How to Love Claire Mason

Thin Again

I am getting thin again.

My hip bones are starting to jut out like pale mountains standing tall before sloping into the valley that is my stomach and waist. The prominent muscle I've always had in my biceps is beginning to wither away again. Just a little bit longer, and all that will remain will be the girlish stick arms I've always wanted. My hands and fingers are becoming thinner and delicate, dainty even. My cheeks aren't as fat, which lets my eyes appear larger. My legs are thinner too. I love it all.

Not eating my feelings has been going quite smoothly. The feeling of being so numb and emotionless helps. I feel so indifferent about everything, especially food. Yet, lately, I've been feeling a hunger I've never felt before. It's quite strong, yet so easy to ignore. I crave chocolate, cake, cookies, ice cream, you name it, but I can push the cravings way and forget it all. I can forget the hunger, because to me, nothing matters anymore.

I wonder if he notices. How thin I am, I mean. Does he ever even see me anymore? I mean, I'm right there in English class, but is he ever looking? I bet he is blind to me, has forgotten my existence.

I wish he could see.

Call me an attention whore, I don't care. But I just want him to see his dirty work, what he has done. To me. To my mind. I could waste away to nothing and he wouldn't so much as blink an eye. He wouldn't care. So why do I? What am I trying to prove? That he hurt me? He knows that. I'm trying to hurt him. But hurting myself won't help anything. And yet, it's what feels right. Punishment to myself. For fucking being good enough.

My mother asks what's wrong. I tell her it's just loss of appetite. She doesn't pry. She doesn't ask why. I can't tell her about the cravings because she'd jump on them in an instant. She'd buy me all the junk food in the world just to see me eat again. But because I don't tell her, she leaves me alone. She won't take me to the doctor again. She figures I'm strong enough to get back on track again. I always have, since my recovery. Besides, my weight loss isn't too noticeable, not yet. I eat dinner with the family still. It's only lunch and breakfast I forgo.

Sometimes, around the time I'd be eating breakfast if I felt I deserved it, I just get nauseous and start to vomit. It's only a little though, not enough to concern me. I figure its only because of the thought of him, how he makes bile rise up in my throat. Funny thing is, it only happens in the morning, when he isn't there. Maybe its because I dream about him.

What little I vomit up helps too. With the weight loss, I mean. I guess I should go to the doctor of it starts to seem too consistent, but for now, I'll just appreciate it. Besides, if anyone asks, I can honestly say I never made myself throw up.

I joke, silently and to myself of course, that the early vomiting is morning sickness. A sarcastic, grim smile spreads across my face when I think this. Me, pregnant? It'd be just what I'd need.

Cravings, throwing up practically every goddamn morning. Yeah, that could put me under some qualifications of a pregnant woman. Or girl, rather. Women don't fight the pains of teen angst. Women are strong and have a level head on their shoulders. Women don't let a man destroy them this way. No. I, I am a girl. And he, he is just a boy.

I could never be a mother, not now. Maybe not ever. It'd be a burden, and I have too many as it is. So many, and I cannot carry one of them without shattering every now and then. I am only a girl. A thin, lost, broken, scarred girl. I am not mother material. I'm not anything.

And if there's a God, He'd know better

than to curse the mess that is me with a child.