Writing has always been my real therapy. (my apologies to my therapist…if it is any consolation you are on speed dial) Even when I knew my actions were dangerous, that I was hurting myself, I still had no control. Because it was the only thing keeping me sane. It was a glass of wine and Xanax combined keeping me calm and off the edge all the while pushing me over the edge.
I stare at my reflection
Nose to small
Face to round
Lips to thin
Cheeks to big
Nothing is right
Nothing is beautiful
I skip breakfast
I skip lunch
Dinner I only nibble
A week later
Cheeks are thinner
Nose a bit more prominent
Eyes to small
Lips still to thin
I run extra miles
I eat nothing at dinner
Two weeks
Three weeks
Four weeks
Finally
Finally a definition between cheek bone and jaw
Finally my face less round
Finally I start to see my clavicle
Finally my double chin is fading
Finally I am on my way to perfection
I eat nothing
Take extra hot yoga
Run extra long
A month
Two
Three
Maybe a year
Or two
Or three
I have lost count
Time doesn’t matter
I am in the throes of perfection
An endless process
All with in my grasp
I look in the mirror
My eyes are gaunt
My cheekbones protruding
My ribs stick out from under my chest
My arms are sticks
But I still don ‘t see
My hard work seems for naught
I don’t see beauty
I see weakness
I see failure
I see self loathing
There is no more counting calories
No more running that extra mile
There is nothingness to reach
Because I am nothingness
A bundle of bone and fleshy fat
Withers to nothingness
And yet
I still have not reached perfection
It is out of my grasp
Always
Always
Always
Until finally
I have done all I can
I am a withered flower
Broken
Trampled on
Crushed by society
Standards I can not meet
A nothingness
I stare at my reflection
And I see nothing
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