parents are so full of lies, and that to them, I am so easily forgotten and replaced. 
     They don't see that while I am strong and unfeeling and reserved, I am still a child who wants nothing more than her mother to keep her safe from the monsters. 

Secrets

Secrets are kept for a reason.  And these reasons are incredibly specific to the individual keeper, even if they are not aware of it themselves; the rationale is always there, lurking, growing, becoming as deadly as the secrets they protect.  Petty reasons, vain reasons, frightful reasons, and in some instances, reasons that have lost all meaning or allusion that they might have once seemed to acquire.  Sometimes people hold onto secrets for the blandest of reasons, and because of their vapidity, reasoning sometimes disappear altogether.  This, however, is a terribly frightening occurrence because without a concrete sense of logic surrounding the core reason why you decided to implode and keep locked inside yourself all the things that scare you the most, you will quickly lose sight of yourself, the self you knew before the mind and the secret fused into one body and one soul, never to be separated, betrothed together for the purpose of locking away pernicious memories and poisonous pieces of knowledge that will only ever be known in the darkest pit of your heart. 

            Yes, people keep secrets for reasons, and these secrets are not to be tampered with.   Secrets are easy to form and oh so easy to hide behind.  But what they lack in difficulty upon creating them, they make up for in kind in the difficulty required to break free from their tenacious hold. 

Perfect

When I am exhausted, I will not sleep.

When I am hungry, I will not eat.

And when I am finished and am finally set free,

I will be perfect; just like I’ve wanted to be.

But until then, I will turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as if they may teach me how not to need.

For I am of absolutely no worth and deserve nothing but my own shame.

Not for long.

Soon, I will be perfect.

I will be thin, light as a feather, floating on air, barely there.

Soon, I will disappear, and leave no trace of myself behind for others to find.

I will die today.  When the clock strikes midnight, I will be gone forever.

And when the sun rises, I will be the one they want.

I will be the daughter they have always wanted, the beautiful friend, the one everyone notices and adores. 

I will be the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame. 

I will be the picture of beauty, thin and self-sustaining. 

Like a plant, I will train myself to relieve on nothing, to draw nourishment from the air.    

Yes, I will die today.  When I fall asleep, I will disappear, as if I was never here. 

And when I wake, I will be the perfect mannequin. 

                                               

A Friend

All that I wanted today was to be let out. 

     I am so tired of these cages.  Life was never supposed to be an enclosure, keeping you from all the things that are within your reach except for the steel bars and layers of windowless walls and miles of barbwire.  Life was not always like this, but that is what it has become. 

     A nightmare of the realest sense.  There are monsters and fears and limitations that can overpower and frighten a person of any age, but here, everything is so much scarier. 

     I think we all reach a point in our lives when we stop looking for monsters under our beds, noticing they have moved, or perhaps, disappeared.  For some people, the monsters never show up again.  And for others, the monsters live inside them. 

     Sometimes the monsters are us.  We are our own bullies, our own personal hell on earth. 

     And it's difficult to escape something that is attached to both your body and your mind.  So we try to kill the us on the outside, kill the thing on the inside. 

     Suicide is an option, as death always is.  People cringe when they hear the word because they don't realize that death is a friend.  Death is like the moon; it never leaves.  The sun sees us at our brightest moments, and then tires of us, and leaves us alone without looking back. 

     The moon is different, a loyal friend.  The moon realizes how different we are in the dark.  Death is like the moon in the way that is never forsakes us.  With open arms, it follows us around like a shadow, waiting patiently for the moment when we realize the world is no longer a safe place. 

      Other times, death is too easy, too generous, too charitable.  Sometimes we deserve a messy death, a cruel existence.  We failed to become ourselves and so we must suffer the consequence of being a ghost with a beating heart.  In our time on the earth, we did not spare the world of our face, and karma wants vengeance. 

     Along the way, we have grown tired of being perfect.  Or, rather, seeming perfect.  We were never any good to begin with.  And although we should have been stronger, should have tried harder, should have been a person instead of a shell of a person, we all just want a friend. 

     And that's what starving is: a friend.  For the rest of your life, you will never find another person who is so wholly concerned with you and only you.  Starving tears at our body and pollutes our mind, but a friend is a friend. 

    
    

All the Sad Things

Parents worry about their children watching violent films, playing violent games, in fear that their child may grow up to be timid and scared of a world that is now unrecognizable. 

     Yet, they don't think about the effects of all the sad songs, and the sad movies, and the sad books, and how those tragedies can take possession of a child's mind. 

