In no way is this a "Pro-Mia" or "Pro-Ana" fic. In no way is this chock full'Mia' or 'Ana' TIPZ, and in no way do I encourage ANYBODY for an eating disorder. It is not glamorous by any way, and I know only pure misery and hell. I've been diagnosed as ED-NOS, which is an eating disorder not otherwise specified (I will not go into specifics), and I've been suffering through this for a good...four/five years?

Also, smoking is BAD. Just as BAD as an ED.

Warning: Profanity imminent. And gag inducing descriptions.

A/N: I've been wanting to write a fic like this for awhile, and it finally came to me. I have no idea where it will go, or what it will contain; only that it will contain the misery of an eating disorder.

Info:

(Name): the 'voices'

:The Voices Within:

I'm doing it again. I'm in the kitchen, meticulously stirring up a binge, growing excited by the smells and the telltale sizzles of cooking food. I've had a long, stressful day—I quit smoking a few months back, and I feel this antsy energy that makes my thoughts race at a million miles per hour and for my hands to be busy with something. Smoking was something that took my mind off everything; I'd get sick from deliberately chain-smoking, to spend time with the other smokers as they exchanged gossip and information, and for something to keep my mouth and hands busy. It's sickening how easy it is to find a habit that will satisfy that energy, to keep my body parts busy.

It's like, why even bother with smoking? Why not find a stress ball or something equally as safe and stupid to release that energy into? I don't know. Just that...in a way...smoking is glamorous and idealistic. I mean, you see movie stars and advocates doing it all the time; it obviously is a picture of, well, glamour. Only its not.

Afterward, staring at my neon yellow teeth, having the smell of smoke on the back of my tongue and coating my molars, of smelling it in my hair when I run my fingers through it was just too much of a pain. It was also a deliberating choice, months after I'd seriously started, that I'd have to pick a vice to stay with. Smoking, or killing myself slower (faster?) with my ED. And because me and Melvin (which is what I'll call my ED; well, my bulimia monster, because I have another name for my anorexic monster) were acquainted for far longer than, say, James (which is what I'll call smoking).

I chose Melvin and Vain Bitch over James because Melvin and Vain Bitch had far more shrillier and much more powerful voices than James. James is just a weak bitch that makes me smell horrendous and terrible and makes my teeth rot faster with Melvin's help.

Vain Bitch is what I call my anorexia monster. She's a Bitch for sure, but she sure is a Vain Bitch. She's the one whispering in my ear, in a shrill, hysterical breathy pant that reminds me of those SoCal girls on MTV.

Vain Bitch: That taco goes straight to your hips. You want to stay in those jeans? You're not going to if you eat that, and you know Melvin will want you to visit the public restroom over there. You know the one. The one with the single stall and the huge cow that must have just splattered her intestines all over the toilet and why you would want your head in that very same toilet—

Yeah, she's pretty strong.

I examine the food I'm cooking once more. It's almost done, and my stomach clenches in anticipation. I can't wait to fill my plate of all this food. I reach down, underneath my stomach, to feel my hips. I'm of a petite size, but I'm normal for my weight. In the 'normal' range, and not at all emaciated or protruding. This is what happens when you are bulimic with anorexic tendencies. You don't automatically turn into a skeleton after all the food worshipping and vomiting that you do. You retain hundreds of those thousands of calories, and you tend to snack on things throughout the day that satisfy that salty craving and that hungered craving that your tired and broken body wants. I do. Hunger and I are these friends/enemies that constantly war with each other. Butting heads, throwing fists.

It's always like this:

Hunger: I get that you've had the entire contents of your junk cupboard last night. But might I remind you that it all ended up in the shitter?

Me: I just want to fast for a couple more hours! I swear, it'll be better. I swear, I'll eat something healthy when I do! Cottage cheese and pineapple, fruit—fucking crackers, for Christ's sake!

Hunger: But I'm hungry NOW. I don't care how many calories are in that thing, just—look, I won't say anything later, but right now—

Me: Don't you fucking give me that! You always say that! You always say, 'If you do it now, I won't later', and it's all bullshit!

Hunger: I promise. Just this time. Doesn't it look delicious? Look at it. Besides if YOU eat it now, SHE can't later. And she can lose a little weight, right? You'll be helping her out in that aspect...

Me: (munching away)

Hunger: (arm thrust) yyyeeeesss...

So, yes, Hunger and I go through many a argument and discussion of theory and philosophy throughout the entire day. I suppose that it deserves a personality of its own, but I cannot give it any other name other than what it is. Because 'Hunger' is obviously self-explanatory, right?

