I stand before the full body mirror in my room, wearing a flimsy camisole and grey shorts. I pull up my tank so I can pinch my stomach where the fat is gathered. I frown.


“How repulsing.”


I stand sideways to the mirror, and my frown widens. My belly is threatening to explode, no doubt from the ham sandwich I just ate. It isn't just fat around my stomach though, it is fat everywhere. Timidly, my fingers pinch the underside of my arms. Too fat. I must be skinny, not this ugly monstrosity.


“But you look far from skinny, kiddo. Another hour on the treadmill wouldn’t hurt you.”


Later that day I tell my mother that I’m full and excuse myself from dinner. I didn’t eat more than a few pieces of broccoli and some chicken, but that is already too many calories.
My vomit is flushed down the toilet.


In the basement, there is a dry erase board displayed clearly for me to see. It says “100 crunchers. 25 jumping jacks. 1 mile. Repeat.” I do the crunchers, jumping jacks and jogging on the treadmill with only one goal in mind. Every fiber in my body protests in fatigue, but there is no stopping.


As always my lifeless body is passed out on the ground after the relentless workout. As always, my mother or father carry me to my room and tuck me into bed. But I know they get more and more panicked each time they do this task. I know this because sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to my parents whispering urgently to each other. Their murmuring floats into my room like poisonous gas. I can hear every word. I can hear my mother stumbling on her words and my father’s disappointed and frustrated sighs. I can hear every choke and sob. During those nights, I know my parents’ fears.
My heart and lungs constrict agonizingly, because I see who I have become; I am their nightmares.


I am not the silly girl who laughs freely or the dependable girl who is a loyal friend. Not anymore. Deep inside, a monster was born and quickly grew, taking over my every being. Soon the only thing left of me was this shell. I am a walking mannequin.


There are many things that I hate now. I have added calories, fat, mirrors, and weight scales on the list. During the summer, I will add bikinis and shorts. Eventually I’ll be brave enough to admit that I’ve grown to hate myself too. The list will continue to get longer as I bury myself deeper.


Yet again, I am afraid. I know my quest for perfection will be the death of me.