     We destroy our lives before they even begin. 

     We are like clay in the hands of a world that is cruel and unyielding.  We are like puppets, dolls, servants in the hands of world that doesn't even know our names. 

     Most people live their lives in a state of starvation, always searching for that one thing that is always, always missing.   

     And I am no different. 

Such a Tragic Thing

It's a tragic thing, to be ready to die at such a young age. 

Eyesore

 

There is such an ugly thing in the reflection.

     Stares at me with hollow eyes and sunken cheekbones.  She is departed, cold, and so very hollow.  Like a colorless painting.  A painting that has the potential to be a work of art, but is instead a whisper of what could be, a ruined version of what should be. 

    My vision of perfection is cruel, and I have played the fool all along.  The expectations of my daydreams bury me.  Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? 

     How did I go so wrong in life?

Monsters

I wish I could go back and tell little me,

A big kid is not something you want to be.

The monsters that used to live under your bed,

Have moved, and now live inside your head. 

The monsters tell you you're not good enough,

The monsters are what force you to starve and cut.

But the biggest difference between the two,

Is the ones in your head can actually hurt you. 

Hell is Empty

It's in this moment, when I am alone in the quiet, that I truly hate myself.  I wish I could wash my hands of myself.

     William Shakespeare once said that hell is empty, and all the devils are here.  He was right.  The devils are here indeed. 

     And they're coming for me. 

Sadness Is Like A Drug

 

 

I hate to be touched.

     People come up behind me, I feel their shadow cast over me, and they place a pitying hand on my cold shoulder.  They feel sorry for me.

     They look at me as if I am a spectacle, waiting for me to explode and finally let go of all the secrets I hold dear. 

     But they don't understand that pity is not what I seek.  I don't want their sympathy, their soft words, or their forced smiles. 

     I want to be left alone.  I want them to realize I am beyond repair.  They have waited too long, and now the damage is done.

     There was a time when I wanted help, when I craved attention, but that time is long gone, and I hardly remember it. 

     Now they have lost their chance.  I have made up my mind now, and I have decided I want to be alone.  I will not let them make a mockery of my pain, I will not let them watch as I struggle.

     A long time ago, I needed them, and they were nowhere to be found.  They left me by myself for years, believing I was safe at home, but I went through hell whenever I was left alone. 

     And they did not notice. 

     I am an excellent liar.  

     But lies leave so many scars, so many traces of their destruction. 

     Everyone think I am a weak, pathetic girl.  They believe I am narcissistic and unfeeling.  They believe I do not have emotions outside of my own vanity.  But that's not true. 

     They think I am weak because I sold my soul to a disease and fell down a hole that is too steep to dream of escape. 

     Can't they realize my strength? How much it's taken to make so little of myself?

     They think my fixed eyes are hollow because I am too self-centered to live in the real world, to be present, to laugh at jokes and play in the rain. 

     But that's all lies.

     My thoughts, my real thoughts, couldn't be more different.  I don't deserve to live in the real world, and dreaming of belonging there is too painful. 

     I want, more than anything, to laugh in the rain, to finally take in the world I find so hard.  I want to be a child again.  Childhood would be a welcomed release.

     I could be innocent, delicate, and untouched.  I could be free, I could live in a world where food is not greed and razor blades are scary and direful.  I could finally be free.

    

     Stop that, Rosie.  That is not your life anymore, darling. 

 

     The truth is, I hardly remember that world.  I tried, for a very long time, to remember the euphoric feeling of joy and happiness and weightlessness, but that time has passed for me.  That's not my life anymore, because sadness is like a drug that steals your world and hands you back an unrecognizable reality that is cruel and sordid but is also like your old life in some manner. 

     The weather is the same, your family is the same, your home is the same.

     But somehow, you are different.  So very different.

     From there, it feeds you lies through a series of tricks and ploys that build and build until one day, the reality you knew implodes and collapses on itself, shattering to ruins right before your eyes, while you wait and cry and scream for help, thinking certainly this is all some kind of bad dream.

     It's not.  From now on, this is your world.  You will never wake up. 

This Empty Girl

 

Rosie, it's time to tell you the truth. 

     You've been in the dark long enough, so long that you have become colorblind, seeing in coffee black and egg white.  You haven't seen the sun in years, darling, and it's time you know the real reason why. 

     I am sparing the world of your face. 

     I have made your bed at the bottom of the blackest hole to save the ones you love from the failure you have become.  You know not the ways in which you have disappointed everyone. 

     But now, it's time you know. 

