The Lies and the Truths

Chapter 4

"I am starving," I thought, "but no one must find out."

A few days ago, I was hanging out with Logan. We rode our bikes around our town and hung out at his house and the park for a bit. It was extremely fun. Not until I noticed my stomach grumble did I want to go home. The sole thing I focused on was becoming thin no matter what and making sure no one found out how messed up I was.

Apparently my mom saw something in me, and whenever she would look at me it looked as if she was slightly appalled to see me. I had no idea as to what was wrong. I automatically would look down and think that I was growing fatter as she looked at me.

A couple days ago, she took me to the store because my clothes were a little too baggy for me. She then picked up a magazine. I recognized it a little too well. It was one of the magazines that was my "inspiration" of how to look.

"Kit, you know this is photo shopped, don't you?"

I had no idea.

Why would she tell me this? Did she know? How'd she find out? No, she doesn't know otherwise I would not still be living in the same house as her. She would have sent me somewhere. She does not know. That is good.

Yesterday, when I was hanging out with Logan again, I complained that my stomach hurt. He made some certain jokes about why it might hurt. I just glared at him.

"Look I didn't want to say anything, but you're worrying me, Kit. A lot," Logan told me.

"How am I worrying you?" I returned.

"Look at you," I'd been looking at myself, I'm fat. "You are thinner than my girlfriend, you don't talk as much as my girlfriend, and you aren't eating as much as my girlfriend. What's wrong Kit? You've become a different person."

"I don't know," I said, "I don't know." I broke down right there and leaned into him. "What do I do?" I couldn't even begin to describe what this moment felt like. To feel alone with no one to help you, to feel like no one cared, to feel like you were beyond hope, to feel like you belonged in a mental institution. I just scratched the surface.

That night, I barely ate dinner, moving things around on my plate so that it looked as if I ate my food. I was so disgusted at myself for feeling the way I did so I barely ate. I did not eat breakfast. Instead I hid out in my room and waited to go somewhere. I would wheigh myself at least five times a day. No matter what I did I wasn't satisfied. I knew that what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn't stop. It was like a drug. If I ate, I hurt. If I didn't, I felt better. My mind is so twisted.

Today, I sit watching the tv and see a segment on magazine making. Everything they put inside magazines is a lie. The models actually aren't that thin. Their face isn't actually that clear. I realized that I had turned into a monster and could not be stopped.

I needed to stop.