Lap number five: I can feel my heartbeat behind my eyes, my toes are pulsating, and my breaths are shallow and quick. I blink, but I don’t reopen my eyes. Next, I’m wondering how I ended up face-down on the hot rubber of the track. This is an under-600 day. 100 at breakfast, 150 at lunch, 100 for snack, and the smallest amount I can get away with at the family dinner table. Water all day, a three-hour workout after school to ensure a negative net intake. The smaller I am, the faster I run; I stand up and take a deep breath and my tiny frame begins my second sub-six minute mile.
At a party, I’m wearing my favorite dress. I smile and laugh and feel unbelievably happy as I eat lettuce with no dressing and croutons and obviously no cheese. My wrists are beautiful, fragile rings and my collarbones are sharp and prominent. I am wonderfully delicate. I look at pictures from that night. I try to convince myself that my pointed shoulders look glamorous and that it’s beautiful to see shadows of ribs where cleavage should reside and that the dark circles under my eyes are just do to the lighting…
Thinspiration. It’s a beautiful word, right? Does it take only a sick person to feel inspired by black and white images of eighty-pound girls with scarred arms and cigarettes dangling gingerly from spidery, pale fingers? I am consciously aware that my thoughts are more distorted than a funhouse mirror. My complacency is disgusting.
At a party, my thoughts are hazy and blurred by an unknown number of drinks. I look at my own arms, faintly decorated with the art of insanity. I’m holding my first cigarette. Vodka has so many calories. I place the burning end on my forearm until it extinguishes. I wish it hurt.
It’s all over now. I can’t tell you what started or ended my battle. I can’t blame the media; I rarely watch TV or read magazines. I’ve never been bullied or abused or teased. I’ve never been overweight. Throughout this two-year long mental war, I continued getting excellent grades and hanging out with friends and applying to colleges. No one suspected a thing, and I never told a soul. It’s summer now, and I know I’ve gained weight. I would be lying if I said that it didn’t bother me, but I haven’t weighed myself in months and I’m not planning to. I am now happy with the fact that I no longer look like a gust of wind would take me away when I wear a bikini. Every day is a step towards normalcy.