     You are not pretty, and you are not bright.  In fact, you are ugly and so very ordinary.  You are nothing, Rosie.  You are the skin of the girl you could be if only you had control, if only you would listen to me when I speak. 

     I am trying to help you, you stupid girl.  I am trying to make you worthy.  If you would do as you're told, I could make you beautiful, wanted, loved.  I could give you friends.

     Don't try and pretend as if they is not what you have always dreamed of.  There is nothing you want more, darling.  I understand that, I understand your longing perfectly. 

     But you must stop this.  All of this eating, this disgusting eating, must stop this instant.  You must get off this roller coaster and forgo this false sense of security.  Eating does nothing but upset you, darling.  So why do you continue to torture yourself?

     Listen to me, Rosie.  Listen very carefully. 

     You must resist the food.  You must be strong.  No matter how knotted your stomach may become, no matter how dizzy you get, and no matter how many times you tell yourself  one bite won't hurt, you must not eat. 

     For what nourishes you will also destroy you. 

     You are too young to be this empty girl. 

     But fear not, darling.  Soon, you will find perfection. 

Every Way That Matters

 

I am so close, so tangibly close, to the person I want to be. 

     I am so close to  her, yet she is never within my reach.  It's as if everytime I overcome a hurdle in my haste to find her, she builds another one, only this time, one that is ten times stronger.  It is as if I'm not supposed to be happy. 

     But I don't want to give up yet; I have not reached the end, although I'm not entirely sure what the end really looks like for me. 

     Is it death?  When I have finally pushed my body to the edge of the cliff, after years of starvation and purging and exhaustion?  Or is it when I finally swallow all those tiny white pills in that little orange container that are oh so tempting. 

     When will I finally realize that I have had enough of this life that is not a life but is a shell of what life should be.  I am not living; I am a ghost with a beating heart.

     I am alone in every way that matters.  And there is no happy ending in sight. 

     So until my ending comes, until I am put out of my misery, I will continue on with my terrible sickness.  In fact, I will care for it more and more from now on, more so than I ever have, because right now, I need it the most.  I need to feel something, anything. 

     I am a numb corpse, alive yet unable to breathe.  My body lives in the daylight while my souls sleeps in the dark.  I am starving in many more ways than one. 

     I want to feel again.  Feel anything.  Anything at all. 

     Which is why I won't eat today.  Because that way, I can be in both physical and emotional pain, and no one will even slightly notice, because to them, the truth I know, the truth I hold so dear, is all lies to them.  They don't believe I am capable of this. 

     But they don't know me.  I could shock them with the things I have done, the things I have seen in my life.  They no not the ways in which I have changed, and I would rather they remember the me I used to be than the me I have become.  Because the Rosie I am now is a train wreck; destructive and violent, depressing and heartbreaking, unstoppable and unfixable. 

     The damage has been done to me, and there is no going back.

     So I will kill the me within, and spare the world the gory details.  I will be heroically sick.  Heroically silent, never bothering a single soul.  

     They will never know the depths of my heart, and I will take these secrets with me to my grave. 

    

Blueberry And Chocolate Chip Pancakes

Valentine's Day is a dreadful day.

     Some say it's just another Thursday, but that is a rotten lie.  Valentine's Day is 24 hours of reverberations of love and affection and enchantment, unless, of course, you are unwanted, unlovable, untouchable.  Then, yes, this day can be particularly unpleasant. 

     I feel as though I am that one cream-filled chocolate in those little heart shaped boxes, the one that everyone hates, the ones with the revolting orange goop inside, like the kind of surprise you wish you could wrap back up and forget you opened. 

     I am that girl.  The one everyone wishes they could wash their hands of. 

     People see me, speak to me, fill me with a sense of hope, and then stomp on my stupid dream of being wanted.  They throw me back in the heart shaped box as if I am nothing. 

     I have been treated so long, and I have been treated so wrong. 

     I know not what it would feel like to be held, to be someones sun and sky, to be cherished. 

     I am so tired of people decided when I am allowed to be their friend.  I am convenient.  I am always available.  I jump at the thought of being wanted. 

     And they so shamelessly take advantage of me. 

     Not for long.

     I will no longer be a toy that is only chosen when everyone else is taken.  I will not be anyone's last resort.  I am sick of being the doll everyone drags around when they need a friend and then toss to the side when I am no longer new and beautiful.

     Is it so wrong to want someone to love me?  Is it so bad to want blueberry and chocolate chip pancakes?

     I am so easily forgotten.  So easily overlooked. 

     I don't want to be that girl anymore. 

