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MEDICINE — THE 1975
"you opiate this hazy head of mine"
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TWO: HATE IS A STRONG WORD
Hate. Hate is a strong word. It's unlike me. I'm not strong. I'm weak and nobody cares. Nobody notices I'm suffering. Nobody will ever genuinely care about me, will they? I just want a friend who understands, who doesn't dodge my questions and a friend who doesn't say "rant to me" and, when you rant to them, they read your message but don't reply. What kind of 'friend' is that?
I don't like food, I've had a complicated relationship with it for a while now. In fact, I hate it. I hate the way I need it for sustenance like I don't have a choice in the matter. Every day my parents shout at me because I answer their questions on what I want for dinner with "death." If only they knew how hard it was for me to turn around and tell them it feels like a chore to eat, let alone to decide what it is I can stomach that day. If all else fails, it'll be pizza. A specific one—ham and pineapple—otherwise, it's not happening and my body will reject it.
I wish I wasn't born. Why couldn't my parents hold back on a fourth child? They would be better off by now and I think even they know that. Seeing my siblings grow up to have 'successful' careers and not a single mental illness insight must have been nice while it lasted, before I came along and turned their lives upside down. There's always one child that fucks up the whole family dynamic. Why did that have to be me?
I want to do normal stuff like other kids—OK, teenagers—my age but my mum won't let me. After my first attempt, she's been overly protective and very sad (my dad made it clear that's down to me), which is understandable, I probably would be too if I was in her position.
I want people to invite me to house parties and I want to be cool enough to turn their invitation down. I want a cute boy (if they exist) to offer me weed so I can lecture him on the damage it causes in the long run and inform him he looks stupid with that thing between his chapped lips. I want to get on a train to London without a plan and explore the British equivalent of the concrete jungle. And, someday, I want to go anywhere far away from here and never return.
I know I'll never be cool or funny enough to be the girl everybody clamours to invite to their house party.
At the end of the day, as I walk down the college halls, I notice how each person has their own 'thing', their own vibe, and I don't fit in with any of them. I am nobody. They'll never even know my name and I'll remain nothing to them. They will go on to be somebody's parents. Someone's partner. And I'll always be nothing.
I'm not skinny, so why do people say I am? People say to me that I am skinny as if it is the norm so why do I have rolls of fat on my stomach when I sit down? It's disgusting. I look disgusting. You can't feel my ribs anymore, there's just flabby skin. I look disgusting. Disgusting. Apparently, everyone has them, so why do I feel so odd? Why do I feel like the only person in the world that has rolls? Maybe it's not really that bad, but do supermodels have rolls? I don't think so. They're worshipped. They have stupidly long Barbie legs and an army of dieticians and stylists and make-up artists to make them seem perfect. Nobody is. It's unachievable.
I don't know what to do. What would you do? Would you beat yourself up as I do?
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DISCLAIMER:
Fat is not a bad word so therefore I will say it! The MC is struggling with an eating disorder and her self-image. I do not share the same views and this is strictly fiction. Fat is beautiful. Skinny is beautiful. All bodies are beautiful. Having rolls standing up or sitting down is normal. You are normal.
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because of you » a.i. [EDITING]
Fanfic"Why do you hate me? I don't understand." "I hate everyone, you're not special." ____________________________ there's a shoddy sequel too, btw. ____________________________ Short Story | #191 Recovery | #2