She fills her body with everything but fulfillment. She empties her body of everything but her sorrow. “
Follow me” says the voice, “I’ll lead you down the path, the path of happiness through destruction, through despair.” She follows. I follow.

She enters the land.

It’s bliss. But it’s dirty. It’s like playing in the mud in your Sunday best. I don’t use gloves in this land; bare hands. I feel like I’m floating but I feel like I’m dying. I’ve always heard of this place… skimmed the borders. I took glimpses inside. But never was my soul engulfed.

Floating.

She feels infinite. She feels wonderful and clean. All her past mistakes, erased. She feels like she’s dying but she loves it. Her bleeding wounds sting as she steps into the steaming shower.



Turn off the lights, and her problems go away. She no longer has to see the mess that she’s become. How did she let herself get this way? Her thoughts aren’t straight, but whose thoughts are? She has a hard time catching her breath as she stands in the hot water. Her heart can barely sustain these simple actions. But she feels like she’s floating, floating into another world of sparkling, fresh life. Her insides pink and her outsides shining. This is how it feels to be superhuman.


She takes a moment to feel her ribs, her hip bones, collar bones. She can’t feel them, but they are there. They are there more than ever. Food has yet to touch her lips in three days and her stomach is in knots, but hollow as ever. This is what she calls beautiful. This is what I call beautiful. This is me.

Welcome.

Welcome to my life in the land of control. Some call it horrible, some call it sad. I call it empowering. I’m a slave. A slave to an unknown being that controls every aspect of my life. This “being”, a goddess of sorts, tells me how to live. I’d do anything for her. I lose my weight and myself for this woman. I go to desperations just to lose a pound. From hiding food, to throwing up, I must please this woman. And this woman is me.

Now that we’ve gotten to know eachother.

I want to tell you about these ever so important things called numbers. I step on the scale and if the gravity of my body pushing mass onto the weighing machine isn’t less than the day before, I cry. Even food has numbers. Fat, calories, carbohydrates. They all equate to what happens inside me. The chemical reactions that go on in my frail body come from those numbers. Everything has a number. Even I am a number in this land.

Enough about myself.

The other girls roam the streets too, also in their Sunday best. Some starving, some emptying. We all share something in common, our eyes. Our eyes all scream death while our faces all glow charm. That’s another thing we have in common, charm. We all glisten and dance through life, until we get tired, and wind down, and die, and enter this land.

This, this my friend, is my eating disorder.