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I’m scared one day I’ll wake up and there’ll be a skeleton in my bed.

It began when she was six.
When they pushed her down and violated her. Abused her.
When they forced her to touch them and taste them.
And when they finished all she could think was, is there something wrong with me?
Never for a second did occur to her that there might be something wrong with them too.

Later, she began to cut.
At first she cut because it was the only aspect of her life she could fully control.
But eventually the cutting began to replace her emotions.
Angry? Cut yourself.
Upset? Cut yourself.
Frustrated? Cut yourself.
Lonely? Cut yourself.
She was out of control again. So she went looking for something new.

That was the first time you spoke to her.
You wafted into her mind like a warm breeze.
You were a friend. An ally.

“Don’t worry about them. About your past.” You said. “You have me now. I love you. I’m going to make you perfect. I’m going to put you in control. Of,” You paused. “Of food.”
She widened her eyes.
“Because,” You continued. “Once you restrict yourself, you can be beautiful. And you won’t even remember them anymore.”

At first it was little things. Small changes.
She ate one, instead of two slices of toast for breakfast. Then half a slice.
She would eat only half her sandwich.
Her meal proportions grew smaller and smaller.
But, as she ate less, the hunger grew.
She could feel the emptiness, the hollowness. She needed food. She wanted food. Wanted it so badly it hurt.

Food. She gathered so much food.
And she ate it all. She couldn’t get enough. Oh she was drowning in esurience.
She stuffed, crammed and jammed it into her mouth, forced it down her throat. Swallowed over and over, until it became a heavy lump in the bottom of her stomach.

“You’ve disappointed me.” You spoke softly, your tone smooth and cold.
“Do you feel bad?”
Oh she did. She felt revolting, repulsive, FAT.

“You’re a greedy, worthless, selfish pig.” You said in that deadly calm voice. “You’re disgusting. You’re fat.”

That three-lettered word that would haunt her forever.

“You’re fat.” You repeated. “But there’s still time to undo your wrong-doings. Start over. Start again. And I hope, I hope we don’t have a repeat of this gormandizing behavior.”

So she leaned over the toilet, stuck a finger down her throat just as you instructed, and disposed of her gluttony.

“Good girl.”
Those two words made it all worth it.

And that was the first time she purged. And the first time you revealed your darker side.

The cycle continued.
She began to collect her lunches in plastic bags she kept in the cupboard.
She stopped eating breakfast.

Occasionally she gave in and allowed herself to eat. But as soon as she started she couldn’t stop.
And after she had to pay for her betrayal.

“I’m trying,” You said, you’re voice breaking. “I’m trying so hard to make you beautiful, perfect, thin. Can’t you see? Don’t you care about me?”

She hated herself then. Purging wasn’t enough when she broke the rules anymore. She began cutting again. She punched herself, her stomach, her thighs.
She exercised for hours a day.

She started getting sore throats. Her skin was dry and blotchy and her legs and stomach were bruised.
She could count her ribs. She could fit her hands around the top of her leg.
But she wasn’t there yet.

That’s when you started taking over. Or at least, that’s when she realized. That’s when she wanted to stop, but she couldn’t. She was in too deep.

Just as the cutting had taken over her emotions, the binging took over her feelings.

Nothing was working anymore. You were constant. Always there in her head whispering toxic nothings into her ear.

She stole a box of laxatives. Just plucked it from the shelf and shoved down her sleeve. No one noticed.

She began taking one a day, then two, then three. It was messing up her insides. She was felt sick all the time. Her headaches grew worse and worse.
She felt her heart pounding constantly in her ears.

More bags of food made their way into the cupboard. It began to smell. She used cans and cans of deodorant to block the malodor.
The cupboard was filling up.
She hid food for secret binge sessions in the bedside drawer then promptly forgot about it.
She stole over-the-counter diet pills.
She weighed herself excessively.
Before meals, after meals, during meals.

She had no friends, she was frustrated and angry. She fought with her parents. She lied and deceived them.
“You don’t need them anymore.” You told her. “You have me. You don’t need them to make you happy.”

And you know the funny thing was?
She wasn’t happy. She was depressed and alone. She was felt… violated.
And it reminded her of them. Of how they abused and handled her.

She tried to fight it. She tried to eat without feeling bad. She threw away her laxatives and diet pills and blades.
But nothing worked and she would find herself again and again at your mercy.

Then her mother found the bags of food, tucked away in the cupboard.

She got help.

~

Recovery. I laugh at the word.
You can never fully ‘recover’ from an eating disorder.
You can never fully ‘recover’ from depression or self harm.
It’s always going to be there, in the back of your mind.
You can only become stronger than it.
Only you can defend yourself from the evils that linger deep within your mind.
You have to be stronger than them because as soon as you show any sign of weakness they will attack.

I’m stronger than you now. And I won’t let you take control of me again.
I will never become the skeleton you wanted me to be.
I’m not going to be afraid of you anymore.
Eating is not a sin. Eating will not make me fat.
An eating disorder is murder because that’s what you were doing to me. Killing me slowly.

But I don’t want to die yet. And I prove that to you every time I take a bite…