The Ballerina & The Devil

Twenty Four. One More Broken Soul

A/N: The song in the media box is Pretty Hurts by Beyoncé. It really goes along perfectly with this chapter, so go ahead and listen to it :)

WARNING: Chapter might contain triggering material.
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I placed a tablet on my tongue and swallowed the sink water in the small plastic pink cup I kept in my bathroom. I winced a little as the tablet, that was on the larger side, slid down my throat.

I absolutely hated taking pills. I had this slightly irrational fear that it would get lodged in my throat, and I would choke to death.

Unfortunately, they didn't make appetite suppressants in the form of liquid, so I had to get over it. At least, I didn't think they do. Maybe they did. I would have to look into it.

I put the pills back in my medicine cabinet hidden behind my mirror and slid the door shut. I studied my face in the mirror. I looked drained, to say the least. My face was unusually pale, there were dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep, and my hair looked hopelessly lifeless.

I knew today would be one of the bad days.

I hadn't had a bad day in a good six months, and by "bad day" I didn't mean the typical ugh today is not a good day I want to drop out of school and take my chances out on the streets type of bad day.

I was more leaning towards the ugh I'm so depressed I feel like shit I'm never going to be good enough for anyone this eating disorder is going to be the death of me type of bad day.

My bad day was due to my bad night. Last night was an incredibly bad night, and not because I had to sit down at the dinner table and force food down my throat while pretending I was having a grand old time with my family, which was pretty awful mind you.

No, it was because of what I did after dinner. That was what sent me on a downward spiral of severe depression.

I had ended crumbling for what had to be the fourth time in the last week and threw up all the contents in my stomach with the bath water running behind me so nobody would be able to hear my retching.

I felt good for a few minutes before the guilt of breaking washed over me. I ended up crying myself to sleep, with my face buried in my pillow so my broken sobs were muffled.

Actually, I ended up crying throughout the entire night and didn't pass out until about an hour before I had to get up for school, so technically I didn't "cry myself to sleep".

My eating disorder was something I had been struggling with from the age of twelve years old. I couldn't tell you what exactly it was that triggered my odious relationship with food, all I know is one day I looked in the mirror and didn't like what was looking back at me. So, I decided to change it. I decided to go on a diet.

My "diet" consisted of eating the bare minimum of all of my meals. The less I ate, the better I felt. At least mentally I did. It felt like I was making real progress in my expedition on becoming what I felt was the "appropriate" weight.

Physically, I felt awful. My body wasn't used to such a lack of food intake at that point in time. Not even a week had passed before my mother noticed what I was doing. To say she freaked would be an understatement.

She yelled at me for a good thirty minutes before she calmed down long enough to explain to me that what I was doing was "very unhealthy", and that it wasn't dieting it was "starving myself".