A/N: This piece is neither pro-Ana/Mia, nor anti, it is simply a piece I wrote a few years ago for school. It was supposed to be a story that was relevant to teens today, and seeing how many anorexia web-sites, boards, and forums there are, I would say that it is relevant. I personally suffer from anorexia, but I am trying valiantly to recover. For anyone considering becoming anorexic or bulimic, don’t. It is not worth it. That is part of the reason I wrote this piece, to educate people as to what it is really like once you are snared in Ana’s web. It isn’t fun and it isn’t pretty, don’t get into it. In a way this is my story, and the story of so many others out there, like me. If you are anorexic or bulimic, this could be triggering, just a fair warning.

Publish Date: 06/9\03

She was hungry. It didn’t matter though. No, wait, it did matter. It meant that the fat was leaving her body. The glorious feeling of hunger pains shooting through her body was like a sick reward for her endurance. Sometimes, they were so bad that she could barely stand up straight, but she knew that proper posture burned more calories. So she stood straight, she sat straight, but she didn’t eat. When she did eat, she hated herself. When she did eat, she purged as though she was trying to rid her body of some undesirable poison.

Food was her greatest temptation, her greatest sin, her greatest desire. Though she would always willingly tell you her favorite food, you would never see her eat it. If she did, it was always in secret. It was always done alone. It seemed that everything she did, she did in solitude. The fewer people around her, the less chance there was of someone finding out her dirty little secret. After all, she knew it was wrong, she knew it wasn’t healthy, she knew that she could die, perhaps that is why she kept doing it. The danger of the situation unusually enticing, strangely attractive, lethally entrancing, she was addicted to the pain.

Sometimes she would eat, about once every day, but only little things. A cracker, some dry toast, or maybe she would cut up an apple and eat the slices through the day. Savoring each delicious forbidden bite until it was in her stomach. Each taste delightfully sinful in its own way. Eating to her was like murder, killing her perfection and her self-control, and though she was almost always in pain, it was only when she ate that she felt sick. If she only ate a little, she could normally hold it in. Only when she binged did she purge. At least that is how it started.

One cracker too many, an extra slice of apple, butter on her toast, and she would rush to the bathroom. Ridding her stomach of the food before it had a chance to do any good to her body, or turn to fat. Then she would cry. Sometimes it was silently, other it was deep gut wrenching sobs, other times she just didn’t have the energy to cry. Her raw throat kept her from her usual singing, her dizziness kept her from doing the things she loved, but it didn’t keep her from exercising. No, nothing could keep her away from that.

On and on she would run. One mile, two, three, four, on and on she would go. Her lungs would burn, her legs would ache, the world would spin, her stomach would cramp, but she felt good. She felt in control. On and on she would go, sometimes going until she literally collapsed. When that happened, she would sit and rest until her breath returned, then she would run back. Pushing herself, always pushing herself, keeping herself working hard, harder, hardest. Never stopping, never looking back. If she looked back, she would have to see exactly what she was running from – herself.

Fifteen pounds, twenty, twenty-five, she would lift as heavy as she could hold in her trembling hand. Repetition after repetition she would push herself until her arms collapsed. Then it was time for the core work out, then the legs, then back to the arms. Hour after painful hour she would work. Spending every single ounce of her energy, using the little food that she ate to fuel her intense workouts. Each muscle spent to fatigue, pressing herself until she could literally barely move. The extremity of her regime brought pain to her body, but satisfaction to her mind. If she closed her eyes tight enough, she could almost imagine that she was thin.

It was always so cold though. The body she abused so religiously protested by not being able to heat itself as she continued her brutal self-torture. Even in her workouts, as her limbs trembled from complete exhaustion and famine, with sweat dripping from her body, she would be cold. Perhaps, not as cold as when she was stationary, but she was always so cold. The arctic chill becoming a fact of life as she assured herself that being cold burned more calories that someone who was warm. Maybe if she was cold enough, she would be thin.

The hair on her head went lackluster and her nails became brittle, but she didn’t care, she was thin, or at least getting there. The shooting pains seemed to get worse every passing day, but she ignored them, relishing the ever-present power over her body. She would spend hours alone, cleaning, looking at pictures of the thin models she was literally killing herself to be like, doing anything and everything to not think of food. In her mind, she was in a war, and food was the enemy. When in fact, she was her own worst enemy. The war was now a never-ending battle against her own self.

One hundred thirty dropped to one hundred twenty, then dropped again to one hundred ten. Pound after pound fell from her five foot four frame, but it wasn’t enough. One more pound, just one more, she would tell herself, but one more would turn into two, then to three. Ten pounds later, she still wasn’t thin enough, at one hundred pounds even, she was still too fat. Again, she promised herself just one more pound, and she lost that, then another and another. With each pound she felt some sort of sick reward would be granted to her, but as she hit ninety, her only reward would be sickness. But she was almost thin.

Her collarbone jutted out in a most unnatural fashion, the bones in her hips protruding so far it almost bruised her skin from the inside. Her ribcage was so visible you could count the bones up her side, the picture sickening to most, but glorious to her. Bones, beautiful bones. Beautifully defined, disgustingly gorgeous, strangely appealing, grossly unnatural ribs that she could count, but she couldn’t count them all. Some would disappear under the natural layer of dermis that she determined was fat, unacceptable. She wanted to see all of her ribs, she wanted to count them. She wanted to be thin.

The store-bought tan slimmed her thighs slightly, she was convinced, so she went to a tanning salon. Spending even more hours alone, her bleached teeth, manicured nails, and salon glossed hair all part of her never-ending fight to be perfect. Her never-ending fight to be thin. The natural glow had gone from her cheeks, and her eyes looked slightly sunken, so she learned how to repair these things with makeup. There was nothing she couldn’t hide with makeup. If only she could paint herself thin.

She would go to the mall and try and smaller and smaller size on, hoping, praying that someday she would just disappear. Only then would she be thin enough, only when she was small enough to not exist. Finally, she was able to fit into the coveted size zero jeans, the size that she had dreamed of for so long, but for what?

Her hands shook uncontrollably at times, her insides were rotting making her breath putrid, her hair had lost its natural shine, and her face was no longer presentable without makeup. The price she paid for thinness was destroying the beauty she already had to attain something that was literally destroying her. Killing her in a slow, painful death. But she was thin.

Still, as she looked in the mirror, size zero still wasn’t enough. There was imagined fat hanging over the waistline, the unreal illusion that her butt looked big or that her thighs strained too tightly against the denim fabric. There was disgust in her eyes as she pinched at a non-existent roll on her stomach. Ana and Mia were whispering to her again, telling her she wasn’t good enough, wasn’t thin enough.

Though she knew that it wasn’t true and that all of her logical reasoning knew that it was a lie, that she was too thin and that she was killing herself, she couldn’t make herself see any beauty in her body. All she could see was that single roll of surplus that she had managed to squeeze between her shaking fingers. All she could hear were the voices in her head, telling her that she had to lose more. Though she knew they were wrong and though she knew that she shouldn’t listen to them, she did.

And she believed them.

A/N: Let me know what you think. All you have to do is click the little box down there and type a few words. Take care, all.