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Sisters

January 13th 2016: I’m striving to be as perfect as her. Constantly cutting meals, cheating on tests and wearing makeup to cover my acne. All just to look like her. How could two people have  the same DNA, be split from the same egg, yet be polar opposites? - Jaclyn

January 15th 2016: Peyton has it all. She gets the boys. She has the grades. The perfect face and body. Everything about her is perfect. Why can’t I have it too? My mom tells me that “I am perfect just the way I am, that I don’t need to look like Peyton to be happy.” (a backhanded compliment, but she wants me to be happy) Well if that’s the truth why am I not happy? -Jaclyn
January 18th: When we were younger it was always “Peyton and Jaclyn” but now it’s two separate words; words that will never sound the same together or hold the same meaning ever again. We used to be so close like we were conjoined twins, but it all changed in middle school when she was placed in all honors classes and switched friend groups entirely. In that moment I started to spite everything about her. The way she changed herself completely to fit in with another friend group. She left me. She ditched me. What hurts the most is when your best friend ever chooses to forget you.- Jaclyn
January 19th 2016: I want to be her. So badly it physically hurts. I’ve been cutting meals everyday so I can have her body type. Small waist, flat stomach-yet curvy. Thigh-gap and all. The burning sensation that travels up my throat everytime I purge is unfriendly reminder of what I’m striving for: perfection. This is how I will be happy. I won’t be happy if I’m still “Jaclyn, Peyton’s sister”. This may be an extreme tactic to lose weight, but at this point I will do anything. - Jaclyn
January 23rd 2016: For dinner my mom had made spaghetti with a side salad. The sight of noodles drenched in red sauce with an over-buttered piece of garlic bread makes my stomach ache with hunger. I eat it anyway, so that my parents don’t ask questions as to why I’m not eating my favorite meal. So I eat at a pace faster than normal so I can excuse myself to the bathroom to vomit what I unhappily ate. Before I could leave, my mom asked if I was ok. She knows me, she knows I take my time eating and that I usually go for seconds. I can’t tell her how I’m tearing my skin apart with a razor because I haven’t dropped enough weight to get new jeans close to Peyton’s size. Or how I’ve stopped eating and how everything that goes into my body comes back up within an hour. So I fake a half smile and say “I’m fine. Why?” her expression goes from worrisome to a smile of relief. I then excuse myself from the table and walk to my bathroom which I share with Peyton. She’s standing in the bathroom, leaning over the sink gazing into the mirror looking at her flawless reflection. The sight of this it makes me cringe in disgust, yet also empathy.Watching her, I can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking about herself. I tell her that I’m going to take a shower so she leaves and closes the door. I lock it shut and turn on the shower to drown out the sound of my gagging. -Jaclyn 
January 31st 2016: It’s worse at school. Having your twin sister be the center of everyone’s attention while you’re not even given a second glance. Peyton and her friends sit at the fabled popular table where everyone is like eachother: smart, gorgeous and well perfect. Her boyfriend Carson, has his right arm over her shoulder almost touching her breast.Why can’t this be me? I immediately engulf in flames of white-hot anger. If I were a cartoon character there would be smoke coming out of my ears and nose while my face turns to a fire hydrant red. But it can’t show. If anyone knew how I’m jealous of my Peyton, I would be considered a “petty b****”. So, I continue walking through the cafeteria, pass her table and give her a friendly wave only to be ignored. I shake it off and head to my table where I sit with my friends and quietly eat my pb&j sandwich and carrot sticks. I finish quickly and walk to the bathroom and repeat my  daily routine: purge the food, splash my face with cool water, replace the Band Aids on my wrists and head to pre-calc. -Jaclyn
February 2nd: My ribs are starting show without me having to suck in my flabby stomach. Would it be wrong to say that progress has been made? That I’m happy with my drastic weight loss and apparent scars across my forearms and wrists? My mom is starting to wonder if I’m starving myself. Always asking if I had eaten breakfast and lunch that day, I always answer with a “yes” so she stops asking. Both my mom and dad are oblivious to it all. But Peyton knows. She knows that when the water turns on it’s not because of a shower or that I am washing my hands, she knows that I’ve been starving myself for the past month and a half. Yet she hasn’t shown the slightest bit of concern. Does she enjoy the fact that I’m slowly killing myself to be like her? What else does she know? Does she notice the horizontal lines that are permanently engraved into my olive skin? How long will it be before she tells mom and dad? Something has to change-and it’s not going to be me and my destructive habits. -Jaclyn