     I want to be beautiful, and I don't care if it hurts; I want control. 

     I want to be the one who can say, "No, I don't feel like being used."  I want to be a stoic, unfeeling mannequin that is gracefully beautiful and alarmingly alluring, yet untouchable and phlegmatic. 

     I want to be the one with the power; not the one who's emotions are so readily toyed with. 

     But that will never happen.  I value affection, even affection that is intangible and masochistic, too much to let even a moment of it slip through my fingers. 

     Is it better to be used than forgotten entirely, if the truth is that no even cared to know you at all?

     Their attention, their sweet words, their tender sentiment.... is it all lies?

The Lovely Part

 

Now and forever, I am internally engaged in a silent battle in my head over whether or not to lift the fork to my mouth, whether or not to taste guilt in its purest form, whether or not to disappoint or prevail. 

     It is a decision of the most severe origin.  My body begs to be fed, to be nourished, but Ana has this voice, this voice that is oh so sweet and tender and loving, that whispers lies into my heart as she strokes my hair with gentle hands.  Hands that have led me for years, cared for me when I was weak, held me when I was just a scared child crying myself to sleep. 

     She never leaves me.  She may want to see me dead, but at least she is present.  I have never encountered someone who is so totally present and concerned with only me. 

     But the daydream fades and soon, her soothing hands misplace their gentleness and turn punitive when I begin to make my way to the kitchen.

     This room is forbidden.  I am not allowed in here.  I should know better.

     Yet here I stand, searching the four walls that contain calories and fat and food, oh, such delicious food. 

 

     Stop that, Rosie.  Stay where you are.  The hunger will pass, darling. 

 

     That is what she always tells me, that the hunger will pass.  But she is a rotten liar. 

     Hunger is a swirling vortex in my stomach, a bottomless pit at my core.  The hunger never leaves.  It's like a second skin that I want so badly to shed, but without it, I would feel empty, alone, not myself. 

      I would feel different somehow, different in a way that would cause me to wonder how people without eating disorders manage to go through their lives consuming food on a daily basis, eating without guilt, eating because food is comforting and delicious and nourishing, and simply because it is something there body demands and they do not mind being slaves to their gluttonous needs. 

     How do they stand it?  Your stomach begins to stretch and expand in the most grotesque manner, spilling out over your jeans and following you as you walk, making each thump of your steps just a tiny bit louder.  How do they get through the day?

     I don't ponder the question long; I am too infatuated with the cupboards that stand with open doors to the left of me, beckoning me with hisses of trickery, like a serpent daring me to eat, even if only just one bit, the forbidden apple. 

     That's what life with an eating disorder is.  A series of forbidden things. 

     Things that are essential to life, until, after a while, you realize you were a fool to actually believe that people need food in order to survive. 

     The cupboard creaks as I realize my trembling hands are opening the doors, reaching in, almost mechanically, for something, anything. 

     My hands find many things, some of which I don't even like.  But I simply don't care; I relish only in the fact that I am eating, that I am being fed. 

     Fast forward thirty minutes, and I am still in the kitchen, standing motionless, silent, in the wake of my destruction as I begin to acknowledge the mess I have made. 

     I am such a disappointment. 

     Shame erupts in my soul and consumes me when I look down to see I am surrounded by discarded candy wrappers and leftover ice cream sticks and chocolate granola bar crumbs. 

     This is why it is better for me not to eat at all.  Because if I eat anything, I will eat everything.

     While my mind is in utter turmoil, my body is in absolute heaven.  I feel content, full, relieved. 

     There is no greater burden than the chore of starvation.

     And there is no aftermath eviler than feasting only to throw back the feast.

     Stumbling to the bathroom, I waste no time.  Almost instinctively, my fingers find the back of my throat, and I stifle a gag. 

 

     Stop that, Rosie.  You must finish what you started.

 

     And I do so.  Bile stings my throat, and I purge until my eyes sting and the base of my throat burns painfully.  I am finished.  I am empty, light, clean.

     But sadly, this is only the beginning, or the middle, maybe, or perhaps it is just some sort of twisted limbo in which I am trapped, because certainly this is not my life. 

     Surely this is a nightmare.

     Yes.  This is all a horrible dream.  I just need to wake up; everything will be better when I wake up.  I close my eyes.  I close them tightly and wait for this dream to evaporate, but no such thing happens, peace never comes. 

     That's the lovely part about dreams.  The part where you always wake up.

     Oh, Rosie.  Why do you lie to yourself, darling?

    

Right Here

I am right here.

