Diary of an Anorexic Thespian (1)

      Bright lights glare off of sharp corners and white tile. The porcelain god beckons from the corner, daring me. Try it. But I have nothing left! Soon. Try it. Do it. Okay, I concede. Okay. Next time. But as for right now, in this very moment, I have a bigger threat to handle. Resting at my feet is my worst nightmare, my greatest fear, my biggest enemy. It is my hopes and dreams, the measurement of my successes and failures. It terrifies me; distracts me all day long until I feel like breaking down. That is the problem with this disease, however. No matter what happens, you can't break down. There is no escape in sight, nor will there ever be.

      The taunting platform I am about to step on is also my best friend. I know it's in on the secret; it must be. It is the one who regulates me every day, so how can it not know? It knows all of my plans, my hopes and dreams, and I sometimes think it tells me lies to motivate me. I love you, my friend. Please, tonight, be nice. I need this. I don't think I can take it any longer. Help me.

      I have now been standing, shivering, naked, for nearly five minutes. It feels like an eternity. If I don't do this now, I never will. Taking a deep breath, steadying myself, I manage to squeeze my eyes shut and step up on the white and blue platform. I hear the numbers move, the weights click, bounce and finally fall still. The moment of truth arrives. Today I only aimed for a half a pound. That's not so much, right? It's not too much to ask for, is it? I at least deserve that much, after all this work and agony.

      I gradually open my eyes and stare. Even before They're completely open, I know what it is. Silently, painfully, I double over and squeeze my sides. Tears form in my eyes, and I shake my head. No. No. No. Why am I such a failure? Why can't I do anything right? Why can I not get control, like before? I am falling out of control, and it scares me so badly. What if I just keep going, until I'm... I'm... obese? The black numbers are burned on to my skull, behind my eyelids. 131.5 pounds. Up a whole fucking pound from yesterday. Pig. Bitch. Fatass. Whore, slut, failure, glutton, no words are ever strong enough to convey the anger I feel at myself.

 

      I go downstairs, to my room. It is 10:15pm, and I still have an hour of homework to do before I sleep. Rehearsal had thankfully ended early, so I would get maybe five good hours of rest before Q to Q tomorrow. I am so distraught I cannot concentrate, however. The weight scares me so badly, I am shaking. Crying. Falling apart, even though that's not allowed. Then, I think of an idea.

      Have you ever heard of The Game? The Game is very simple. If you think of The Game, you lose. You must say "I lose" out loud, and then everyone around also loses. It's pointless and fun, but very effective. Well, why not change The Game for my purposes?
If I think of food, I lose.
If I eat, I lose.
If I gain, I lose.
If I lose, I win.
Most people play this game quite frequently. They have petty, meaningless names for it, like 'dieting'. They play for a while and win.
I play, and I win.
Then I keep playing.

      In my journal, I write down all of the rules. Outline them. Burn them into my memory. Draw up blank charts and graphs, ready to be filled in with the information I collect three times daily. I feel happy, a bit better and clamer now that I have a plan. The Game starts now, and I will kill the other motherfuckers out on the battlefeild. My first chart is filled in, and I cringe at the numbers. I have gained 27.5 pounds over the winter. I am apalled.
Height: 5"6
Weight: 131.5
Goal: 90
To Lose: 41.5
BMI: 21.4
GBMI: 14.5
It. Starts. Now.