• Highest Ranking #1 in Bulimia •
•Highest Ranking #1 in Free Mental Illness •
He's a quarterback struggling with a secret eating disorder that's destroying his life.
She's a food-fanatic who loves every curve in her beautiful body.
When their scho...
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1 month later.
"So we're hanging out tonight?" Andrew asks.
I slam my locker shut, meeting his cheery expression.
"Yeah, I don't know. I think families coming over." I lie. I rub my eyes roughly with my hand, trying to brush away my tiredness. I just don't think I can deal with pretending to be happy all night, pretending to care about my friends. Pretending to be okay with hooking up with some random sophomore. Pretending that I actually give a shit.
"You're parents still fighting?"
"God- everyday."
"We haven't hung out in a while." Andrew asks carefully. "You okay."
I roll my eyes. Apparently everyone worried I'm going to fucking com-bust or something. I mean it's not even just him. It's my teachers, parents, coaches. They all care too much- and it's suffocating me.
"I'm fine."
Andrew raises an eyebrow but doesn't push it, his eyes drifting off before landing on Cira whose talking with her friends. "So you're still not talking to her?"
"I told you- we got into a fight."
"Yeah, yeah. Sure."
"I was too fucked up for her anyway." I shrug.
"You're not fucked up man."
God. I am though. Everything about me is fucked up. What- I know it, everyone knows it. Why keep pretending I'm not. Isn't that part of my treatment anyway- being honest with people.
I'm about to respond when suddenly I wince. Andrews hand reaches out steadying me.
"You okay."
"Yes- fuck off- I'm fine Andrew."
But I'm not. It's hunger pains. I haven't felt them in so long. I almost forgot how they felt.
The first bell rings, which means I can get away from Andrew's worried gaze for a while. I wish people would stop worrying about me. I wish I could just be forgotten. I wish I could just disappear.
...
I tap my fingers against the leather of my chair impatiently.
"Will?"
My eyes snap back to focus, resting on my therapist, her eyebrows furrowed and her expression worried.
"Sorry."
"Right-" She says slowly, "You said you haven't hung out with you friends in a while. Why is that?"
I think for a moment, distracted by the the sound of Mrs.Singh's pen moving against her clipboard.
"I don't know." I whisper. "I just- I just don't want too."
She bites her lip. "Do you know why?"
"I'm just tired of them I guess." I say. "It's always the same shit-sorry- thing with them."
"So you're tired of them? Even your football friends?"
"Everyone." I slip out. "Everyone's always on top of me. I hate it."
"Don't you think that's because they care about you?"
"I guess." My stomach feels uneasy- and I feel so- so tired.
"Branch out. Maybe you should make new friends. Meet people who are different. It's important to be surrounded by healthy, positive people."
I just shrug, my eyes returning to the clock above Mrs. Singh's head.
Get me out of here.
...
My fingers push down against my toilet's handle, the empties of my stomach disappearing from view. I lean back against the wall, wiping my sweaty forehead with my hand. My breathing is shaky, uneven, and I cough- my hand finding blood when I wipe my mouth.
Fuck.
I've completely relapsed, I know.
And the fact is- I don't exactly know why.
I'm not starving myself to loose weight. I'm not purging too either. It's different this time. I'm doing it for- for. I don't know. For the feeling of calm, euphoria. The feeling that- I'm in control, that I have something- something for sure.
I stand up- unbalanced, dizzy. I glance at my reflection in the mirror.
God.
Who am I? Who am I now? I can't recognize this person.
This god-awful, selfish person.
This person that pushes away people that care about him.
That hurts people that cares about him.
I hate this person.
But I want him too.
I want him more than anything. I want these feelings.
