I stared at myself in the mirror and a tear fell down my face. Fat was the only word that echoed through my ears. Fat...Fat...Fat…

* * *

Fifty…fifty-one...fifty-two crunches. Come on, you can do this. You're good at work. All you ever do is work. One hundred crunches is nothing.



Sixty-three...sixty-four...sixty-five. A bead of sweat crosses my forehead. Whatever. It's fine. I'm good at work. Some people aren't, but I am.



Seventy-four...seventy-five...seventy-six. I smile. This is where people would see they need to work harder. They would learn they haven't even began to know what work feels like yet if they worked out with me.



Eighty-five...eighty-six...eighty-seven. A few more beads of sweat drop down my face. It's not fair. It's really not. Why should I have to work for everything while everybody else gets everything handed to them?



Ninety-one...ninety-two...ninety-three. It's not fair. I want to hit them.



One hundred.

I lifted up my shirt, trailed my fingers in between my ribs, and smiled. The space in between them was growing. I was getting thinner and stronger.

* * *

No one was home. I haven't eaten since this morning. But I have to keep it together. I have to. There's no other option. But there is. There's not a lot of food in the house, anyway. Except my mom made cookies last night. I don't eat carbs. Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. It's because I love broccoli. Do you? Do you really? Yeah, carrots, too. I'm not so sure...That's because you're honest. You want cookies. No, I don't, I'm strong enough to control my urges. I don't think so...



Okay, fine. I'm going to eat every single cookie that she made. And I do. And I love it. And I don't even want to throw up yet.



5 minutes...Those were good. Everyone deserves to indulge sometimes, right?



10 minutes... Maybe not. I feel bloated already.



20 minutes... And I'm pretty sure the button on my jeans is about to pop open.



30 minutes pass before I run to the bathroom and shove my finger down my throat.

Why is it so hard for me to just be happy with myself? Why is it so impossible for me to do that?



Everyone tells me I'm beautiful, why can't I see it? Well, first off, because they're lying, but plenty of ugly, fat, disgusting people live their lives without completely hating themselves. I, on the other hand, seem to be incapable of self-love.



I took off my shirt and stared at myself in my bra. How could I love that person standing in the mirror? There was plenty of extra blubber around my hips and stomach, everywhere except my boobs, of course, the one place I wouldn't mind a little extra fat.



I crossed my arms over my chest, no wonder why I couldn't be content with myself.

* * *



I got up out of my seat in history class, and I suddenly felt the room swaying. How much did I eat today? Nothing. Yesterday? A granola bar. The day before? I’m not sure, but not much.

The room started to move side to side. I stopped for a minute and tried to regain my balance, but I didn't. Everything just kept moving. I took another step forward, or I tried to, but the last thing I can remember is moving in a downward motion.

“She's coming about,” I heard someone say.

“What?” I asked as I squinted my eyes .



“You fainted, Abby” a woman in a nurse's uniform said to me.

* * *

They sent me to some sort of hospital. They keep telling to me eat here.

Some girls have already taught me how to cheat the system. Like when a nurse looks away spit the food into your napkin. Or during weigh-ins you can put some quarters in your robe to add a pound or two. I like these girls. They are the only people who have ever understood me.They’re the one thing that makes living here bearable.

* * *

A girl died today. Her esophagus ruptured.

Me and the other girls haven’t talked about it, it’s just too depressing and real for us. It makes us question everything we’ve ever stood for. I refuse to say it out loud, but I’m starting to think that I might have been wrong. I’m starting to think that being skinny just isn’t worth it.

I’m not going to tell anybody that.

* * *

“So, girls, it’s been a difficult week. Does anyone have anything to say?” our group counselor, Jenna, asks.

A girl named Kelsey begins to speak, “When Olivia died, God, it was one of the worst days of my life.”

“Please,” another girl, Elena, says, “If she wanted to get skinny, she didn’t have to continually push her finger down her throat. She was stupid,” she answered.

“How could you say that? We’re all here ‘cause we want to be skinny. How can you be so critical of her?” Kelsey says as tears began to fall down her face.

I don’t want to listen to them anymore. It’s too depressing. I just tune everything out for the rest of group. One time Jenna asks me if I have anything to say, I just shake my head no.

* * *

I want to go home. I miss my bed. I miss my family. I even miss school. I’m so sick of listening to these girls figure out how to “cheat the system.” The longer we don’t cooperate, the longer we’re all stuck here. Don’t they get it?

I just want to go home. I want sit down and watch a movie with my mom. And, you know what, I want to eat popcorn, too. Lightly buttered and salted popcorn. It’s been a while since I’ve done that.

* * *

“How do you girls feel today?” Jenna asks.

“Shitty,” I say under my breath.

“What, Abby?”

“Nothing, it’s just I want to go home.”

She nodded, “Okay. How are you going to go about doing this?”

I took a deep breath, “I’m going to eat.”

* * *

I look at my reflection in the mirror in front of me. Wow. I look… different. It’s not necessarily a bad kind of different...just different. Instead of seeing every gap between my ribs, they have a fullness to them, and I’m not so sure I don’t like it. My face is fuller, too, and my cheeks have color in them. My mother would tell me I look pretty. A couple of months I ago, I would have sworn she was lying. Now, though…

* * *

I walk outside of the facility and take a breath. I’m going home today. My mother is waiting outside for me, and she comes up to me and wraps her arms around me. “You look beautiful,” she whispers in my ear. And, you know what? I actually believe her this time. Because being skinny isn’t beautiful, being healthy is.