GROWiNG UP, GROWiNG DOWN?

I decide it is time. I look in the mirror in the bathroom of my college dorm, and decide it is time.
I am a novelty, even to myself. As I try to avoid the stars that are flickering in front of my eyes, I come to the conclusion that there is no way around the dizziness and pain anymore. Yes, this is what it has come to be; this is what my reflection is now - no reflection at all. It has become a more and more frequent thing; not seeing myself and having to listen to other people telling me what they see.
I plant my long, bony fingers on my cheekbones, and stretch back the fleshy skin that's covering them. I move my hands to my collarbones, and dig my fingernails into my skin, as if holding a steering wheel. I close my eyes; it feels so good. My mind and my hands travel down to my hips. I make two fists and pound on the pointiness of my hipbones. I swallow. I feel so proud, yet so disgusted. I feel my bones sticking out, poking through my skin, but have gotten used to that feeling, and so I dismiss it; I can always be thinner, I can never be too thin. But as with everything else, I dismiss the thoughts before I get too much into them. I think I know the answer already.

I sit on the floor, thinking of Angelina Jolie and Keira Knightley; did/do they never go through what I'm going through? I'm not nearly as skinny as they are, not nearly as beautiful. Maybe my body is still getting used to this feeling of emptiness.

I still sit on the bathroom floor, with my head between my knees now. Is this what it is like to grow up? I wonder. I think I know the answer already.

I lift my head, call my roommate. She's not there. I sigh and call out for my suitemate, and hear her rush to the bathroom. She opens the door and stares at my naked, repulsive body, and says:Ohh... Dear, I never thought it was this bad. She sits down and holds my massive tininess. What happened? she asks carefully. And for the first time in months, I cry. I tell her,- I tell her about the hiding, the sneaking, the lying. She makes it seem alright; she doesn't seem to blame me at all. It's okay, she says. But I can't stop crying. All the way to the hospital, I cry. All the way to the eating disorder clinic, I cry. But it is time. It is time for me to radically change.

In Middle School, I started to split my cookies in half. I said no -NO!- to seconds; didn't finish my firsts.
In High School, I had an appetite to act, dance, sing, make love, and taste, always saying no -NO!- to the latter.
The food in front of me, all food, but especially the food that was prepared by me, turned into an altar of resistance, of discipline. It didn't last long for me not to feel anything anymore. I was so lonely and anxious. It was easy not to eat. It was at least a lot easier to feel hungry than to feel any of the painful emotions that I would feel if I would eat.

After weeks, months, years, I allow myself to eat. After all this time, probably even longer than I am now semi-willing to recognise, of calculated portions and predetermined meal planning, I do finally allow myself to eat. And it tastes. Unbearably bad.

I realise that this is why I stopped eating. I realise that my tastebuds didn't want to go through the strenuous pain of the action of eating anymore. I realise that this is why I purged to begin with: my stomach couldn't tolerate something this gross and repulsive any longer., And then I stop. I stop my thoughts and think to myself: Really, Ed? Are you really trying to manipulate me now? Are you really trying with all you have to convince me that that is where you came from? Really?
I feel sick to my stomach.

I go outside to get some fresh air. I realise that it wasn't the taste of the food, nor the action of eating - it was the action of not eating, and the combined feeling of emptiness and numbness, that made Ed come to life.
I am heartbroken.

I go back inside and feel everyone's gaze on my growing stomach, arms, and legs. I feel like I'm about to...
I purge. Not voluntarily, but I purge. I am confused, heartbroken.
My body should love me for getting renourished, I think. But instead, it hates me, just like how Ed hates me and has hated me, for all of his existence. Just like how I hate myself.

What, what am I doing? What have I done to myself? And as I think these things, my body spasms forward, "I collapse to the ground, and I purge again. In all my sins, I purge.
Is this what it means to grow up? Being on the brink of breaking up with yourself by obsessing over yourself? By buying clothes 2 sizes too small as a motivator to lose weight? What does it mean, to grow up? Losing passions, energy, life, friends? Oneself? Can we grow down?
If yes, then what defines us? The empty pit in our stomachs? Our attitudes, our lifestyles, our destinies? Our pain? Our disease? My disease? I don't know.

I only know that I can't feel much more now, but what I feel more, is what 'normal' people would call 'happiness', I think. I look in the mirror in the bathroom at the ED clinic, and I see myself. I see myself, and with that, I see a happier person than ever before.