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teddydriveshome · 6 years ago

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teddydriveshome · 7 years ago

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5 AM my alarms blares and I jerk awake. I drag my tired body to the bathroom, take off all my clothes, and weigh myself. My skin looks like a bottle of milk save for the freckles dotting my arms. The scale reads the same number I recorded on my “thinspo” blog when I was 12, except now I’m 18. When I was 12 I thought I was going to be the next Coco Chanel of Gianni Versace and my mind was bright and hopeful.

I spend another five minutes staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, twisting and contorting my body to see how small I can look or how far my ribs can stick out. 12 year old me would scream in delight but I feel like screaming in horror. Pulling on my clothes I see my finger nails are faintly blue, a warning that doubles as built in nail polish. I don’t walk into the kitchen, I float because nothing ever really feels real anymore.

The kettle screeches as I boil water and the coffee maker putters away while I look at the clock. It’s 5:10 now and I have to leave at 7. School doesn’t start till 8 and it’s not far away but I know I need time to get everything right. After carefully pouring almond milk into a ¼ cup scoop I take my bevridges and set to getting dressed.

Standing in front of my closet I knock my knees together to make sure they’re still there between sips of warm water. At 13 I learned that warm water keeps you full on zero calories, or maybe just the idea that you’re full. I remember copying the tip from the computer into my sparkly pink notebook. Jeans and a dark top are my uniform of choice these days and I traded my sparkly pink notebooks for black and blue to settle in.

I pull on a tight black v neck and stare at a pile of t shirt for a second. A pile of psychedelic tie dyes swirled together, unworn, probably still faintly smelling of pot and sugary vanilla perfume. I don’t like them anymore they remind me of the girl I killed, the loud and giggly pothead. Last summer I sat at my desk in one of the shirts working over a watercolor painting and my hair reached my waist. Three months ago I hacked off half my hair with kitchen scissors, a girl at school said it was cute and I wanted to set myself on fire.

My skin is ghostly and the cheap black hair die isn’t helping. Somehow a face of makeup makes me look worse so I dab on chapstick and squeeze my cheeks for color. It’s time to leave so I put on a jacket, then my winter coat because without the extra layer I know I would shake until hypothermia set in. Locking the front door behind me I twist the knob, let go, then twist it again four times to make sure it’s locked and I can leave. I make it halfway across my porch before I have to repeat the process so I know it’s really locked. In my car I only listen to Jim Morrision.

I park the car but here is the hardest part of my day. I switch the headlight on and off again and again to make sure I didn’t forget so my battery doesn’t die. On off on off on off on off. The anxiety subsides a bit and I rush out of the car before it comes back. I stand in from and stare at my headlights for five minutes, squinting at the to make sure it’s not an illusion and the lights are off.

I feel like I’m trying to talk myself off the ledge, trying so hard to tell myself that everything is okay and assure myself they’re off. I finally start walking to the school entrance and get halfway there before the fear takes over again and I have to see if I left the lights on. I didn’t.

I float through the hallways up to the third floor like I don’t exist. Someone is sitting in front of my locker and my heart rate skyrockets with nervous energy, the interaction happens without a hitch but the adrenaline drains me and I can’t even look the person in the eyes, all I know is that my hands are shaking too much and I put the wrong locker combination in twice.

Someone stops me in the hallway on the way to class and I barely register their words. It ends with an invitation to something I know I won’t go to because I’m sure nobody wants me there.

First period I jot down notes but have to stop often because my hands shake too much. Second period is spent shivering in my English classroom. There’s a quiz on novel pages I didn’t read so I leave smiley faces for answers I can’t even guess at. I knock my ribs against my desk to distract myself from thinking about how I know my car headlights are still on.

1, 2, 3, 4

The bell rings and my heavy legs carry me to the library for study hall. I try doing homework but after five minutes I slump onto the table top with my face in my hands and sleep. I feel like a junkie. I wish I was addicted to heroin, so I could lull my brain asleep with the drug, not have to work so hard to see the daylight between my legs and ribs through my skin. I’d wear tank tops, so everybody could the track marks and know how in trouble I am. I’m a terrible person for thinking that. I should be oh so grateful that I’ve been struck with the most attractive illness, how accepted and praised I am for my “self-control” while drug addicts are shunned by society. The funny thing is I have no self-control or self-respect for that matter.

The bell wakes me up and the librarian glares at me. How dare I sleep among all this great literature that could’ve enlightened me and increased my knowledge. I know I’m a waste of space and she knows it too.

The rest of the day blurs minutes into hours. Eat lunch, squeeze the grains of rice to get the fat out, stay awake while my teachers drone on about nothing I’ll remember, smile a nod when my peers talk to me even though I’m sure I’m their charity case. My brain always feels foggy, I wish I could saw off my skull cap and wipe the dust off my brain with a Clorox wipe, or maybe I’d just smear the matter of the walls instead.

Last period is dance class and I’m trapped in a room with three walls of mirrors. As a child I wanted to be a graceful, thin, beautiful ballerina. Now I’m the thinnest I’ve ever been and not even halfway to looking like a ballerina. I get marked off on my technique because I don’t have the strength to hold my leg in position anymore. Waste of space.

School ends and I sprint to my car because I am positive I left my lights on, the doors unlocked, and someone ransacked my borrowed car all while I was wasting tax dollars away in my public school.

In my room I stare at the stack of college acceptance letters. Weeks ago I found myself wandering the aisles of a craft store with no recollection of how I got there or what I was looking for. I don’t know how I’ll have the brain capacity to study business or anything else for that matter. Maybe I should just drop out of high school now and cut my losses.

I drink my fourth cup of coffee of the day and then drag myself to the gym to bike for an hour but reach nowhere. It’s Friday and everyone’s trying to get a pump before going out. It must be nice to go out but I rejected every invitation I got until they just stopped. Home now I eat a bag of spinach and a sweet potato. Some vegan girl preached to me over the internet that potatoes are the most filling carbs. Her hip bones and cheek jutted out. “You can look like me” she said, twirling around her lithe body. I’d be dead before I be as thin as her so why not try. In a burst of anxiety I eat a spoonful of peanut butter because I’m afraid my hair is gonna fall out, I’m afraid I won’t be here in a year, and I’m afraid of the disappointment from everyone that knew me as a giggly pothead. Thin vegan woman would be mad, “the fat you eat is the fat you wear” is one of her slogans. I hate and love her so much. I know I do this to myself but I wish she would rot, the older sister I never had, yelling at my through a computer screen.

My phone screen stays blank and I’m thankful I won’t have to make any piss poor excuses tonight.

I drink more water to make my insides pink and shiny. I wish I could scrub my intestines with a brillo pad to make sure everything’s gone. Then I would be 100% me, no foreign matter. But I don’t even know who she is anymore.

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teddydriveshome · 7 years ago

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