Long short story on a teen's descent into anorexia

This is going to be a long one. I have recently written a short, fictional (but autobiographically based) story on one girl's descent to anorexia. It's long, once again, but easy to read:



I peered through the long mirror that Grandma had gotten me earlier in the summer.

Hair? My brown curls bounced around my shoulders in an unruly way, but what else was new?

Makeup? I had attempted to do my makeup the way Olivia had showed me earlier in the summer, but I looked somewhat like a clown. Olivia, on the other hand, always looked exotic and dramatic with her perfectly lined eyes and rouged, sparkling lips. Me? I needed only a wig to pass for a clown at some four year old’s birthday party. Whatever.

Clothes? Mom had pitched in to buy me a new outfit: dark jeans and a shiny tank top. The tank top bulged with the recent development of boobs, which had popped out sometime during the course of the summer.

“CARRIE!!”

I heard Mom’s shrill yelp from downstairs, and I knew it would have to do. I was already late.

“Carrie, you’re going to have to bring a granola bar with you, because you’re late, and I have to drive Olivia to school, too.” Mom was zipping around the kitchen in a flurry of cleaning up breakfast dishes, packing our lunches, and getting ready for work.

“Olivia should just take the bus,” I snarled, picking up my backpack.

“Right, like sophomores take the bus,” Olivia retorted, as if I was asking her to commit social suicide. She was counting down the days until she got her license—41, to be exact.

I didn’t push it, because I was in walking distance of school, but there was no way I could possibly walk and make it on time. I was grateful to be getting a ride my first day at all.

From the looks of the toast crumbs by Ben’s seat, he had already left for his first day of 3rd grade.

Within a few frenzied minutes, Olivia, Mom, and I were on our way to school. I was preoccupied, my heart thumping in my chest.

It took a few minutes to notice Mom’s frosty once-over. “You aren’t going to school like that, are you?” She gasped.
I frowned. We were a block away from school. Uh, yes, I was going to school “like that.” I hardly wanted to ask, but I did, “What’s wrong with me?”

Mom kept her eyes on the road. “Honey, your hair is a mess, and so is your makeup. Did you even brush your teeth this morning?”

I rolled my eyes. So I didn’t look like a supermodel. Irritation surged in me, because Mom was always doing this… commenting about my appearance and making me feel like a fashion failure.

Olivia was daydreaming, tuning Mom’s comments out. She was always glamorous, but never pretentious about it. As an actress, she wore vibrant clothes and makeup, but she was never one to judge. She was used to her fair share of Mom’s scornful remarks.

I got out of the car, insecure but hopeful. It was a new year with new possibilities. Anything could happen.

Last year had been rocky, at best. My grades were good, of course, but the whole friends situation was volatile. Jessi and Felicity, my best friends from elementary school, had started to change. They were “cool” now. They ate at the popular table, with the likes of ultra-fashionable Rachel Parks and Gabrielle Martin.

I hung around my other friend Lizzie for lunch, but she, too, had started to change. She had started wearing all black and skipping recess for trips to the art room. At least she was friendly to me, and although I hadn’t seen her all summer, I was confident that she would save me a seat at her lunch table.

Walking into school, I scanned the crowd for familiar faces. Some midget students, presumably sixth graders, were bubbling through the doors with way to much eagerness than was warranted for middle school.

Finally I saw Lizzie, her hair a strange shade of blue, wearing all black. “Hey, Carrie,” she offered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey, how was your summer?” I asked with such perk, Lizzie gave me a death stare, like, “We’re starting seventh grade, really?”

“It sucked.” Lizzie responded, her tone bitter. “My parents are splitting up, and we’re trying to move. Neither of them can afford our house anymore.”

“Oh,” I squeaked, not sure of what to say. Lizzie’s sadness emoted from her, and I wanted to help somehow, or give her a hug, but then the bell rang.

Off to first hour… French.

The morning went as expected. Jessi was in my social studies class, and of course didn’t say hi. I was too uncool for her, I guess. At least Peter Simmons wasn’t in any of my morning classes. He loved poking fun at me, in a way that wouldn’t be deemed as harassment, but would still send the popular crowd into laughter at my expense.
I took a deep breath… lunch. The most pivotal part of the day. Lunch tables were everything—if someone changed lunch tables, it would be the gossip for the rest of the day.

“Kelsey Leonard is sitting with the tech crew now?”

“Dennis Miller is sitting with the baseball guys? What?”

My stomach was undeniably growling. The small granola bar I had for breakfast was hardly sustenance for a whole morning of classes. Money clutched in hand, I stood in the cafeteria line. What did I want? Pizza? A hamburger? Coke? All three?

Felicity and her new friends were bunched up in front of me. They all bolted for the salad bar.

