Have you ever felt as though your life doesn’t really mean anything? As though you are just another compound of atoms taking up the earth’s resources? Have you ever dreamed of being a symbol of perfection? Some-one that the commoners aspire to be? If you have ever felt lonely, painted on a smile or held back a secret… you are completely normal. Have you ever felt as though the ground has caved in beneath you, and every piece of your life was tumbling down the rabbit hole after you? Pounding down on your shoulders, imprisoning your soul. Have you ever found yourself reaching for the finest strand to keep you afloat? Praying that you are light enough to not sever the cotton thread? I have.
I stood before the mirror. A parallel reflected of satin sheets peeking below the unmade doona that covered my bed, centred in the middle of a small room. The floor smothered with things that once made me smile. A genuine smile, like that of a child’s laughter. The things didn’t matter anymore; they just became objects covering the hardwood beneath. The reflection of my bedroom rebounded into a haze behind me as I slid off my night dress. Below the perfectly delicate, feminine dress I hid the truth. As I slept I was able to create my own world where I would be free and empty. I could float away from this nightmare of life and drift into my own world of perfection, but nature calls. I must wake to begin my ritual of forced smiles strung together by withered cotton. I shed the delicate layers; shed the perfection of silk and lace to reveal the heart wrenching truth. A truth that I was too afraid to face. A truth that haunted my every decision of every day.
Beneath the delicate exterior lay a stone filled soul. The stone was like an anchor to any demons trying to escape my body. A stone that had to be chiselled away slowly by every refusal of each day. Refusal to let anyone in. Refusal to let anyone out. Refusal to eat. The stone would be a disintegrating marker of my success. As I shed the excess, the good inside me would be able to rise to the surface. Refusal helped to weaken the stone walls of my body, and allow the demons to flee. But as the stone remained large, so did i.
I inspected my reflection desperately searching for the ribcage that lay beneath the mounds of flesh and lard. I prayed that I was not another victim of the fast food chains, but rather a victim of a distorted reflection. As I grasped the soft flesh to feel the hard bones beneath I knew that I was not truly searching for my skeletal system. I was searching to find strength. A rope rather than a strand, to hoist myself up onto sturdy land. I would probably break a rope too, I must keep falling to be pulled up by the thinnest strand, without risk of it tearing. And if it began to fray, I would fall further into my hole, and become the hard stone inside. Resilient to any force.
The bones, the strongest part of our anatomy. I figured if they could be seen, I would show a strong person. A soft squishy frame reflects a soft squishy soul. The kind that is easily moulded. The kind that you can sink your thumb into and leave bruised for weeks. I was not going to be that. I was determined to become the pile of bones that take great force to crack. But for that day, I would just become that little bit closer, for that moment; I was an easily broken soul. I was a fat disgusting failure.
I pulled my ill fitted school dress over my head. My cheap alterations of pinning the back to create a not so potato-sack like shape, made it a slight struggle as it heaved down on my breasts. The last button was being forced through the small hole as I turned to the side. Cheap alterations helped all the other girls, but in my case, only revealed how truly huge my butt was. For me it unveiled the disgusting size of my breasts as it clung tightly under my bust. The dress floated to the floor as a frown emerged on my forehead. The waves of my hair swiftly grazed my cheek as I bent forward reaching for my long skirt. On top of that goes my baggy t-shirt that hides each curve and a dark woollen jumper that completes the look. Satisfied that my bulges were disguised I sat back on my bed, and pulled on black stockings to cover my chunky legs. As I grew to a stance, I inspected each centimetre of myself that was standing before me. My fat ankles were exposed. The bottom of my skirt hit mid-calf, and the skin tight cover on my legs did not hide them. I scurried through my dance bag to find my black leg warmers. The woollen bulges did not make the size of my ankles so apparent. My reflection was almost as good as it was going to get for the day, the only thing left was to paint on a not so terrifying face, in an attempt to feel slightly more confident, in an attempt to feel slightly more attractive. Fat chance!
