• Highest Ranking #1 in Bulimia •
•Highest Ranking #1 in Free Mental Illness •
He's a quarterback struggling with a secret eating disorder that's destroying his life.
She's a food-fanatic who loves every curve in her beautiful body.
When their scho...
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I'm standing on my tiled bathroom floor- barefoot.
The linoleum is cold under my feet and I have goosebumps crawling through my body, but I'm to scared to step on the scale just yet.
My whole body feels numb- as if preparing myself for emotional trauma. It's my weekly weigh in. Why would I feel differently.
What if I completely fucked up and proved myself a failure. What if I've damaged my body way beyond repair. What if theres nothing I can do to fix myself. Why did I let myself go this far. Why did I let my old self be so careless, immature. I let him ruin me.
With I shaky breath, I step onto the scale, the world around me freezing. It's like all movement has stopped, all sounds have been muted, and my eyes hesitantly roll down to stare at my weight.
I sigh, releasing a breath I didn't even know I was holding. At 6'4, at stand in at 151.6 pounds.
That's almost forty pounds down- in the last three month.
A grin breaks out in my face, but it only lasts for a few seconds, because now I realize that I have to maintain this weight- which means I should probably loose 10-15 more pounds just incase I gain any back.
I crumple down onto the ground, unable to restrain my frustration, why am I like this.
Is there something wrong with me?
There has to be. Why can't I stop. Why can't I stop loosing weight?
Why is it controlling my every move, shaping all my decisions, and distancing myself from the people I love.
Have I become so weak- I can't even take control my own body?
A huge sob escapes from within me, and it's not until I've finally let it out, that I've realized how long I've been holding it in. Without it, my lungs fill back with fresh air, rocks are removed from my shoulders, and this constricting and tightening pressure I had felt on my chest for weeks, loosens it's grip slightly. I sob again, this time into my arms as I push my knees into my chest.
I sit there, alone. Watching myself disintegrate into something less off a man. Loosing my masculinity with every shaky breath.
Dad always said guys had to be strong- always. He said we had to learn to keep are emotions in check, to control them. When I was little and I cried over lost toys or a scraped knee- he would frown.
"Be a man." He would sneer. "Don't act like a baby."
As I grew older, the words changed slightly.
"Don't be a pussy. Stop acting like such a girl. You're a fag."
But they still meant the same thing.
They meant that guys could have no heart, for humanity had no need for them.
