Center For Skinnies And Psychos
How It All StartedWell, I guess I should tell you how I ended up at the Arizona Center for Treatment and Recovery, before I tell you about the experience from hell that I am living here.
I was the popular girl at The Willington Academy of Vermont. I had the blondest of blonde, naturally straight hair, muscular but not bulky body with meat in all the right places, a smile that made people instantly comfortable, and an amazing set of natural social skills. Not to mention I was head cheerleader.
One day, I was on my way to cheer practice in my little shorts and tank top. I was walking quickly, and I happened to pass my ex-boyfriend, Markus, and his gang of idiotic friends. As usual, he checked me out, snickered, and punched his buddies in the shoulder. Yet this time, he ended that routine by yelling two words that I will never forget: thunder thighs.
I could not even turn around to face him. I stopped, felt my face flush and heat up, and stormed away towards the gym. Was I fat?
Upon arriving at practice, I informed my best friend, Claire, about this, who informed me that they were pathetic, and that I was out of my right mind for letting them get to me. She reassured me that I was drop-dead gorgeous; most of the guys in this school wanted me, and most of the girls wanted to me she. She said that I was the sixteen year old teenage dream. Nevertheless, I did not believe her.
For the next few days, I started skipping all of my meals, coming up with stupid excuses, like stomach flu, or exhaustion. But after a week of this, my mother made me sit down at the table, and she would not let me get up until I cleared my plate.
"I see a trend, Bethany, that I cannot ignore. You are starting to go down a road that a girl like you has no purpose going down. You and I both know that this is some stupid attempt to lose weight, and I'm not letting it fly." my mother had said, as calm as if she was telling me that I got a letter in the mail today.
So I sat down at the table, and ate my chicken, potatoes, and God-awful pasta without throwing my fork down. I seriously thought that she wanted me to be overweight.
Once I was done dinner, I walked up the stairs to my private bathroom. After tying my hair up, I leaned over the toilet bowl, put one finger down my throat, and lost all of the calories that I had consumed. Little did I know that this would become an obsession, an addiction; a mental illness.
I remember the night that I passed out at school, on the gym mat, during a very important practice. All of my friends had been concerned; the coach was on the verge of calling my mother. I saw colors flashing, and then nothing.
Next thing I knew, I was no longer in Vermont; I was in the waiting room of the Arizona Center for Treatment and Recovery, discussing pricing plans and the duration of my stay. Money was no issue; I was staying until I was completely healed.
When my new therapist told me welcome, she forgot to add two words to that sentence: to hell.