I wake to the sound of my alarm clock buzzing and I step out of bed, feeling light-headed and slightly dizzy. I rub my eyes in an attempt to wake myself up a little and when my hand slowly glides down my cheek, its stops to an abrupt holt when it reaches the bone, jutting out of my skin. I walk to the mirror slowly and stand inches away, beginning to analyse myself as I do so many times each day. I can find fault with every single thing about myself. I touch my head, wincing at the wispy hair slipping through my fingers. My skin is a sickly white with a green tinge and my blue eyes are lifeless and are sunken deep into my skin, with black marks underneath. My lips are trembling because I am about to cry. I should be used to this. It’s me. But I can’t help but think ‘who is this emaciated, disgusting looking girl I see before me in the mirror?’ My collar bone is poking sharply out of my far too big pyjama top and my arms are like twigs, so, so weak. My legs are long and thin and always feel as if they will collapse at any moment. One of these moments is now. I sit down on my bed and hug my frail body, bringing my knees up to my chest. I brush my teeth and splash water over my face. No improvement. I cake myself in make-up in an effort to disguise my tired face. Still no improvement. I look like a clown but at least it’s better than looking like me. Ill. I dress myself in a tight top and tight jeans but even they are too baggy for my abnormally thin frame. I take one last look in the mirror. ‘You’ve got to change yourself’ I whisper to my reflection. I cannot believe I used to see rolls of fat on my body when I looked in the mirror. I didn’t listen to my friends and family who had told me I’d lost weight. I'd thought I had gained weight. I look hideous, a skeletal girl whose beauty has been stripped away from her. But there’s no one else to blame. I did this to myself.