Entry 1

Part 1

In this life we make decisions that define us. My decisions have been reflected on, by myself and others, as a tangled mess that has never been unwound, and perhaps never meant to be . This is where; why; how; who I am today. 

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I listened to his voice. The music behind the sounds of his comments was a mere whisper and his crisp tone was a stabbing knife. I performed with an enormity that was unfound until that moment; a passion flowing freely from my body that was a wave of something beautiful and authentic. My hard work- blood, sweat, and tears; for this 2 minute performance that would be shredded by the critics before I could get off stage. 

No. Not the performance; but the performer. Her movement and passion massively overlooked by her body. The shape was not what they were looking for. The midsection was not that of a ballet supreme. On to the next. 

I heard these harsh judgments loud and clear like a roaring from an ominous mountaintop that I would never reach. The mirror begged for my attention and when I looked into its depths, I too saw the girl he had described. Frumpy, unfit, and unable.

I was twelve. 

My ballet studio, the sanctuary that I would previously call home, came crashing down around me. I would not cry. I would work harder, be stronger. I would be what they wanted and needed me to be. From this moment on, I was their pawn to be played until the game was won. 

Little did I know what my small, young mind was brewing for me. An evil mass of self hatred and pity, a cesspool of despair. My depictions of myself became tarnished and mirrors were the works of the devil. I could not bear to look at myself, The Disappointment. 

I did not see my wrongdoings as such; only a magic tool that I could use to quickly become what I needed to be. I did more than purge my food, I was purging the girl who was torn to pieces by an unqualified critic of the male species. I purged out all of the bad, so much that I purged out all of the all. There was no more little girl, the innocence came up along with yesterday's dinner as my fingers forced up what needed out. 

My youth betrayed me. I was uneducated in the department of the disease known as bulimia. I lost the youthful glow of my skin, and replaced it with a pale, almost purple, hue of abuse. My smile, much less bright, become nonexistent and an exhausting cause. My body was failing me because I failed it. The frailness of my limbs made it that much harder to critique myself in this whole scheme that started the war. I was unable to complete routines without feeling the world spinning around me. The headaches were almost as unbearable as passing a mirror and seeing what was looking back at me.

This is what he wanted. I had lost pounds, inches.. myself. I was their piece and they had played me until the end. The robot that replaced my body knew no bounds. Morning and night, my upheaval was a vicious cycle to linger for the years to come. 

It took one man's voice, on one tape, on one day to completely ruin my image of beauty. One instant a smiling face is tarnished into a horrible disease that ultimately destroyed my childhood. I will never be the same. Mirrors are the enemy, even today. The harsh words live inside my head and swarm around when times get tough. 

Recovery was a long, winding road that never seemed to have an end. But oh my, the end was worth the wait. Recovery does not mean forgetfulness, or even forgiveness. I personally see it as a way to cope and stop the physical betrayal of my body. The mental aspect of these disorders never fully die out, and oftentimes return in the darkest depths. 

Out of it all, I can say this: I grew. I learned. I am stronger now.