Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Untold Story

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
This is one story that I’ve never told before. Not because of embarrassment or fear of judgment. I’ve never told it because I didn’t want to face my own truth. When a story only exists in my memory, it is easy for me to suppress it, to manipulate the details, and to turn it into something that I wanted to happen. Now, the story in my head is fuzzy, like I am staring at it from a mile away instead of being in the moment, but it has a better feel. It is easier to remember. This confusion makes me not linger on the story and lets me hide it away in the back of my brain. Putting this manipulated story on paper creates an issue. The haze of the confusion can no longer stand up to the fact of word. The story leaves many questions and when I look for the answers, I find the truth, the heart of the story that I was trying to hide from myself. A story on paper cuts through the fluff and the lies until the only thing that is left is the story. An untold story.

Imagine a girl at a party. It is not a crazy house party. It is low key pasta party for the girl’s sports team. Everyone is in the basement having a good time. They are sitting on the couches or on the ground, laughing at jokes and gossiping about boys, but this one girl is not with them. She is standing at the table with all of the food. Two types of pasta, a Caesar salad, piles and piles of fruit, chocolate cookies, brownies covered in frosting, and sliced bread with butter line the table from end to end. The girl cannot even tell what the table was made out of. The bowls and platters covers every inch. As she looks at the table, the internal battle begins. It all looks so good, but it must be so unhealthy. She reaches out her hand and grabs the end of a metal serving spoon. I have to eat the pasta. It is a pasta party after all. Maybe I’ll just try a little of both. Carefully, she measures a small amount of meat stuffed ravioli and a small scoop of mostaccioli covered in cheese. Alright, but I can have a little more than that. She steps along the table and this time serves the salad onto her plate. This is healthy so I can have more of this. She takes two scoops of the salad. She moves farther down the line, taking a small amount of each of the different foods provided. She takes her plate and sits down with her team.

She sits there quietly as her teammates chat about unimportant topics. Occasionally, she listens in on their conversations about the hotness of Channing Tatum and the upcoming theme for the school dance. Mostly she just pays attention to her food. She takes small bites and savors each flavor. Each bite brings the combined feeling of giddiness and guilt. Food tastes so good! But wait. This is too much food. I shouldn’t have eaten the dessert. That must be at least 200 calories. Before she knows it, her plate is empty. She stares at the empty plate and then looks up at the food table. The lingering taste of chocolate still sits in her mouth. Her mind tells her to stop. Have you looked at the scale lately? You can’t afford another bite you fat ass! But then her stomach grumbles. The sound pulls her to her feet, and she moves toward the table. The temptation is so overwhelming that logic does not fit into any space of her mind. She piles pasta and salad onto her plate. She grabs another plate and gets more food. All caution is gone. She shoves the food in her mouth. She does not slow until the two plates are almost empty. Then she gets seconds. Not until she goes up for thirds does the guilt hit.
Cautiously, she looks around, but everyone is watching a board game on the other side of the room. No one saw her will power break. She stands up and feels the weight of the food in her body. Her stomach feels like it is about to explode inside of her body. She knows she has to leave. Now. She quietly makes her way up the stairs and out of the house, unnoticed. It is dark out, but it is still early. She gets in her car and drives slowly home. She knows she will have to face her parents. She walks in the door of her house and says “Hello,” but no one answers. She finds a note on the kitchen table from her parents saying that they had gone out for the evening. She has a rush of relief. She doesn’t have to make up excuses. The relief is short lived as she walks up the stairs to her room. It is replaced with a feeling of dread. She has to take a shower. She walks into her room and undresses. The shower is across the hall and in order to get there, she has to pass a mirror. She holds her breath and walks into the hallway. As she walks past the mirror, she only glances at her reflection. It is only a glance, but it stops her in her tracks. She turns toward the mirror and stares in disbelief at her body. She sees fat on her stomach that she swears wasn’t there before. Her hips and butt now look flabby. The guilt of the food intensifies. She pokes and pulls at her body trying to make it look prettier, skinnier, perfect. Her imperfections scream at her, tearing down every last part of her self esteem. And then something snaps. She sprints down the hall and into the bathroom. There is not mirror here. She is safe. But the image of her own flawed body haunts her. Fat. Fat. Fat. She steps into the hot water of the shower. Clear your head, she thinks. But she can’t escape her own body. Her hands are shaking. She loathes herself. Her own body is sickening to her. Fat. Fat. Fat. Her mind chants at her, unceasingly. This drives her to desperation. This drives her to clarity. There is a way to fix this, to undo her mistake. She has never tried this before, but it has to work. She leans over and sticks two fingers down her throat. She watches as her problem is washed away down the drain.
The next morning, she goes to the meet with her cross country team. She compares herself to the other thin, lean bodies of the runners around her. She fits right in.
I want to tell you that she isn’t me. I really do.



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

Site Feedback