Meaningless:: a collection

~e.s.i.d

*I Haven't had to post one of these in a while but this chapter could be triggering for some, please read with caution.*
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"You look dead."
I shrug my shoulders. I am breathing. My heart is beating. My brain is functioning. His words enter one ear before dissolving to dust. Either way, I am still alive. I have another eighty-five years before I'll be placed in a coffin.
"You look dead."
What is he talking about? Has he been smoking pot and snorting cocaine?
"When was the last time you looked into a mirror?"
This morning.
His green eyes pierce my skull. I can feel my flesh tightening across my forehead. It hurts. Blood rushes to the area. My vision blurs. The urge to massage my forehead overwhelms my brain.
My head hurts. I can feel the pounding in the layer of skin. My head hurts. It's like someone is pushing it against self, like a piece of cloth being folded again and again.
It's 10 o'clock. I should be going out for a run right now. I should be heading past the shops, the bus stop, school, an intersection. But no, I'm stuck here, in this big white room that stinks of disinfectant.
It seems my summer is off to a bad start. I should be on the treadmill or something, not sitting still, with doctors breathing down my back.
I focus on the white walls in front of me. A teacher once told me white represents purity and safety. I always preferred blue. Funny that. I thought blue calmed people down. She told me blue symbolized depression.
No wonder my room used to be blue.
He was still staring at me. It's rude. It's really rude. Didn't his mom teach him not to stare? My skin prickles. I hate it when people stare. Maybe it's my face. Did I put on my foundation properly? Does my eyeshadow match my shirt? Is it my face? Is it still fat? Or is it my blush? Is it too dark or too light?
"How much do you weigh?" He asks as he opens his notepad. I bite my lip trying to hide my frustration. Why would he want to know? There are two things you never ask a woman: her age and her weight.
Stupid jerk.
This is a waste of time.
I shrug my shoulders.
"Hop on the scale," he says, pointing to the instrument in the corner.
No way.
He looks at me again, "come on Taylor. Just hop on the scale."
I shake my head.
No.
No.
No.
I'm not going to the scale.
I'm fat. I'm obese.
My hips are way too big. My thighs are too fat. People call it muscle. I call it food that made it into the digestive system and straight to my thighs instead of straight into the toilet.
Forget the food.
My lip bleeds. I've bitten too hard on it again. It's not going to stop anytime soon. I feel like a vampire sucking my own blood. The alkaline taste in my mouth is disgusting yet comforting. I run a hand through my hair and instantly regret it as some comes out: another effect if my obsession.
"How about we check your height?"
"I'm 5 foot 8 inches tall," I reply quickly trying not to say something I'd regret later. A small smile appears on his face. I want to hit it away.
"When was the last time you ate?" He asks laying his pen down.
"Last night."
Was it last night? I couldn't remember.
"Why haven't you eaten breakfast?"
Why should he care? It's not like I just murdered someone. It's none of his business.
"I woke up late."
He doesn't seem convinced. Have a little faith buddy.
He sighs and leans in closer, his palms resting on the table. "Alright Taylor, let me tell you something. You're killing yourself..."
And I don't care.
It's not my fault. Everything is under control. Everything is okay because I have it under control.
For now, I'll survive on grapes, carrots, and water. That is until it ends up in the toilet.
No wonder the bathroom reeks. I tried to mask and the smell with one of those expensive bathroom air freshener, but it's hard to mask that smell.
The doctor stands up and takes the mirror from the wall. My heart drops like granite to the bottom of my chest. I've been trying to ignore that thing of the past 20 minutes.
He holds it up to my face. I flinch at what I see: a fat monster with a fat face.
Great. I'll probably have to stop eating grapes. They're too full of water. They make my Face look bloated.
"Taylor you need to stop doing this to yourself," he says, "I am going to send you to a specialist to help you deal with this."
I need to look perfect though. A specialist will only make me fat.
"You need to start eating."
What is he talking about? I eat. I eat grapes and carrots. I'm not telling him grapes are now leaving my diet. That will just make it worse.
" carbohydrates, proteins, fats, starch, fruit, vegetables. Even cake. Just try to eat."
I hide back a gag. There's no way I'm doing that. Do you know how long it takes to burn off a grape? Half an hour of running. There's no way I'm eating that.
I like my carrots anyway. Water also helps. I don't feel hungry after I drink it.
It makes me feel good. Full. Skinny.
"You're dying, Taylor. You are committing slow suicide."
Just a few more pounds is all. I'm okay.
Life will be perfect.
"You are very underweight Taylor."
There's always a price to pay for everything.
"You're dying."
At least I'll be beautiful...