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I was wearing my Chanel sunglasses. You can hide anything behind Chanel Sunglasses.
"Anastasia! I love your dress. It's adorable."
"Thanks" I said, with a perfectly mastered "Sure, I believe you smile".
Walking back to my car after school, a chunky, "trying to hard to be popular" girl stopped me.
"Your Juicy Couture bag is amazing; I wish i could afford that."
"Thanks" I said, once again using the smile trick.
I guess I am lucky.
Walking into my 4,000 square foot house in the midst of beachy suburbia, my phone rings. I rolled my eyes at the name on the screen: Mommy.
"Hi. What are you doing?"
"Just walked in."
"Alright, what are you going to eat?"
"Maybe some cereal or something."
"Don't put too much milk in it. You'll get fat."
"Ok, i know."
"Don't go to sleep either, go upstairs and run on the treadmill. You've been looking a little chubby this week."
Instead of opening the pantry to find some cereal, I opened the freezer. Ice cream. Ice cream is the best. Straight out of the carton. The vanilla tasted freezer-burnt. Left over from Christmas, and it was April. Still, I shoved more and more spoonfuls into my mouth. After the day I had, I needed it. They have to stop talking about me. The rumors just make it worse. I put the carton down and looked at the damage I had done. Then, cautiously I turned to the nutrition facts, No. I couldn't have eaten this much.
I ran into the bathroom. Chugged a glass of water. I used two fingers. They no longer hurt as i sled them down my throat. I gagged. Holding my hair back with one hand, all of it came out. It still tasted like ice cream. My eyes turned blood shot. And afterward, my throat was sore from my fingers scratching it. It was terrible. The bitter taste disgusted me. Still, I wouldn't stop. What I did was not uncommon. It wasn't a random teenage act of insanity. I did it everyday.
It was my fifth night at the gym that week. With my stick-thin, perfectionist mother on the treadmill next to me, I pushed myself harder. My knees were killing me. My breath got heavier. I had to stop, I had run practically an hour.
"Can we go now?"
"You're done already? Anastasia, how are you going to fit into that new dress you bought with hips like those? Go run some more."
"Ok, I will in a minute."
I had eaten only a salad and an apple that day, and it was eight o'clock. I checked every bathroom stall.
It was empty.
Just like I had done everyday for the last few months, I used two fingers. I basically just threw up water. If it was just water why did i feel so fat? Fat. That's what my mom called me. "I'm a size zero. I should be healthy." That's what I told myself as I leaned against the wall, unable to stand up by myself. My eyes teared up. That's what happens when you push yourself places you don't need to be.
"Jessie, I need to tell you something."
"What girl, what's up?"
"I have a problem."
"Ok, what? You can tell me."
"I'm...I'm uh. Bulimic. That's the word."
"No way! Why? That's nasty."
"I know, Jessie."
"Then why do you do it? Stop."
"I can't help it."
"Yeah you can. Just stop. You look good."
"I can't stop. I'm...Addicted."
"Ok, now you just want attention. Let's talk about something else. What are you wearing to Alex's thing on Friday?"
It was getting out of control.
Twice a day.
After everything I ate, if I did eat. I was fat. My mom told me. I knew everyone else thought it too. My problem wasn't making things too much better. It became my drug. Some people smoked, I threw up. Food became the enemy. I had to get away from it. Even if I hadn't eaten, I threw up. I threw up when I screwed up. When I failed a test, I threw up. When my friends ditched me, I threw up. When my mom finished yelling at me, I went upstairs, turned the music on, and threw up.
I opened my eyes and it was dark.
"Where am I? How did I get here?"
Pushing the door open, I realized I was at home. I had passed out on my bathroom floor.
That day at school, no one knew. They didn't know what I was hiding. Stepping out of my car, I put on my Chanel Sunglasses. You can hide anything behind Chanel Sunglasses.