Where did I get anorexia? 

Its the first question people ask. ‘When did you get sick?’. ‘Why did you get sick?’. It’s the million dollar question. And it is one that, to this day, I don’t have an answer to. I blame people, and I blame me. But I can’t find a definite answer.

I ‘got anorexia’ around pre-teen age. But since I can recall, food was a point of anxiety and obsession. I remember one of my hobbies. Was going through the fridge and jotting calories down. I was genuinely just curious, and enjoyed it. But it sparked something. 

Me and food started to not get along just before 12. I was very focused with food. I was never overweight. In fact, I led a very healthy lifestyle and diet. But I was tall. And there are always people smaller. 

It sounds cliché. But I’ve always been a perfectionist. 

I skipped my first meal at 12. I sat in the library and obsessed about studying instead. It is an addiction and I kept feeding it. I felt light and powerful. In control. Strong. I finally found one thing that I was good at. Starving. I could go days. I’m sure if I hadn’t been stopped I could go months. Years. I loved the way I felt. Like I could do anything. And I got better at it. The lies and the excuses. The hiding. The disguising. I levelled up every day. 

I loved the fact no one noticed. It made me feel like I was even better at starving. Powerful. Powerful. Powerful.

Powerful. Empty.

I was addicted by 13. I was desperate for someone to find out. But I was terrfied that they’d stop me. I wanted sympathy but I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to fade away. 

I got angry at the mirror and friends. I got angry at the scales. 

By 14 I was intervened. People messed it up. They were worried. I wasn’t worried. I was totally, totally. Fine.  Lots of long phone calls and hush hush hush. Don’t break the glass girl with thorns in her veins. She’s so very fragile and poorly. Don’t tell anyone but tell everyone.

Get her help. Sirens and urgent letters. Help. Help. I don’t need help. I need scales. I need laxatives, I need appetite suppressants. Needles sewing paths in my arms, blood dispensed in cables. Up and down, beep, beep. You’re bloods low. You’re pressures high. You’re good. You’re bad. 

And then it stopped suddenly. You’re better, well done, so very proud. Keep going. They even tricked me. I’m better. Better. Better at starving.

And then it started again. Uh oh. She’s back. The glass girl, we tried to tape over the cracks. But the sellotape is peeling off and she’s falling apart again. 

She’s laying in pieces on the floor. And it’s taking years. Years. To pick them back up. Piece her bit by bit. 

But like a broken vase, you can use all the sellotape and it will never. Ever. Look the same.  

The glass girl will never be the same.

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