This is my life as an eating disordered woman. I live on my own, I've a life of my own, and my eating disorder makes all of my decisions. Obviously none of them good.

I dish myself up, throwing various cooked items onto huge dinner plates and balancing them on my arms on my way over to my computer. I have a couple of cans of soda sitting there, delicious and cold, and as I carefully sit myself down to look over various forums on the internet, I catch a glimpse of the food I'd just spent an hour or so cooking.

Two entire packages of chicken. Fried. Ketchup on the side, in a plate of its own.

Two cans of chili—a certain brand that I always eat, and will not, for the life of me, choose another.

A frying pan's worth of fried potatoes, drowned in ketchup and salt.

For dessert, an entire package of chocolate donuts.

I grimace. It would make someone else's stomach hurt. Someone normal, someone who doesn't see food the way that I do. Someone who can cook and sit down with a normal dinner, and not have any abnormal urges to completely binge and throw it all up later, crying about it, because honestly, who in their right mind would do this to themselves?

I sigh, get myself comfortable, and start in with my marker. A bright red gummi worm. I start to chew, open my cans of soda, and get ready to get rid of the day's stress.

- 0 -

I'm having trouble with my bowels again. It's such a sucky situation. Me, with a fear of pooping or vomiting in public places, has a serious masochistic need to hold everything in until I can get to a place where I can shit in private, or upchuck without the fear of someone just knowing I'm in the bathroom. I can't do this right now—but it hurts. This uncomfortable fullness in my lower torso, the constant spasming of my goddamn shit hole; I wanna poop, but I can't, because there's so many people in the building. Why does there have to be so many people here?!

It's ridiculous—a normal person would say Fuck it, and go to the bathroom and pass out waste without a second thought, but me...it's different.

I'm sitting in a meeting with the other advocates, and my intestines are cramping. But it's stupid because, since the meet and greet with Melvin the other night, Vain Bitch kept me in line. And when you don't have anything to pass on, you don't have anything to shit. It's a gruesome process, and it makes me ever regret letting the Vain Bitch into my life.

Vain Bitch: Think about it. That's one to two pounds of unnecessary weight that's wanted in the toilet.

Me: No, that's one to two pounds of coffee and water I'd had earlier. That's water weight. It's going to come back.

Vain Bitch: Hel-lo! That's why you have—!

Me: Shut the fuck up! That's going to destroy my liver! As if I hadn't done enough to my fucking esophagus and stomach! I'm surprised I hadn't shit that out, yet!

Vain Bitch:...I wonder how much the liver weighs...?

Me:...

The boss is looking over at me with some concern, and I panic, thinking I may have said things out loud. My intestines are totally making noise, and she eventually laughs, catching the attention of others sitting near us.

"Are you hungry?" she asks, and Hunger immediately rears its ugly head. It had seen the platters of store-bought donuts sitting on the counter near the coffee pot, but Melvin was already remembering the vivid satisfaction of the chocolate donuts from the other night. In order to keep Melvin in line, I had to slap Hunger back into submission. Of course, Vain Bitch helped me with this, but she was using a wheel jack to do so.

"Nah. I just had something before I got here, and it's not sitting well," I say, Vain Bitch and Hunger screaming at each other while Melvin whispered endearments to me over the donuts.

Melvin: In and out, love. In and out. Piece of cake. They even have soda up there! Think about it!

My boss nods and returns to listening to one of the advocates bitching about how stressful her job is, and while I agree with her, I can't help but listen to the voices inside my head screaming at each other.

Vain Bitch: Don't fuck this up for her! She's doing so well! She's only ingested ninety calories these last two days!

Melvin: Big, chocolately donuts...soft and gooey on the inside and definitely lickable on the out. Oh, God, just imagining tasting and—

Hunger: It wouldn't be satisfactory! She doesn't even taste what she eats when she's with you! Two chews wouldn't count as 'eating', especially when she's ducking over the motherfucking toilet half an hour later!

Melvin: —and those little chunks of chocolate right in the center of the hole? Ooh, God...

Vain Bitch: You know how many calories are in those things alone? You think these other women here got so fucking HUMONGOUS off life alone?! NO! They crammed those sickening fattening things in like mad because they are greedy, ugly bitches that lack control over themselves! She will NOT get fat like them!

Melvin: Of course she wouldn't! I help her with that!

Hunger: You both are fucking retarded. You both are fucking SICK, and I can't understand why it is you would both deny her what nature provides her to survive!

Vain Bitch: Nature is FAT! FAT PEOPLE MUST DIE FOR BEING SO FUCKING GREEDY!

