(no subject)
As she stands in the shower, letting the water fall over her body, she makes a split second decision. She bends over at the waist, sticks the two fingers - pointer and middle, always the right hand - down her throat and gags herself until the small amount of food she has consumed in the last few hours eventually comes up. She feels her glands begin to swell, this is a new experience for her. She is somewhat worried, and yet oddly excited. Maybe i'm getting better. Maybe my body is learning how to react, she thinks.
Then time stops. I stand back up. And I realize I am that girl. What is going through my head? Why am i purging? Sure, I've gone through all the reasons before. . . but are they really enough? I can honestly say that, for the first time in my conscious memory, I thought about what I was doing as gross. Puking is always a gross thing, but bulimics tend to make excuses for themselves. It's ok, i'll look beautiful enough after.
I actually stood there wondering what other people would think of me if they saw me crunched over at my middle with the same fingers that play the piano, hold childrens hands, type caring words onto a screen, stuck down my throat. Reaching to my stomach, in efforts to grab whatever I needed to get out. But that was, and still remains to be, the problem. I don't know what exactly I want to get out. Although, after collapsing on the shower floor, I began to think very in depth about it. I thought to myself, I don't want to be seen like this. I don't want anyone to ever even have to picture this, much less witness it. I have a cat that sees me every time, and that's more than enough. What stories would she tell if she could talk? Would she mention how I step onto my scale up to 10 times a day, just to make sure I hasn't gained weight? Would she try put into words the look on my face as I wash my hands? That look in my eyes right before I place my smile back on my face and walk out of the bathroom?
I was reading a poem i wrote a few months ago, and in the end i say:
((she silently tries to get rid of
the one thing that she is stuck with forever))
. . .
herself
I had no idea at the time just how true this would become. I have figured some things out, I know a bit more than I did 30 minutes ago when I stepped into the shower. It's amazing, sometimes, how much the simplest thing as a shower can help you grow up. I purge because I honestly believe that it will help me get rid of the things about me I don't like. There have been times that I've eaten a salad, and sat over the toilet for 30 minutes, long past the time the salad came up, trying to bring up something, anything, that will make me a better person. How else can I get rid of these memories? These pains? These feelings? Purging sounds like a nice option. Instead of purging the ideas, though, I decided to purge my food. It doesn't really make sense to me when I take a step back, and I know it doesn't make sense to others, but when I'm in that moment - right before I make my choice. . . either to live with what's inside of me, or to try rid myself of it. . . it makes perfect sense. Everything fits together hand in hand.
I've tried cutting and scratching, as symbolic means of carving away at myself. Trying to, literally, take parts of myself away. I've also used the wristbanging as a way of making myself numb. Did you know that after you hit your wrists enough times, you don't feel the pain? Eventually it changes from a forced act to a lulling rhythm. You forget how hard you're hitting, or where you are, who's around you. . . and you focus on nothing. Just being numb. The anorexia is also a means of protecting me from myself. I am able to control what I eat, and in some way, that equals in my mind that I am able to control what I am. What I think. what I feel. Even to the extent of what others feel and think. If I keep my calorie intake below 800 calories, people will keep their thoughts to a minimum. My thoughts will be kept to a minimum. I will finally be able to silence the army of voices inside my head.
This sounds crazy, of course, but it never stops me from trying. There are times, actually, when the lower amount of calories raises the sound decibal of the non existant circus. completely defeating the purpose. Which is when I will try to eat (but never over-eat) to silence them. It will work until I start thinking about what others are thinking about me. why is he looking at me? did he just look at my butt? what's wrong with it? is it too big? to small? my stomach, is it still flat? i run my hands along it, down to my hips. they're still jutting out. . . so it can't be that. my colarbone. . . my hands fly up to my neck, tracing the outline of the bone, which seems to hold my body together. Still there, so what is it? And I find myself in the bathroom, trying to get rid of whatever it is that caused them to look. It's a never ending cycle, one which this girl, and others, desperately need a way out of.
But for now I will get dressed, do my makeup and hair, smile my perfect smile, and try get back to normal. At least now I understand a bit more about why I do what I do. Maybe in the next shower I'll try figure out how to stop the cycle, but at the present time, I'm tired and need some rest. I make sure to trace my bones one last time before i go to bed, letting my hand stop and stay on my hipbone. one more thought creeps into my head, just before everything goes dark. . . who would have ever thought i'd end up tracing my bones to find some self assurance? how did i get here and where in the world is the u-turn?
