Une Fleure Fanée

Week 5 Part 1 (Sunday)

     We take a water break, and I drink a bit of water, attempting to suppress my hunger. It doesn't work well. I look down at the floor a lot and everybody avoids me. Nobody likes you, Lilliana. You're the worst.

     The water break stops my stumbling though. I execute stuff with perfection, and the rest of the workshop goes smoothly enough. I'm exhausted. All the other kids barely break a sweat. You're so out of shape, Lilliana. You should die.

     I'm chatting with the other kids while packing up, trying to distract myself from my head. I'm a normal bubbly kid. On the outside. On the inside, I'm a fat, confused, depressed, and anxious brat that doesn't deserve to dance. But I'm masking my pain because I don't want to transfer my pain to other people.

     "Hey, Lilly, we're gonna go to the movies with Savannah and GiaNina to watch that second Lego movie," Mom tells me as I put on my seatbelt.

      I freeze. Movies meant popcorn and candy. I take a deep breath and smile, masking my fear.

      "Okay! I'm excited!" I reply, shaking my foot in anxiety, afraid that she's seeing through my lie.

     She smiles. I look on my phone for what the least caloric-dense candy is. Smarties. Smarties us 25 calories a roll. But then comes the popcorn. Movie theater popcorn varied from place to place. We pulled up to a Regal. Their popcorn has a lot of calories. A small one has 350 calories!

     I order a roll of Smarties and a small popcorn. So many calories. My breath is fast, but nobody notices. I'm shaking. 375 calories. I don't get how the other girls can get chocolates and sodas. I just order water. 0 calories.

     I can't focus on the movie at all. Every single bite I take makes me feel like a failure. You're a fucking bitch, Lilliana. You gotta purge. You're in a movie theater. Nobody will know. My stomach is churning. I feel like I was eight years old again, eating salads at lunchtime during schoolwork at the dance studio and rushing to the bathroom ten minutes later to throw it up.

     "I'm going to go to the bathroom," I whisper to GiaNina as I get up and leave the seating area to go to the bathroom.

      I don't understand how there is no one in the bathroom. This is a movie theater. All the women should be in the bathroom. Whatever, can't worry about that now. I rush over to the farthest stall from the door and succumb to the pressure, my fingers going down my throat. Tears are flowing down my face. I look flushed. I don't feel ashamed. I feel... proud.

     Good job, Lilliana. Good girl. Very good girl. I never get used to it whenever the voices say "Good girl." It's always "Good girl" for me. It's very... pedophilic almost? But it makes me feel comforted because what I tell myself is right. I am good at throwing up food that I wasn't supposed to eat.

     I stop my tears immediately, washing my face and collecting my breath. It's only been around three minutes, so I haven't taken a suspiciously long time. I rush back to the movie and nobody knows I have just thrown up half of my calories. I still have ingested too many calories, but it was less.

     Still too many, Lilliana. No matter how many calories you throw up or how little you eat, you'll still be a failure. I don't get to enjoy the rest of the movie, really. My mind is in different places. I manage to fit in with the other girls, however. I've still got it.

     "Hey, Lilly. Wanna film walking in a backbend out of the movie theater to see if you scare people?" Savannah asked me as we're walking out of the movie theater.

     My face lights up. I love doing pranks. Savannah and GiaNina get their phones as I bend into a backbend and start prancing in the movie theater. The moms have their cameras on too, and I start running up to people, scaring the heck out of them when they feel a tap on their calf and see a ten-year-old looking like a spider. After I scare a couple people, I roll back up effortlessly, freaking out more people as we run out, laughing our heads off.

      I need to savor these moments. When I don't feel either hungry, sick, or depressed. Because I know that the feeling will consume me more and more until I'm nothing. But I'm not afraid. You don't have time to be afraid.

     I don't do much for the rest of the day, a wave of sadness running through me, making me lose the ability to be productive. I lay in my bed, depressed, as I look at my thighs. I have a thigh gap, but it's barely there. My ribs show when I lay down, but when I stand up, skin and fat covers most of it.

     I say I'm not hungry for dinner. I'm starving. I had fucking 188 calories. As little as that number is, it's 188 calories too many. I can't eat tomorrow. I think Mom is starting to pick up on depression. She may have quit her job as a therapist, who specialized in eating disorders, because of dance, but she's still got it. How did I hide my bulimia for so long? Or this?

     I hear her talking on the phone with my doctor. I hear mentions of Fluoxetine and mentions of this new medication that sounds like cymbal. I have no clue. But it goes on for an hour before Mom finally goes to bed.

     I spot a tape measure in the bathroom drawer. Measure your chest, stomach, arms, and thighs. You're gonna be so fat. I measured my thighs. 17 inches. The arms are 12 inches. The stomach was fucking 21 inches. So big! The chest was 28 inches. Damn. I know I'm fat, but I didn't know how fat I am. I start to cry, but I have to save my tears for the pillowcase.

     Beep. 76.1 pounds. I frown. I didn't drop a number. You need to lose another sixteen pounds or so to be beautiful, Lilliana. I didn't lose a pound. I can't eat tomorrow. I just can't. I quickly put the scale away and the tape measure and rush to the bedroom, sobbing right when my head hits the pillow.

     I need to lose so much weight. These four pounds aren't going to make me skinny. But the lower the number gets, the prettier I will become. I just can't eat tomorrow.

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