Ana

          At thirteen, I sat cross legged on my friend's cold wooden floor, shoveling forkful after forkful of cheesecake into my mouth. I took breaks between bites only to steal a swig of soda before continuing to scarf the rest down. The scene was not abnormal. I ate fattening, horrid foods while growing up. On that day, however, my friend commented on it. She pointed out that the cheesecake and Cheetos munchies were beginning to show. I felt nauseated and ashamed of myself and left her room to stand in the bathroom and stare at myself. I analyzed every inch of my body as I slowly pulled the hem of my shirt up my torso. The sight of my body instilled deep shame and disgust in me, and tears welled up in my eyes.

          Fat.

                    Disgusting.

          I wanted the food out of me. I couldn't handle the feeling of it inside me. I dropped to the floor and shoved my hand to back of my throat, heaving and clutching the side of the toilet until the water turned from clear to a thick puree of pre-teen snack foods. I sat there in silence after I flushed the mess away. Tears were still wet on my cheeks and a faint acidic taste of vomit remained in my mouth. However, as pathetic of a scene as it was, and as broken down as I had become to let myself be reduced to purging, I felt an overwhelming thrill and a disconcerting blissful relief. I began to hardly eat aside from vegetables and water every day. That's how it started out. I would skip meals or eat only half of what was given to me. Every morning and night I would go on a run and do multiple exercises from my room. It felt extremely satisfying to see the pounds melt away from my body.

          Initially, the results were appealing. My waist shrunk, my stomach flattened, and my limbs appeared leaner. I felt invincible, but in reality, I was ignoring the symptoms I was feeling. I was light-headed, dizzy, cold, and tired. I was devoid of vital nutrients and my belly remained empty and growling each night. I pushed on, though.

          The amount of self-hate required to starve yourself is astounding. Few people are aware of the thoughts inside to force yourself to not take a bite, as hungry as you are. At first the hunger is the most difficult. It hurt and felt torturous. At one time I actually cried because of my hunger. My hunger pains slowly faded. I hardly had a taste for food anymore. I was used to not eating. Eventually, though, hunger became a fervently craved, almost euphoric feeling. The less inside, the thinner you are, the voice inside cooed. Sometimes the voice was a kind whisper and was assuring. However, when I wanted to eat food, it transformed into a poisonous monster. It belittled me to instil shame and guilt for innocently wanting a basic human need: food. She would criticize me, sadistically calling me porky, lard, ugly, a cow, chubby. The cruel words felt etched into my skin, branding me as a disgusting pariah. Weighing myself became the most difficult part of my day, but I was obsessed with constantly knowing. Sometimes I would see the weight on the scale and weep at gaining perhaps only a pound. The gain would encourage the voice in my mind and it would grow louder when I had my cravings and wanted to eat some chips or pizza.

          Look at what you are about to eat. Are you hungry? Are you actually hungry? Could you go without it? Think of how great you'll look.

          Once I read a quote that captured the feeling well. "If you put the wrong foods in your body, you are contaminated and dirty and your stomach swells. Then the voice says, why did you do that? Don't you know better? Ugly and wicked, you are disgusting to me." I continued to listen to the voice, and with that, the hunger would disappear, and I would remain empty.

          The voice never thought it was enough. I would look in the mirror, and although looking back I know I looked absolutely fine, my sick mind saw imperfections littered my body. I pinched the miniscule fat and skin I had, grabbing parts of me I wish were not there, and despaired over my unappealing appearance. I wanted all the fat on my body to be gone. The answer seemed obvious: eat even less.

          I felt emptier and emptier, both physically and mentally. I was devoid of any emotion aside from disgust. Depression loomed in the darkness of my mind, and when it decided to rear its ugly head and fully devour me, I felt helpless and lost. A numb, lifeless feeling took over and it did not seem possible to rid it from myself. Sometimes I would lay in bed, thoughtless and emotionless. Other times, I would scream in a pillow until my throat became raw. I hardly ate anymore, drinking only water and munching on celery sticks. Eventually my joints looked disproportionally large compared to my body. My stomach curved inward harshly. A concerned friend noticed my bones protruding more with every passing day and reached out, but I only viewed her genuine concern as jealousy. I felt my only friend, my best friend, was my disease-a disease I refused to acknowledge as real.

          Somehow I miraculously overcame my disorder. No one helped me or noticed other than my one friend, who never told an adult. I recall reading some articles of anorexic girls going into cardiac arrest or their livers failing, and I felt terrified at the possibilities of death. I did my best to trump the sick part of my mind and return to my logical, rational self. I tried slowly eating more, but at one point, I binged out and ate a ton of pancakes. After that, it felt easier to eat. The voice dimmed. My stomach expanded back almost to what it used to be, and my figure fleshed itself out.

          Throughout the years, I occasionally relapse and lose my head, usually not eating for a week aside from ice chips, saltines, gum, and salad. The voice never left back when I was in middle school. It never completely leaves anyone. It hides and waits-waiting until a moment of weakness arises and proceeds to pounce on your insecurities. Along with anorexia, depression lurks and returns occasionally as well. I now know it affects not only me, but my family and friends. Once, while suffering from a slight relapse, my boyfriend took notice of my lack of food consumption and mentioned it. He was not judgmental of me, only offering understanding and concern. He would try to encourage me to eat a few bites of whatever he was eating that day. Hearing from him later on about how I acted, I felt a deep unsettling feeling. He recounted a time after a double date with friends that stuck with him. We returned to my house, and somehow he knew when I tried to use the bathroom that I was going to vomit up as much of the meal as I could. He tried stopping me and ended up having to hold me down while I tried punching and kicking him to break away. I hysterically screamed at him that I wanted the food out of me over and over again. His only response was continuing to hold me down and tell my deaf ears that he loved me. Eventually, I gave in and laid there underneath him, crying.

          Being empty is never a positive feeling. It's lonely and dims your view of how beautiful the word is around you. Physically feeling empty gives you a sick pain in your stomach. Emotionally, emptiness can transfer towards your interactions with others, and your words become insincere and emotionally lacking. You, yourself, become a shell-hollow and fake. Your entire being becomes a façade, as you try masking the emptiness inside. To this day, I am still empty. Being with friends distracts me and sometimes, it feels as if the sun is shining and life appears more radiant. However, when alone with myself and my thoughts, the color and luminescence of life I had once seen is sapped away and I am left with a black and white void in its place. I am empty.