Then time stops. I stand back up. And I realize I am that girl. What is going through my head? Why am i purging? Sure, I've gone through all the reasons before. . . but are they really enough? I can honestly say that, for the first time in my conscious memory, I thought about what I was doing as gross. Puking is always a gross thing, but bulimics tend to make excuses for themselves. It's ok, i'll look beautiful enough after.
I actually stood there wondering what other people would think of me if they saw me crunched over at my middle with the same fingers that play the piano, hold childrens hands, type caring words onto a screen, stuck down my throat. Reaching to my stomach, in efforts to grab whatever I needed to get out. But that was, and still remains to be, the problem. I don't know what exactly I want to get out. Although, after collapsing on the shower floor, I began to think very in depth about it. I thought to myself, I don't want to be seen like this. I don't want anyone to ever even have to picture this, much less witness it. I have a cat that sees me every time, and that's more than enough. What stories would she tell if she could talk? Would she mention how I step onto my scale up to 10 times a day, just to make sure I hasn't gained weight? Would she try put into words the look on my face as I wash my hands? That look in my eyes right before I place my smile back on my face and walk out of the bathroom?
I was reading a poem i wrote a few months ago, and in the end i say:
((she silently tries to get rid of
the one thing that she is stuck with forever))
. . .
herself
I had no idea at the time just how true this would become. I have figured some things out, I know a bit more than I did 30 minutes ago when I stepped into the shower. It's amazing, sometimes, how much the simplest thing as a shower can help you grow up. I purge because I honestly believe that it will help me get rid of the things about me I don't like. There have been times that I've eaten a salad, and sat over the toilet for 30 minutes, long past the time the salad came up, trying to bring up something, anything, that will make me a better person. How else can I get rid of these memories? These pains? These feelings? Purging sounds like a nice option. Instead of purging the ideas, though, I decided to purge my food. It doesn't really make sense to me when I take a step back, and I know it doesn't make sense to others, but when I'm in that moment - right before I make my choice. . . either to live with what's inside of me, or to try rid myself of it. . . it makes perfect sense. Everything fits together hand in hand.
I've tried cutting and scratching, as symbolic means of carving away at myself. Trying to, literally, take parts of myself away. I've also used the wristbanging as a way of making myself numb. Did you know that after you hit your wrists enough times, you don't feel the pain? Eventually it changes from a forced act to a lulling rhythm. You forget how hard you're hitting, or where you are, who's around you. . . and you focus on nothing. Just being numb. The anorexia is also a means of protecting me from myself. I am able to control what I eat, and in some way, that equals in my mind that I am able to control what I am. What I think. what I feel. Even to the extent of what others feel and think. If I keep my calorie intake below 800 calories, people will keep their thoughts to a minimum. My thoughts will be kept to a minimum. I will finally be able to silence the army of voices inside my head.
This sounds crazy, of course, but it never stops me from trying. There are times, actually, when the lower amount of calories raises the sound decibal of the non existant circus. completely defeating the purpose. Which is when I will try to eat (but never over-eat) to silence them. It will work until I start thinking about what others are thinking about me. why is he looking at me? did he just look at my butt? what's wrong with it? is it too big? to small? my stomach, is it still flat? i run my hands along it, down to my hips. they're still jutting out. . . so it can't be that. my colarbone. . . my hands fly up to my neck, tracing the outline of the bone, which seems to hold my body together. Still there, so what is it? And I find myself in the bathroom, trying to get rid of whatever it is that caused them to look. It's a never ending cycle, one which this girl, and others, desperately need a way out of.
But for now I will get dressed, do my makeup and hair, smile my perfect smile, and try get back to normal. At least now I understand a bit more about why I do what I do. Maybe in the next shower I'll try figure out how to stop the cycle, but at the present time, I'm tired and need some rest. I make sure to trace my bones one last time before i go to bed, letting my hand stop and stay on my hipbone. one more thought creeps into my head, just before everything goes dark. . . who would have ever thought i'd end up tracing my bones to find some self assurance? how did i get here and where in the world is the u-turn?