I had a friend named Mia, if you would even call her a friend at all. We met when I was only thirteen years old. Everyone is awkward during their preteen years. The hallways are full of brace faced, acne proned kids with often not so proportional bodies. Long arms, skinny legs, chubby tummies, and thick faces. Mia was different though and from afar looked flawless. Her perfectly shaped body was enough to make any girl jealous and attract attention from all the boys. I knew that Mia would have an easy life, people would always appreciate her allure. Celebrities and models are consistently in the spotlight. Although little is known about their personalities, intelligence, community service or faith their beauty is enough for everyone to idolize them. These idols could be lying, terrorizing drug addicts for all anyone knows. It will never matter though; their looks are all they will ever need. After all it’s an ugly society full of beautiful people.
She was a terrible friend. The initial reaction began to fade when I realized how clingy she was. Mia dug into my life deeper than anyone else. Every emotion I had ever felt became raw when she was around. There was no way to hide my feelings, thoughts, or even where I had been. She felt like a shadow and often became the third wheel on all of my outings. Mia judged everything I did claiming it was these “friends” of mine that forced me to go out and eat that fattening juicy hamburger. An attention seeker to say the least, Mia felt the need to push away anyone else I became close to. Friends became memories and my family became a group of distant strangers.

Already a self-conscious adolescent, I felt even more aware of my imperfections when Mia was around. She never failed to point out every dimple, sag, and thickness on my body. My cheek bones were not prominent enough, the baby fat lining my stomach was disgusting, and the muscle on my thighs was only weighing me down. Promises began to pile up of how perfect my life would be if I trusted her. “People will recognize you,” she said, “and only then will you be happy.”
My naïve self then let Mia be in control of every decision I made. The bathroom tiles felt cold underneath my legs. It would be impossible to tell the sweat on my face apart from the tears rolling from my eyes. My skin felt heavy, burning and sticky to the touch. My knuckles were a crimson red from the bite marks. My throat was swollen, pulsing, making it painful to even swallow down my spit. I looked up at the family pictures that hung on the wall. A youthful girl with a smile so big it looked like her face would soon explode looked back at me. It was hard to believe the picture was taken only a few years back. Tears began to fall down my face again. Inhaling a deep breath I began to smell the disgust. The three warm, fresh baked chocolate cookies I had eaten only ten minutes ago now looked like a giant pile of mush. “You’re a failure,” Mia had told me, “You can’t have those. Get rid of them right now!”
I reached up and felt my collarbones. They were nearly protruding out of my skin. My hand fell down to my stomach where each rib was clearly distinguishable. I licked my lips and tasted the remnants of the cookies. How could something so delicious cause this much pain? Mia had warned me that the full feeling in my stomach was a trick. It was not grumblings I heard when I didn’t eat but rather my stomach cheering me on in my success to become thinner. I had only let myself down. Luckily enough Mia had taught me this trick to become back in control of the situation. Clearly being able to regurgitate anything on command was a gift so sacred that I could not let anyone know. Telling someone would only allow them to do the same. I wanted everyone to be curious of how I had become so perfect and jealous that they would never be able to look like me.
The secret felt like a burning curse on my lips some days. People often underestimate the amount of self-hatred it takes to make yourself throw up. I wanted so badly to share with someone why I always felt dizzy and why my eyes always appeared to be glazed over. The cycle began to control my life. What was once a battle against food became a full fledge war. I felt my body weakening more each day with every binge and purge. The results were always the same, as I ran to the mirror afterwards I’d expect to see perfection staring back at me. Without a fail though I only saw the same old lines and sags. Mia and I began to fight constantly as the months continued. “I don’t feel any happier. I feel alone. I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” I would scream at her. It was no use; she was a leach that would suck all the blood and life out of me until there was nothing left. It took every ounce of strength I had to admit I needed help to rid myself of Mia.
I now acknowledge Mia for who she truly is, bulimia. A counselor helped me discover that Mia and her acquaintance Ana, more commonly known as anorexia, attach themselves to thousands of growing girls and boys. The war against them is not over. It is impossible to tell who is followed by them and for that very reason I plan to study dietetics in college. One battle at a time I will pull Mia and Ana away from destroying more adolescent bodies. It is not required to be malnourished and skeletal in order to be beautiful in this ugly society.