Seventeen

“Hey!

You look great.

What have you been doing?”

Well, I’m not eating.

And I haven’t really been in almost three weeks.

No one knows.

I know it’s wrong.

I know it’s dysfunctional.

But I don’t care anymore.

“Oh, just not eating so much junk.

You know, the normal,” I lie.

I’m sick of all the extra weight hanging on my body.

Nothing works to make it go away.

Except not eating.

“Well, keep it up girl.

It’s working for you.”

Sigh.

Can’t she see how hideous I am?

That I’m about to cry because what she sees is so far off from what I see?

“Thanks,” I respond with a forced smile.

She walks away, and I continue my interval training for the day.

It’s getting harder to train.

I can tell I’ve lost muscle, and I feel like I’m on the verge of passing out halfway through my set.

I see how sick this is.

I know if I told anyone, they’d look at me like I was ludicrous.

They’d suggest I get help.

They’d try to convince me I was beautiful just the way I am.

But I haven’t told anyone.

Because I’m not ready to be helped.

And I’m not convinced I really am beautiful, just the way I am.

How can I be this messed up and still retain beauty?