Examples

118.2 lbs I shot up; a hard feat while lying on my stomach, my head underneath two pillows. The blankets had twisted around my legs, effectively immobilizing them, while my headphones threatened to strangle me. Before I could detangle myself, the rustling started again. Not an unfamiliar noise this early, but much closer to my mattress than they'd ever dared come before. I squinted, hoping to spot a rodent silhouette in the dim green glow from my smoke detector, but the room was nearly as dark as the backs of my eyelids. The distinct plastic crinkling of a chip bag followed by distressed squealing brought my attention to my nightstand. I fumbled my fingers across the base of my bedside lamp, knocking something off the nightstand before finding the switch. My eyes were slow to adjust to the sudden brightness but I could make out a tiny dark figure darting across the carpet. The squealing hadn't stopped but had become so much quieter after turning the light on that my groggy brain couldn't find its source. “Great to be home,” I whispered sarcastically. Across the room, I could make out the hour hand between three and four, though the clock hung lopsided from the single nail in the wall. It could’ve been any time between midnight and four am. "Too early for this s***," I muttered, pulling my comforters over my head. My eyes were so warm and heavy that what little lamp light that peaked through the fabric wasn't enough to keep me awake. When I was eventually able to pry my crusted eyes open, sunlight streamed in through the two inch gap between the top of the window and the curtain rod. My phone had worked its way under my left shoulder with my earbuds creeping under my sweatshirt. My eleven am alarm buzzed, sending a strange vibrating sensation down my back. As I fully emerged from my blanket cocoon, a heavy scent of decay permeated the usual rotten, molding food smell that lingered in my room. I yearned to investigate but the thought of finding a little dead mouse body made me shudder. I jumped off the bed, careful to avoid the sea of trash surrounding it. Crumpled chip bags covered layers of half-empty nugget boxes and fruit snack wrappers. Weights peeked out from under the corner of the bedpost and pellets of mouse poop were scattered amongst jelly beans and tissues filled with chewed mounds. I cleared the piles, landing in one of the few clear spots of carpet. I could feel the blood leaving my head, draining down my long limbs to the ice blocks I called my feet, nearly passing out as my vision narrowed. My knees locked, holding me in place as the tension between my temples slowly faded. Once I was certain I could walk without losing consciousness, I paraded down the path of rugs that covered the water stained concrete floor outside my bedroom. Before I’d even reached the basement bathroom my sweatshirt and sports bra were off. I peed like a racehorse and cleaned up without pulling back on my boxers. The vigorous drying took longer than washing my hands had. Needed to be thorough so that any leftover water didn’t show up on the scale. I pressed the power button with my big toe and waited for the scale to light up and zero out. Aggressively exhaling, I stepped on. F***. Not even half a pound less than yesterday. I glared at the blob in the mirror. Thunder thighs painted with pale white lines, some the product of puberty and others a crosshatch of jagged scars. What had once been an hourglass figure was lumpy and seemed to dart in and out at random. The stomach made up for its lack of definition in excessive amounts of dark, rough hair. Though the bottom ribs were just visible, the rest of the torso was ruined by two massive lumps that sagged uselessly mid-chest. A long, giraffe neck ended in a double chin that hid any semblance of a jawline. Cheeks caked with acne and peach fuzz drooped below under-eye bags so dark they could be mistaken for bruises. The whole reflection was repulsive. I straightened, pulling at the skin under my neck, the love handles at my sides, and the flab that coated my abdomen. When my phone started vibrating the noon alarm, my upper body was covered in irritated red splotches. Giving the mirror a last disgusted look, I grabbed a toothbrush and leaned over the toilet. After a couple of gags, the bowl was filled with stomach acid. I flushed, pulled on my boxers, and gave my mouth a quick rinse before reluctantly heading back down the hall towards the stench. It took forty minutes of digging through food wrappers, half-empty diet coke cans, and bags of spat out candy before I found the mouse’s final resting place. The poor thing looked vacuum sealed in a dollar store bag, it’s fur covered in bits of peppermint and caramel. I haltingly wrapped the suffocated corpse in two other plastic bags, pausing to dry heave over my mattress. I threw back my regular breakfast of three antidepressants and a laxative before sloppily applying deodorant and squeezing into a stained binder. The only clean clothes left were tucked away in a dresser drawer, covered in mouse s***. I scooped up as many abandoned socks and sweatpants as my shaking arms could hold, and dashed for the stairs, trailing shorts behind me. I was halfway across the kitchen before I heard Dad’s voice. “Meg?” Sitting in his recliner, Dad was still in his checkered pajama pants I’d bought for his birthday. He stared at me with a mix of amusement and confusion before realizing what he’d called me. “I mean James. Sorry...sorry-I, sorry.” “Why aren’t you at work?” “I get a Christmas break too, doofus. Also, I have a load in-” his smile dropped. I followed his gaze to my bare arms.”What’re you-” Before he could finish his thought, I took three massive steps, crossing the remaining distance to the laundry room and slammed the door shut behind me. I let my laundry fall to the floor and rummaged through the mess for the bulkiest items. “Honey?” I didn’t respond. I pulled some old middle school track pants on. All my shirts reeked of BO but I whipped the dryer open and rummaged through Dad’s things, stuffing my head through one of his sweaters seconds before he burst in. We just stared at each other. I fixed my gaze on his stubble, unsure of what might be looking back at me if I met his eyes. I flinched as he grabbed my wrist and yanked up the sleeve. “How did- you're just skin and bones my love,” his voice cracked. I twisted my arm out of his grasp and darted past him, easily sliding between his bulky frame and the door. I heard him call out something as I sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time, but my heart was racing too loudly to make out the words. I flung the door closed and locked it for good measure but no footsteps followed me. He had to be pissed, or worse disappointed. You’re an adult, you don’t need his approval. I paced the length of the basement, playing Fur Elise with my thumb and forefinger on my collarbones. He knew. Even without looking him in the eyes, I’d seen his expression. He’d probably call a therapist or send me across the state for some inpatient counseling. He would make me eat. My pacing grew to a jog. Every lap around the basement would have to be 50 steps, every 2,000 burned 100 calories. 10,000 steps could burn a small dinner. I jogged until my lungs began burning with every breath. The rhythmic whooshing of my pulse drowned out the sound of heavy panting, and my eyes pulsed with every heartbeat. I grabbed my phone from under the pillow but my hands shook too violently to draw the password pattern. I hadn’t had hunger pains in days, but my stomach spasmed in my abdomen, sending up bursts of gas that tasted like the peppermint I’d allowed myself yesterday. For an agonizing moment, I could feel my entire digestive system burning. This will pass, you’re fine. Gradually, the pain faded to a dull ache behind my belly-button. I slowly lowered myself onto my bed. My limbs were so heavy with exhaustion I couldn’t be sure I’d ever get back up. My thoughts that normally raced constantly, felt as though they were trudging through mud, fighting to reach the front of my mind, but far enough out of reach that I couldn’t quite grasp them. The last thing I could piece together before drifting into unconsciousness was: If this is how I die, so be it.