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The Voice Called Ana
“You need to eat, you’re killing yourself,” Tristan’s eyes shine with sadness, “Your organs are shutting down, your hair is falling out, you pass out more often than the average person… You’re dying all because you won’t eat.”
“I wish it was that simple. I wish I could wake up one day and see how ‘dangerously thin’ everyone says I am. I’m not thin though. At least not in my eyes. This voice in my head keeps telling me that I’m getting there, that I’ll reach Nirvana soon, but I need to keep working until then because I’m still not perfect enough. I don’t know when I will be.”
“Baby, you are perfect and you were even before this whole thing started. You’re amazing, you’re beautiful, I love you. You need to stop. Please, you’re dying.”
“I tried,” tears threaten to spill from my eyes, “believe me, I tried. I want to get better. But I can’t. I’m terrified that everyone is lying to me and I really am fat. What if thats true? Huh? I can’t be fat. I can’t.” I recite the speech I’ve been assigned to give along with my ‘How to be an Anorexic’ handbook. Step one: Assure the everyone that you’ve tried/ are trying to get better. Make them think that you would like to go back to being a pump disappointment. Assure them that you’re trying to fatten yourself up again like a turkey being prepared for thanksgiving. Step one: Make them believe. Tristan grabs my hands and he winces. Probably because they’re so cold. I’m always cold. This monkey hair that coats me does nothing. It’s pointless.
“I’ll help you. I’ll help you get better. I’ll stay with you every step of the way. There will be bumps in the road but I’ll still be there. Please baby, please,” he turns my arm over and traces my scars with his fingers trying to hold back his terrified expression. He’s never been a fan of my art; what a damn shame, “I don’t want you to do this anymore.”
“I can’t have you help me.” He looks at me like I’ve slapped him across the face with a ton of bricks.
“Baby don’t say that-”
“No, Tristan. You deserve someone better,” Someone who’s not f'ing insane, “I can’t be saved.”
“Baby, I only want you-”
“No.” My blood boils, I’m furious with him. I’m so angry I want to rip the hair from my scalp and scream. I don’t want his help. I don’t want anyone’s help. I hate him, “I don’t want help,” I’m breaking step one of my anorexic handbook, “I don’t want to get better. I want legs so thin they could be used as tooth picks,” I laugh like a mad man, the sinister look on my face growing with each rule I break, “Maybe i want to die. Maybe I want to kill myself slowly; shut off one organ at a time. Starve myself to death. Or maybe, I’m just sick in a different way. Well, maybe I’m just a psychopath starving myself for shits and giggles,” I feel my eyes growing wild, “I’m f'ing insane, I’m not getting better,” I’m so satisfied with my defiance of rules I can’t help but laugh. The rage in Tristan’s eyes grow.
“You need to eat! It’s not hard! You put the food in your mouth, chew, swallow, and you’re done!” His voice booms around my delicate ears. The vibrations from his voice shatter my bones, cut through my skin. Jiggle my fat. Don’t yell at me, I’m fragile. I’ll break apart into a million peices.
“It’s not that easy! The sight of food makes me sick and eating it makes me feel like I might just die!” I’m so furious, steam blows from my ears, “I can feel the bits of food churning around in my stomach, oh God. It’ makes me sick. I wish I could wake up one morning and see in the mirror what everyone is telling me they see. All I ever see is just a fat pig staring back at me.” My voice breaks away and my anger subsides as I realize what I really achieve. The final product of the anorexic handbook. The step that you complete it you receive a metal usually dressed as a tombstone. Or the metal dressed as a feeding tube stuffed up your nose. Is that how you know you’ve won? Your definition of winning is the normal persons definition of a loser. Is that what I want? No.
I want to see the terrifyingly thin girl everyone else sees.
I want to see what scares them.