Sinister Tales

Cycle

Cycle

2015 © All Rights Reserved

I can stop when I want to.. Right?

Fifteen, I was just fifteen when I delved myself into a deadly scenario. In the beginning of it all, I knew.. no, I just convinced myself I would be able to take control of the situation if it ever did get bad, but little did I know, it was bad the moment I started to take part in this dangerous act.

It wasn't drugs, though some days the people around me wished it was drugs instead as they watched while I slowly destroyed my body, turning it from a healthy body to a fragile frame one that was deteriorating away with each passing moment.

I did it on a rare occasion, only ridding my body of the nasty, high calorie junk food I felt too guilty about eating when the late night cravings would urge me to the kitchen. The once in the blue moon times started to turn weekly, starting to make myself concerned about the meats I would eat. Soon it was turning to an every day thing. Not once a day, but as much as seven times a days.

Food. All my mind is occupied is with food. Not the sweet smells, taste or texture of the food, but the calories, how much fat was in each bite and so on. I would eat constantly, not able to resist opening the fridge or cabinets to munch on whatever things I could get my hands on, but as the food disappeared from my plate and into my stomach, a feeling would sink in. Guilt.

What did I just do? Why did I eat that much? How much weight am I going to gain?

To the bathroom I would go for the millionth time that day with the oblivious minds of my family and friends. How could they not see? How could they not hear me killing myself in the bathroom? How did they not notice the swollen cheeks, bloodshot eyes, marks on my knuckles or the very long trips to the bathroom? Maybe they did notice but didn't know how to help, but instead watched as the girl they knew was slowly turning into a mindless human with no regards to her own health anymore. A part of me hoped one time they would stop me from going to the bathroom and ask the simple question, "Are you okay?"

But they couldn't read my mind, they didn't know what I was going through. Hell, even I barely knew what I was going through.

Whatever I ate started to mean less than food, it wasn't food to me anymore, they were just numbers and I wanted the numbers I consumed every day to be as low as possible.

1,500

1,400

1,300

1,200

1,100

1,000

900

800

700

600

500

400

300

200

100

The numbers would slowly drop. Barely living on 100 calories a day. Not eating some days to give my body a break from the throwing up. I couldn't get out of bed anymore. I couldn't go in the sun without feeling like I was about to pass out. Sitting by a heater even on hot days because my body seemed to give up, barely producing enough body heat for myself.

Every day I could see more and more of my hair going down the drain, reminiscing on the days where it used to be full and soft. Now it was just brittle and thin. There was a time I got compliments on my skin, but now it was flaky and not "perfect" as people would tell me before I got into the bad state I was in.