Hungry. Hungry. Hungry.
I'm hungry.
But at the same time, I'm ugly . . . so it's one or the other. Hungry or ugly? Which one is better? Which one is worth more?
Ugly doesn't get you the guy of your dreams. Ugly doesn't cut it. Ugly doesn't make people love you. Ugly is failure . . . and I can't fail. I can't fail ever. I have to succeed. I have to be pretty.
Hunger makes you pretty.
I started skipping breakfast. I don't ever eat lunch. I sit their chewing gum while everyone else gets to be full and pretty, which I can't ever be. And most of them don't seem to care, but one of them always looks at me funny and a couple of them offer me food.
One of them joked around and said I was anorexic. The thing that scared me the most was the fact that she might be right.
When my mom's around, I make sure I eat something. One meal a day. That's okay, I can burn it off. I have to burn it off. I can't eat anything, I can't, because I have to be thin. I have to be pretty. I don't have another choice.
I was standing in the kitchen with her the other day, just talking. She asked if I had skipped lunch today again. I told her, "Yes." ?Are you okay? You seem kinda sad,? she said.
I lied.
I told her I was fine . . . told her nothing was wrong. I had to because if she knew what was going on, she'd be ashamed. She'd shove food down my throat. She'd take me to a doctor, she'd try to get me help. She wants me to stay ugly. I can't let that happen.
I can never win with my mother. We always bicker. If I'm full, I'm ugly, and she tells me to lose weight. If I starve, if I start being pretty, she forces me to eat again. It's happened before -- when I stop eating. We were traveling, so I couldn't hide it from her. She was painfully aware.
This time, I'm going to hide it, because I can't let myself be ugly again. I have to lose the weight. I have twenty more pounds to go . . . and who knows? Maybe I'll go lower. Maybe I'll get even prettier than 125. Maybe I can be thinner.
I haven't had the chance to make myself throw up yet because sound travels in my house, and I'm rarely home alone. Next time I'm by myself, I'll make myself sick as many times as I can. I have to get the little food I digest out of me. I have to live on nothing. I have to be pretty.
All of my friends say I'm just fine at the weight I am, but I think they're lying. A girl in band told me I was pretty, but she's wrong. I'm not pretty yet. My clothes aren't loose yet . . . people aren't noticing I'm losing weight. I'm still ugly.
I've lost three pounds in three days. When I looked at the scale, I was so happy. It was euphoria knowing I was that much closer. I was floating, I was high, I was in Wonderland. But the joy was fleeting. My laughter soon turned to tears, my smiles turned to scowls as I looked in the mirror and decided I was still ugly as ever.
A couple days ago, I was at a friend's house and she had left a bottle of nail polish remover out. I've never really minded the smell, so when she was out of the room, I took it to my nose and inhaled as deeply as I could. It wasn't enough to get high, but my eyes watered and my nose prickled for the rest of the night. I think I'm ready now, to try again. Will huffing make me pretty, too? Or just sick? Next time. Next time I'm alone. I'll make myself high, I'll make that my escape. I have to have some way to remove myself from the pain . . . pricking yourself intentionally with needles isn't enough. That just adds to the pain . . . but then again, I've never tried a real blade. Next time, I'll cut myself, too.
And nobody will notice. Nobody will care. Even if I asked for help, they wouldn't even hear my pleas. Why? Because I'm supposed to be happy all the time. That's why my buddies hang out with me. I'm the optimistic one. I'm full of pep. I'm spunky. If I was sad, I wouldn't be me anymore . . . they don't want to hear it, so they won't. They never will.
I can suffer in silence. That's okay . . . because if they did hear, they'd get me help. They'd feed me.
And I can't be ugly.
Editor's Note: This article deals with some very serious subject matter. In the Times, we encourage writers to express themselves and release those feelings. However, please note that we also encourage you to speak to someone you can trust if you are dealing with feelings like these. Please know that there is always someone who cares.