Melvin: I wonder if they had donuts back when Jesus died? You know, it was completely acceptable to be bulimic in Rome. I wonder if—

James: Hey, guys...? I'm a little...I kinda...well...

All: SHUT UP!

James: ...okay...

Everyone's voices around the table were hard to focus on. I took notes with half an ear on them, but the other was so focused on the shouts inside my head. My stomach rumbled at that instant, and I quickly drank up the rest of my coffee. Then I glare at the empty cup, because coffee was the culprit into making my intestines rumble just so. Even though, I relish the caffeine rush that pumped through my veins, that made me more alert. I had to pee, my bladder whimpering in need, but I knew that if I passed the bathroom, I'd pass right by those donuts.

Melvin: Mmmm...donuts...

Vain Bitch: Fat ass bitch! Get one, then! Get one and see what happens! You'll never fit into that black shirt again!

Hunger: Please...at least half. At least half, and you won't have to shit so much. I promise. Just a little. Half! Share with her! Share a donut with her, and you won't feel so bad!

Me: Hmm...good idea.

I get up to go to the bathroom, Vain Bitch shrieking madness in her vanity, Melvin drooling and Hunger doing a little dance of victory. I had to wonder when James had gotten so weak when the others became so strong. I guess that's good, in a way, because smoking kills my lungs. Bad enough when I'm doing this other shit to myself.

- 0 -

I glare at the clump of hair in my hand. Then turn my attention to the full body mirror ahead of me. I bruise so easily lately. It doesn't matter how many vitamins I've been eating, no matter what dosage of iron and such; I bruise because Melvin's been in control, lately, and my body is reacting naturally to its abuse. My skin is sallow and pale, and my freckles stand out a lot. My stomach is bloated from the constant action of binging and purging, and I'm hungrier than ever because the large amounts of food I'd consume before vomiting have stretched my stomach out. It's hard keeping hunger in check because of this, and as a result, Vain Bitch doesn't have as much power as she used to.

I haven't been able to shit, lately, either. After that meeting, where I had to shit like crazy, I just became more plugged than I was comfortable with. I didn't want to meet and greet with laxies, because they don't provide any relief. Maybe a very short lived one, but it won't keep my system constant. I want to be able to shit comfortably, to know that I made a good shit and feel 'empty' again. Laxies are only a short time high, because they, once again, get rid of the water weight. Water weight comes back easily, and within five minutes, practically. I want to be able to shit and know that I had a satisfactory shit without that annoying feeling that I hadn't.

It's complicated. An eating disordered person has a very close relationship with her/his shit, and it turns into just another voice that I definitely don't need to hear. In this case, it's Forney.

Forney: It's fucking CROWDED in here! Where's my space!? Get out of my bubble! Damn! Can't you DO something? What, you worried about your fucking hemorrhoid?! What the fuck?! Don't I matter to you? Just fucking SHIT, dammit! Who cares if you have to pop a few fucking pills to do it?!

Yeah, Forney's easily excited like Vain Bitch.

Me: I don't want to pop pills. I don't know why I'm not going; I'm drinking coffee and taking a vitamin at the same time. I even started taking those fiber pills!

Forney: It's YOU! You're fucked UP! You don't WANNA let us go, so you make US suffer for your fucked up SHIT!

Me: ...Just leave me alone...

Forney: I wanna leave you PERIOD! BUT YOU WONT LET ME!

After work, I'm curled up on the couch, listening to Forney scream at Melvin for all his hard work. I'm bloated and uncomfortable as hell, and these pillows are probably giving me bruises. I'm examining the sores on my knuckles, where I jam my fingers into my throat to give up all my hard work. It hurts, and the scrapes are telltale. But no one will notice—I bruise so easily and I get hurt just from the thought of walking, so injuries are the usual on me.

No one will look at me and ask, "hey, why do you have a bruise the size of Texas there on your elbow?"

Or, "What's up with the scrapes?"

Because, for a very long time, I've been doing this shit to myself. And it's so usual, so common, that why should anybody ask?

I've had my friend ask me why I've gotten so thin, but Vain Bitch replied for me.

"Thin? Hah! I'm the same weight I was yesterday! You want to see thin, you should see so-and-so, and compare them to me. You won't be asking that question again!"

"...Well, shit, I was just worried about you. You don't have to get so damn assy with me."

See, I have this complex—I panic whenever someone starts to express concern with me. It's like, Why is it any of their business?, but at the same time, I start to whine, Doesn't anybody like me enough to be concern with me?

It's a complicated situation, and I really don't need it. Not at all. Not when I'm too busy emoing with myself for myself because the voices are arguing again.