Colour Me

They had all heard of the accident by now: It was all over the news, with crazy headlines like "insane accident to seventeen-year-old prodigy Callie Woods". I didn't know what they could see. But I knew they at least could see something.

I remember my first runway show at the age of twelve. No one ever stopped and considered how young I was to be in such an at-risk profession. The majority admired my talent at such a young age. I wasn't known for being Callie Woods. I was Joana Wood's Daughter.

I haven't heard the sound of my stomach in days. But oh boy would I sure like to get a glance at it. The monstrous and grotesque belly that I imagined went past my toes so much, one would think I'm expecting.

It was that day that my mom officially diagnosed me as a bulimic child.

"You are not a true anorexic." She exclaimed.

I was seven. A small, undernourished seven-year-old that fainted for the first time on her school's stairway, and didn't know how to explain that to someone. A small seven-year-old who wanted to remember what it was like when ice cream touched her lips in the middle of a scorching summer, or what hot chocolate felt like in the middle of a frosty winter. I wanted to go to Halloween and be able to say I wanted a treat. I wanted to look into my Christmas sock and feel the rush of excitement you get when you receive handfuls of candy canes, not some half stuffed diet pills that were not even at least wrapped in Christmas paper. I wanted a birthday cake and not a size zero dress that I could use as a goal item to be able to wear by the end of spring.

I missed replacing meals with other practical hobbies like lethal diet pills or fainting. Or living off the idea that others get envious off me for not having got my period yet. I missed feeling frigid in a balmy room, and the long brags I get to remark about it.