The Perfect Girl
Yesterday I was the seemingly perfect vision of the recovered daughter. I got up, ate something small for breakfast; a special k bar. I went to school, where I spent some time with my boyfriend and friends learned a little. I ate a decent sized lunch; a small sandwhich, a cheesestick, and a small apple. Then, I went home. When I got home, I was home alone. My mother, brother, grandmother, and dad were all not home. Although I had a bunch of homework and had had an incredible day...I dropped my stuff and went straight to the kitchen because I saw the Chance.
Oreos. Milk. Honeybuns. Onion Rings. Kitkat Bars. Eggplant Parm. Soda. I went through all of it, probably over 1,500 calories, in under 30 minutes. Because I am thin, my stomach became extremely distorted and really hurt. I couldn't even stand up straight. I weighed myself, jumped in the shower, feeling the steaming water pelt my abused body. Then I purged everything. Weighed myself again. Smiled. Then. On with my "perfect" facade. I did some of my homework, found two beautiful prom dresses online, and then I went shopping and got my eyebrows done with my mom. I was so 'happy'. Then, I got home again. Mom and my brother were there, but brother was sleeping and mommy was leaving to pick up dad so she was getting ready. Chance number two.
I stuffed two more honeybuns, some diet soda inside me and was looking for more when boyfriend called. He asked me if I wanted to go to dinner before youth group at Chipolte. "Sure!" I answered. Then, while my mom was getting ready on the other side of the wall, ran into the bathroom, turned on the tap and threw up. Then ran to my room. Brushed my hair, teeth. Reapplied my makeup, changed into cute clothes. The picture of perfection covered the monster inside me.
My mom knows I'm thin but doesn't suspect. She believes its from my enthusiastic use of the gym and love to run. She doesn't realize I throw up my dinner every single night, or that I binge and purge whenever I'm not eating healthy or starving myself. She doesn't realise I want to throw up whenever I feel full or empty. She doesn't realise that half the week I starve myself with less than 500 calories a day. She thinks I'm recovered. Thin. Perfect. Healthy. I see nothing but failure. I've had anorexia and bulimia for almost 6 years. I'm only 17 and a half. I feel so alone.
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