Heart-Shattered

Heart-Shattered: Number Four

Do you know what it's like when you're scared to see yourself?

--Never Surrender, Skillet

Number Four:

A Fight Against Myself

During that time after Rosalie's anorexia was discovered, I was devastated. She was awful to me most of the time, yes, but I still saw her as a friend that I was lucky to have.

Over the next six months, my mom would cook especially for Rosalie. She bought especially tasty foods, always brought in light snacks, make her hot chocolate, things like that that I've never seen my mother do. She was like a maid, never complaining, always trying to help.

Now before you go off on me, let me clearly state that I'm not sure if my mom approached the situation correctly. None of us knew what to do. Rosalie went to the doctor, a nutrition specialist, the whole nine yards but never took the steps to healing.

Anyways, back to the story.

I watched her turn down plate after plate of amazing looking food. I wondered then why it was that I was always so eager to eat. Was I being selfish by eating so much of the time? She would come into my room after a trip to the bathroom and brag to me that the scale read 90 pounds.

After she did that, I would go into the bathroom and weigh myself. I would want to cry when I saw the number 115 show up on the scale. I'd lift my shirt up and look in the mirror and pinch my skin.

When a roll of what I know realize to be healthy skin would appear between my fingers, I'd wipe my eyes and whisper to myself,

"You're so fat and ugly. Go die."

I heard my parents talking about the anorexia and saying it was a bad thing, so I told myself that I would still eat, I just wouldn't eat as much.

Then I told myself that I would work out three times a day to lose weight. I went for a run every day and worked my tail off doing an work outs and leg exercises.

All the while I told myself that I was fine and that I was mentally and physically healthy. That wasn't true at all. The sickness was in my head. I just didn't know it yet.

Soon, I realized that I still wasn't satisfied with the outline of a sick pack that I could see when I looked in the mirror. The scale still told me that I was 110. And to me, 110 = unworthy, fat, and ugly.

Slowly, I began to skip meals. I would do it when my mom wasn't looking. I would go "eat in my room" only to throw the food into the garbage can in my way there. If I was forced to eat with the family, I would take small portions and pick at it for a while, taking tiny bites until finally I would stuff my face, go to the bathroom and spit the food into the trash.

My stomach slowly flattened out more.

Finally, one night I woke up crying and realized that something was wrong with me.

The next day, I went to my younger sister's room and stood in front of her, preparing to be judged and outcast.

"I haven't eaten for a week." I confided with shame.

Her face went white and her eyes filled with tears. She said something I never expected to hear.

"Neither have I."

We both let tears stream down our faces.

From then on, it was a battle. My sister and I ate our meals together, making sure we finished.

It was terrible at first. Everything tasted like dirt. I didn't want to eat, and neither did my sister. But we were both determined to overcome it before it overtook us.

I'm so thankful, to this day, that we realized the mess we were in and were able to help each other out of it. I'm astounded.

It shouldn't have been that easy to stop. I know so many people have it harder.

I was blessed.

But there was more rough water ahead.

End.