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My story about Anorexia

Ninety pounds. Finishing the muffin I had for lunch, I sit in the corner of the couch with a blanket covering my body. My dad walks past to the kitchen without noticing me. This happens frequently; he just doesn't see me. A cool wind blows past stuck with it a scent of emotion. My body cannot get comfortable on the seat, with my bones so cold and poking my skin. I'm lost, hidden in my own off-world. Everything is okay in my off-world; it is warm and comforting.

Dinner time. Again? I'm not hungry.

I lay in bed, trying to sleep. Tossing and turning, curling up into a fetal ball, I cannot get warm. My legs and arms fall asleep therefore I stretch myself out on my back. I lay there with my hands resting in the slope between my hips and stomach, my arms tight to my side. Each breath, and heartbeat, is slow and mucky. I quickly get up to run to the resort for the third time.

Breakfast. I can't eat now, too nervous.

I step on the scale, naked and shivering. Eighty-nine pounds. Not too bad, still have that stomach though! Walking the long path to the building I pant and feel exhausted, wanting to sleep right there on the sidewalk, if only it were warm.

I glance in the three-way mirror. I can see my back, my ribs and spine all looking back at me. My butt sagging. I look close to the mirror, my skin translucent. There are purple circles around my eyes. I've lost more than half my hair. What's happened?

I can't eat without staring at the food. I pick it apart, and push it around my plate. I can't keep up with all the rules I have for myself. I constantly break them anyway. I'm horrid even to myself. I did this, I deserve the punishment. It's all my fault. How [the hell] will I tell my parents?

I sit on the cold hard metal medical bed with a sheet of paper covering it, rehearsing over and over what I'll say to the doctor. A woman comes in to weigh me and take my blood pressure. One hundred pounds. "When was your last period?" She asked. "Eight months ago." She proceeded to ask if I had been pregnant or sick. "God, you're not throwing up are you?" Of course not, that never worked.

I sit and wait more for the doctor, rehearsing again what I'd tell her, feeling quite defeated by the comments of the previous woman. Finally she comes and tells me, yes, it's Anorexia Nervosa.

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