February 5th 2016: It’s getting harder and harder to pretend that I am ok. The facade that I am putting up is starting to crack. They all know my system by now. I eat, walk to the drinking fountain, enter the bathroom and do the thing which I dread the most; yet I look forward to all day.Today, to keep people wondering, I came to pre-calc late. When I walked in Mr. Wells class and said
“Sorry, I went out for lunch and I lost track of time.”
Mr. Wells retorted with “Well, it looks like someone needs to learn about time management. Take your seat Jaclyn.”  I walked to the back of the class, took an empty seat and stared out the window
February 7th: Today, after I did my deed I went back to my lunch table and continue the conversation as if I was never gone. My best friend Kelcie looks at me with a look of sympathy as if she has a reason to be sorry for me. So I give her a half nod and smile. The bell rings and we all take our time leaving the cafeteria, and I head to math. -Jaclyn
February 9th 2016: My peers around me are starting to notice how frail I’ve become. My bones protruding out of my skin like a skeleton trying to escape it’s abused skin. I’m still not down to a size 2, three more sizes to go I tell myself. I am so frustrated by my  unquenchable drive to be just like Peyton, why can’t I just be happy the way I am. And then I think to myself “No one knows you as Jaclyn. They know you as ‘Peytons’ sister’” People at school are asking if I’m ok or not. It really surprises you when you go from no one but your parents and closest friends caring about your well being to everyone at school. I like the attention, it makes me feel like more than the ‘DUFS’ (Designated Ugly Fat Sister), but I don’t know how long it will last or if someone will tell the principal or one of my teachers who will then tell my parents who will make me go to therapy to ‘get some help’ to better myself and figure out why all of the sudden I’m so unhappy with everything. So, as always I fake a broken, overused and tired smile and let them know I am doing peachy.
March 17 2016: It has been well over a month since I last wrote in here and a lot has changed. Especially with me. My skin is as pale and fragile as a corpse with deep blue and purple undertones underneath my eyes which have sunk back into my skull. My hair’s damaged from the lack of nutrients I’ve failed to provide, my forearms have parallel lines all over them. Cuts that have healed over and some that have reopened from me slicing into them time and time again. I feel lethargic all the time because I never have any energy and I don’t sleep. I’ve become a demon. Dark eyes, malnourished, sunken features, ghastly skin. In other words I’m completely terrifying. At this point I am an inanimate puppet being pulled on by strings of the Devil. With strings of hate wrapped around each wrist and ankle he controls my every movement one pull he can decide if I’ll cut into my aching skin.The most intimidating string of all is the one around my neck. If I resist his commands then he pulls tighter, causing me to choke. Then I give in and he releases his grip and I can breathe. Not easy but in fear. I can’t continue to be a puppet in my own show.
March 21, 2016 would be Jaclyn’s last day of torture. She would regain freedom again. Freedom to be confident, eat without guilt and most importantly her freedom to be happy. Our father, the one who held her hand when she first learned to walk, gave her a push when she first learned to ride a bike, the one that was there for everything was the one that found Jaclyn; hanging lifelessly from her ceiling fan with my 12 dollar Aeropostale belt around her bruised neck. On Jaclyn’s white tear stained pillow case lied a note that would give my parents and I an explanation for why she did what she did. We were angry at ourselves for not noticing her deteriorating mental health. I do apologize for the agony that I have caused upon the people I love the most. They had to bury their child, an unbearable task for any parent. I went through intense therapy for 4 months to try and cope with the tragedy that was my sister’s death. Four months of “It wasn’t your fault,” “She’s in a better place,” and “You are stronger now.” I felt as if I’ve failed her as a sister, as a twin. But now, I have the best guardian angel that I could’ve asked for, and she will be forever with me.




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