Disordered Eating (Skephalo)

To Whom It May Concern - Zak

The contents of this story will be triggering. If you are sensitive to suicide, self harm, abuse, and eating disorders please do not read this story. This story is fictional and is not meant to depict real events.

Thank you.
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To Whom It May Concern:

Ever since I was a kid, I had some form of disordered eating. Even as a child. I was an extremely picky eater. Certain textures bothered me too much for me to eat, so I would avoid food with those textures or even how the food looked like. I had a lot of anxiety if I tried new food that I didn't before. As a toddler, I already had felt a lot of shame in the way I ate, even if what I was eating was actually not enough to begin with. I was hyperaware of what I looked like when I ate. I was worried about looking disgusting or like a pig.

It didn't help with the amount of body pressure and shame I had surronding me in my entire life. My family wasn't very good to each other. Comments about each others weights were frequent. Insults were even more common. I heard of all the new diets and weight loss techniques. Eventually, I was encouraged into joining in on their diets too. And by encouraged, I actually mean forced. I developed orthorexia with my family cheerleading me.

At school I was bullied as well. As a child, I wasn't able to do gym class as well as the other kids. I felt like there was something wrong with me and that I was unhealthy. I was a healthy child, but my head was convinced that it was because I held too much weight. The other kids would laugh at me for slow mile times and they would groan if I was on their team in gym class.

My orthorexia kept getting worse. I only ate food that was considered healthy. I was obsessed with low fat food and not taking in sugar. I felt the need to push myself hard in and outside of gym class. I had watched documentaries on unhealthy eating. I was afraid to eat anything considered unhealthy. I was too afraid to have cake for my birthdays.

I had absolutely no control in my life on top of the pressure to be skinny. I couldn't be myself or risk getting hurt. I couldn't lie or get hurt. I couldn't be honest or get hurt. I couldn't laugh too loud or cry too loud. I couldn't make eye contact. I couldn't get even one question wrong on my test or take too long on chores. I couldn't be upset or be happy. I couldn't cry. I couldn't play. I couldn't have friends. It was too dangerous for any of that.

I didn't know this was bad at the time. I was a child that had no chance to be a child, and this was traumatizing to me. I couldn't cope.

I turned to anorexia, which wasn't surprising considering my orthorexia.
My anorexia developed when I was 10 years old. My family once again encouraged me. They loved to see me push myself to see how long I could fast for. They avoided taking me to the doctors. They would scream at me how disgusting I looked and how evil food is.

I fainted during school once, and I was hospitalized. I had to stay at the psych ward for a few days. My family checked me out when they could as they didn't want my recovery. They beat me up for messing up at school like that. Being physically hurt started much more often after that.

What made matters worse was that I am pansexual. My parents read my phone messages. Because they were homophobic, they beat me up real bad. This made a teacher notice bruises as well as me appearing way too skinny already. I was removed from my home at age 16 and placed into a couple of temporary homes until I ended up with a foster family.

My foster family was really kind to me at first. My anorexia improved more at the age of 17. I maintained my weight, but didn't restrict as badly as I used to. I had a therapist and been to a few residential treatment centers. I was still anorexic, but I was sort of trying to recover.

When I turned 18, suddenly they kicked me out of their home. Apparently they didn't have enough money for me, and the government no longer said they were responsible for me.

My little efforts for recovery was destroyed. I didn't get to see my therapist anymore as my foster family paid for it. I started purging the little food I ate which I had never done before. My arms became littered with self-harm scars, which is why I am never seen without a hoodie.

Being kicked out, I moved in with my friend George. George was older than me and had his own apartment. I didn't know him very well but he was the only one who would really talk to me during school. I thought he was a nice person. We started dating, since George was gay, and he turned into a completely different person.

He started controlling me like my parents used to. I couldn't leave the house when he was home without permission or he would hurt me. My phone was now George's phone that he allowed me to use. He said he liked me better at my lowest weight. My body was his to decide about. He would watch over me as I purged and would rub my back as I did it. He was proud of me for doing it. I reached the lowest weight I ever had. 75 pounds was the number that came back to me on the scale and George made me feel like that wasn't even good enough.

I'm not good enough.

I don't want to stop starving myself. I don't feel like I am at a good enough weight yet. I like the control that counting calories and my weight gives me. That's the only thing I am able to control in my life. This is how I survive. This is how I cope.

However, I don't plan on surviving any longer.

I feel awful. I have no energy in my body. I am starting to bald from hair loss. My bones ache and I can barely move my body. I can't sleep. I feel depressed and miserable and my cutting is getting worse. My chest feels tight and I have trouble breathing. I know I don't have much longer to live anyway. My doctor told me this years ago before I even began purging if I was to continue to restrict like I did.

I am killing myself and if you are reading this letter I will already be dead.

I have to end this pain.

I know I won't be rememberable, and I know no one will miss me or notice I am gone. I don't mind that.

I am writing this as George is at work, and will slip out and leave the apartment while he still is. George wouldn't let me leave anyways.

Thanks for the phone, George. And all your other gifts.

I am sorry for dragging my suicide note out so long. I know it's better to read if it's straight to the point. However, since I am dead I do not care if anyone finally knows my secrets besides guessing about my anorexia.

Don't go looking for me.

-Zak.