     You do not see me, though whether that is by choice or negligence, I'm not sure.  All I do know, however, is that I am not a stranger to you. 

     I am your daughter, your best friend, your sister. 

     You see me everyday, speak to me sweetly, embrace me tenderly, invest precious time in me.  So why have you notice not the ways in which I have changed? 

    

     Oh, Rosie.  Don't you know it's all lies, darling?

    

     It all feels so fake, so forced, so artificial.  Every word they whisper, every touch I feel... I feel as though every one I know is cruelly mocking me while I take up too much space in what feels like a basin of my own humiliation. 

     And I believe that is what they truly think about me.  That I take up too much room, that my physical implication on space is far too generous.  By a large margin, I have exceeded the allotted space I am allowed to occupy. 

     And it is all because I am weak and pathetic and insatiable.  And the world has marked me too great a burden and cast me from their pockets like empty change, forced to fall to doorsteps that curse the day I dare to ring their doorbell. 

     Everyone around me is just waiting for me to be the one they have always wanted.  And I am so tied, so very tired, of being a disappointment. 

     So tomorrow will be special.  Tomorrow will be the day I throw away the acknowledgment of the hunger that sharpens its claws in the pit of my stomach, and by association, I will escape the realm of emotions, remaining only a sliver of what I used to be, without the greedy wanting and excessive taking of space and childish rashness that always seems to merit looks of disappointment that are hid so poorly and sting so caustically.  

     Finally, I will be the bones they want to see.  I will not need nor want, but be only a self-sustaining statue of beauty. 

 

     There's just one problem, darling.

 

     So today, and every day, I will not eat. 

     I will not eat. 

     I will not eat.

     I will not eat. 

     When I am exhausted, I will not sleep.  When I am hungry, I will not eat. 

     And when I am finished, and am finally set free, I will be perfect, just like I have always wanted to be.

    

A Thousand Years

I have been trapped in the underworld for a thousand years. 

     Sometime ago I slipped and fell, and I have not regained the strength needed to return to my feet.  Instead, I have stayed down and built a safe haven for myself in a world that is unyielding and unkind.

     Down here, the sickness is the only one I have to please.

     And while it seems so uncomplicated, so tangible, so easy, to simply not eat, you soon realize you were a fool to believe you could exist like a plant instead of a human, scolding yourself for flirting with the notion that you could draw nourishment from the air.  Soon, you stumble upon the realization that you are a selfish, ungrateful, gluttonous girl who deserves nothing but her own shame.

     I am that girl. 

     Or, at least, I used to be.  At the moment, I'm not quite sure who I am.  I feel as though I am nothing, but surely I am something, right?  I am all I have.  I must be enough, yet I feel like I am prisoned inside this evil illusion of nothingness, trapped and unable to breathe. 

     I feel like I have not breathed in a thousand years. 

     My life is both familiar and foreign at the same time.  By now, everyone has heard of me and of my story.  There is nothing special about me.  I am sadder than some, not as sick as others.  I am that girl who is "perfect just the way she is", and acquires "so much potential".  To some extent, this is true.  I am, after all, the only person who is exactly like myself, so I must be the most perfect me there is in the world. 

     If this is so, then tell me, why do I feel as though I have disappointed everyone I have ever known?

     I feel as though I am the shell of my old self, trapped in one of those sinister carnival mirrors that steals your reflection and hands you back a distorted portrait that is like you in every way, but is somehow altered and offbeat in the most uncanny manner.  Over and over, you tell yourself that this reflection must be the you you've known all your life; after all, it has your huge green eyes, your honey colored hair, and that little freckle beside you eye. 

     Of course that's you, Rosie, you tell yourself.  It has to be.

     Trust me, darling, it is not you.  You ceased to exist when you gazed into the mirror and mumbled something like, "I wish I was thinner," and sold your soul to the only sickness in this world that will leave you for dead but watch and laugh as you did your own grave. 

     At some point in this awful game of who can eat the least and run the farthest and need the littlest, we have to realize that this strange sickness we so readily claim gives us control, is a deceitfully decorated fabrication.  Though we're not supposed to technically acknowledge this, the disease is the one who controls us, defeats us, starves us, and sets us back a thousand years, to a time and a place where we are nothing more than a scared child curled up on the cold title of the bathroom floor, stomach knotting in hunger, body riddled with scars, clutching a heart that has not felt safe in a thousand years. 

     This sickness is secretly a trap, a deception, a mockery of the truth we all at some level have chosen to forget.

     After all, it's all lies, darling.