Bulimia

She dreams of Paris. What adolescent female (who does not already inhabit the charming city) doesn’t dream of Paris? She imagines fashionable jackets and patterned scarves and chic dresses.

«Oh la la, vous êtes très belle.»

She wants to be Parisian. Or maybe just French. In fact, She’d like to be anything. Anything that isn’t what she is now. Anything better.

She knows how to get there. She knows what it takes to be special, to be perfect. She knows it, and she wants it.

«Oh la la, vous êtes très belle. »

She has a problem, however. She needs something else, just as much as she wants to be special. She can’t control her needs, doesn’t want to control them, because they are the only things that help her when the cruelty around her pierces her shell.

The needs started slowly. Just once-in-a-while. Nothing to worry about.

«Oh la la, vous êtes très belle. »

Then they started to get worse. They eroded her shell to nothing, and nothing could protect her but the need. The gruesome craving. But she still had her wants. She still had her drive to be special. And she still knew how to get there.

No matter what it took.

«Oh la la, vous êtes très belle. »

She was so ashamed, so disgusted. This was no graceful Parisian woman. This was a monster, a self-destructive monster. So she found a way to hide. She hid from everyone.
She hid from herself. She negated her needs to fulfil her wants and soon they all became obsessions.
«Oh la la, vous êtes très belle. »
She was so lost. So confused. Poor girl. It’s not her fault.
«Oh la la, vous êtes très malade.»





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