So Far.... (One Shots & Poems)

Seeing Over the Edge

Even after a health class lesson on this I’m not prepared. Who would have thought I would be that person?

I can hear my mom saying, “Oh yeah it’s really serious. I knew a girl, in high school, who had been doing it for so long, she had to get surgery on her throat, it was so damaged.” in the back of my head. My stomach hurts and my body is so tired, its limp, so I  grab onto the toilet to keep from falling.

I’m not that person, though. Doing something once or twice a month doesn’t mean you have a problem. But even as I lay on the floor, trying to catch my breath, always trying to catch my breath, I can’t help but wonder if that is true.

I don’t have to look in the mirror to know that mascara is running down my face, that some leftover food is in the corner of my mouth. At this moment I just want to stay here, lying down, the cool tile floor against my burning cheek, calming myself down.

            Pictures of supermodels flash through my mind, reminding me why I was doing this. I’m never going to be good enough, I know that, but I can try.

 I need to get up off the floor, I know it, but I can’t will myself to move.

            The light is flickering a little, it’s driving me crazy. On shaky limbs I push myself up on hands and knees, pushing until I’m standing up, leaning my hands against the counter. I’m shaking and I don’t know how to stop. My nose is running and, as I predicted, my mascara is running down my cheeks. I can’t look at myself in the mirror for too long, because I know that if I do, I will be repulsed with whatever I look at.

            I lower my eyes to the sink and move to turn it on; as I lean down I feel the muscles in my body protest from all the working out I’ve been doing. I cup my hands under the faucet and wince as the cold water touches them. I bring them up and rinse my face off.

            “Lynn! Are you ok?” I can hear my mom yell through the door, knocking.

            “Yeah” I say, but my voice is hoarse and I can blearily hear myself. I clear my throat and try again, “Yeah, I’m fine mom!” I yell. I take some hand soap from the right of the sink and rub it on my face, trying to get the mess off, slow circles, each part of my face scrubbed for at least ten seconds. I lean down and rinse my face off with more cold water then walk over to the towel hanging up, drying my face against it. When I turn to the mirror I don’t see the mess from earlier, but someone who looks innocent, not ready for what life is about to deal her.

            Reaching over the sink for my toothbrush, I realize that what I am doing is dangerous and I don’t know how to stop, and that’s what scares me more than actually throwing up, I don’t have control of my life anymore, but I don’t know how to stop. When I’m done I put everything away and stare at my image in the mirror for a minute.            

            After a little more inspecting I see myself somewhat presentable. Turning toward the door I take a few deeps breaths and put my hand on the door knob, calming myself. I try and prepare for what will happen after I leave, but there is no preparing for what I will do.

            And as I open the door, I don’t see anything blinding, nothing incredible. All I see is dark, a dark I can’t escape.