2008 Woodie Awards
Locked Inside
Eating Disorders: A Survivor's Story
Anonymous
Issue date: 11/7/05 Section: Features
It's my anniversary.
It's been a year, almost an entire year.
It's been a year since laughter sounded tinny and distant, since empty voices seemed to belong to even emptier faces. A year since I cut myself off from others, and cut myself. A year since I screamed at myself, "Bleed, just bleed," and collapsed on the bathroom floor in tears. A year since I shoved my fingers down my throat and a year since the guttural pain of purging and the stench of vomit were raw and ritual comforts. A year since I gave up on recovery, gave up on myself, and simply gave up. It's been a year since I functioned as a masochist and bulimic.
A year ago, you would have seen the average outgoing 21 year old: the B student, the occasional smoker and the more occasional drinker, the girl who could make anyone and everyone laugh. But if you looked closer, you would have seen not an average girl, but a tormented girl with scarred arms and bloodshot eyes. You would have seen the empty pill bottles and the bloody knives and pocket saws. You would have seen a girl who hurt so deeply and who harbored so much angst that she became her own release.
Seven years ago, you would have seen the perfectionist: the athlete, the student, and the daughter who had everything together. But if you looked closer, you would have seen a perfectionist who performed until she broke herself physically, mentally, and emotionally. You would have seen a girl whose hair was falling out, whose veins popped out of her skin, whose body was covered with bruises. You would have seen a gaunt 15-year-old anorexic sitting on the edge of a tissue-covered exam table, gently swinging her legs back and forth as she quietly disregarded her doctor's warning that she was at a high risk of developing arrhythmia and having a stroke.
At some point during the past seven years, as the pendulum of my emotions swung from obsessive compulsive to impulsive, I came to the stark realization that I had a problem. Maybe it was the self-loathing that gave it away, or the starvation or the purging or the cutting. Maybe it was that I simply didn't feel alive, and that - if this was living - I didn't want to be alive.
It's been a year, almost an entire year.
It's been a year since laughter sounded tinny and distant, since empty voices seemed to belong to even emptier faces. A year since I cut myself off from others, and cut myself. A year since I screamed at myself, "Bleed, just bleed," and collapsed on the bathroom floor in tears. A year since I shoved my fingers down my throat and a year since the guttural pain of purging and the stench of vomit were raw and ritual comforts. A year since I gave up on recovery, gave up on myself, and simply gave up. It's been a year since I functioned as a masochist and bulimic.
A year ago, you would have seen the average outgoing 21 year old: the B student, the occasional smoker and the more occasional drinker, the girl who could make anyone and everyone laugh. But if you looked closer, you would have seen not an average girl, but a tormented girl with scarred arms and bloodshot eyes. You would have seen the empty pill bottles and the bloody knives and pocket saws. You would have seen a girl who hurt so deeply and who harbored so much angst that she became her own release.
Seven years ago, you would have seen the perfectionist: the athlete, the student, and the daughter who had everything together. But if you looked closer, you would have seen a perfectionist who performed until she broke herself physically, mentally, and emotionally. You would have seen a girl whose hair was falling out, whose veins popped out of her skin, whose body was covered with bruises. You would have seen a gaunt 15-year-old anorexic sitting on the edge of a tissue-covered exam table, gently swinging her legs back and forth as she quietly disregarded her doctor's warning that she was at a high risk of developing arrhythmia and having a stroke.
At some point during the past seven years, as the pendulum of my emotions swung from obsessive compulsive to impulsive, I came to the stark realization that I had a problem. Maybe it was the self-loathing that gave it away, or the starvation or the purging or the cutting. Maybe it was that I simply didn't feel alive, and that - if this was living - I didn't want to be alive.
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