I laid in my bed, sick to my stomach. My friend walked in, carrying crackers and Gatorade.
"Do you feel any better?" She asked, concerned about my stomach flu. I sipped the Gatorade.
"It's not any different than everyday life." I said, without thinking.
"Mia, what are you talking about?" she questioned, sincere concern on her face.
"Isn't my name such a coincidence?" I laugh, " 'mia', the pet name for my disorder." I muse, "Sara, I have an eating disorder." I look her straight in the eyes. Her brown eyes that glitter with tears.
"B-but, Mia," she stutters, "how do you have an eating disorder? You eat regular, healthy meals!"
"Honey, that's bulimia," I surprised myself with how easily I talked about it, "I eat and then I purge. I'm skinny, I'm beautiful. I feel fine, other than today of course. This purging is accompanied by the flu."
"Mia, Mia, I can help you. We'll get through this."
"What if I don't want to change?" I asked. "What if this is how I was meant to be? A bulimic, doesn't it fit me? Eating amazing foods and not gaining the weight?"
" I will force you to get help!" she exclaimed. "I won't let you kill yourself." With that, she left and I never saw her again
And the next morning, her words rang true. Two men in hospital scrubs came to my house. They carried me out, without a fight. I sit on this bed, surrounded by white walls, writing a brief account of what happened when I came out of the bulimia closet. It's been 52 days since I purged. It's been 52 days since I've been me.
YOU ARE READING
A Pessimist's Fiction
Historia CortaShort stories, written by me. Topics will be varied but most will probably have a dark theme. (Two uploads have disappeared and I'm working on rewriting them...)