As if in a trance, I watched each choose a generous portion of lettuce and drizzle the plate with dressing. My own stomach grumbled in disapproval as the girls chose a diet Coke and paid for their meals.

How could they eat so little? I muttered, brow furrowed. Instead, I chose a sizeable hamburger and fries. I also couldn’t resist an adorable Red Velvet cupcake by the cashier.

I was a little embarrassed by my choice of food compared to that of Felicity’s new crew, but hey, I guess I was hungry. I started down the long walk from the cashier’s to Lizzie and my regular table.

I made it over to our last year’s table and found it empty. Quick mental panic. Where would Lizzie be sitting? Dammit… my eyes darted around the room, hoping to glimpse Lizzie’s newly blue locks. Finally I saw her… all the way on the other side of the room.

That walk across the room was the longest walk of my life. I could feel countless girls watching me, perhaps judging my clown makeup, my outfit, my food.

Lizzie was laughing at the table, reaching into her brown bag for something more appetizing than a tuna salad sandwich.
“Hey,” I squeaked, popping my tray down and sitting next to her.

Lizzie had chosen to sit with quite the rogue’s gallery: Alex, the timid girl who had been previously homeschooled; Jake, Lizzie’s crush, who also sported strangely hued locks; Tessa, a girl who I’d never heard utter a word.

I’d barely heaved a few bites of my hamburger, when I heard an oh-so-familiar voice next to me.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lizzie and Carrie,” Peter Simmons cooed from the table next to us. He and his other football friends began laughing, and I blushed to a shade of red I hadn’t known to be possible for a human face.

Please, God, have him leave us alone, I prayed, just as Peter began again.

“Lizzie and Carrie sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in the baby carriage.” Peter and his friends burst into uncontrollable laughter.

I ate my hamburger with a vengeance, pretending Peter was the patty that I was violently ingesting. My face was already scarlet, and although I didn’t dare look at her, I knew Lizzie was probably equally mortified.

I stole a look around the cafeteria, hoping, praying, that no one could hear Peter from across the room. Maybe if I pretended to be invisible, it would really happen.

After a few minutes, Peter and his friends got distracted by the geeky Leonard Ernstein shuffling to the trash can, so we were off the hook. My muscles relaxed.

Lizzie and I just rolled our eyes and didn’t address the incident again. Jake cracked a joke, trying to ease the tension. I was never so happy to have the bell ring a few minutes later.

The rest of the day was painless enough, and thank goodness, I had no classes with Peter.

So seventh grade had begun. How silly I’d been, having such high expectations of the new year. I saw now that it would be more of the same. Jessi and Felicity still wouldn’t talk to me. I would awkwardly sit at lunch with Lizzie’s new crew. I would get all A’s effortlessly. I would be bored and lonely on Friday nights. And Peter Simmons would be insisting that Lizzie and I were lesbians. Great.

It took a while to wash off all my makeup that night before bed. The eyeliner was caked on thick. I scrubbed. What was even the point? Things were just going to be the same. I felt trapped in the bubble of Adams Middle School.

I couldn’t reinvent myself, apparently. I couldn’t magically make myself good at sports, especially volleyball, which would automatically give me popular status. I couldn’t magically become good at drama, like Olivia was. I couldn’t magically develop social ease, like my mother possessed, which enabled her to meet new friends wherever she went.

I curled into a ball under the mattress, grateful to tune out the world, at least for a few hours. My eyes got drowsy, and I was giddy with the prospect of temporary numbness. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Or maybe it would just be the same.
Friday afternoon finally came, and I was finished with my first week of school. Lizzie was going to her dad’s new apartment 30 minutes away, so I was on my own for the weekend… typical.

By 5 PM, I was already bored. I was stir crazy, wanted to do something, go somewhere. Regretfully, I couldn’t drive nor could I bike because it was pouring rain outside. “Just great,” I muttered. Mindless, I flipped on the TV for an evening of MTV.
Olivia waltzed in, dressed in a decadent lace tank and fancy jeans. Her makeup was perfect. She was ready for a night out. “Have you seen my keys anywhere?”

I rolled my eyes. By “my” keys, she meant the extra copy of the keys to Mom’s minivan. “Do you think I’ve been on a joy ride?” I returned, sarcastic.

“Isn’t somebody in a good mood tonight,” she whirled around the room, flipping over stray magazines, hoping to find the keys magically. “Don’t you have something to do?”

Automatically, I felt like a loser. I pretended her comment didn’t stab an already deep wound. “I just want to hang out and unwind for a while. Do you have a problem?”

Olivia raised her eyebrows, silently continuing in her flurry to find the keys. “I’m going to a play downtown tonight… it’s a new script, apparently hardly ever presented,” she volunteered after a few minutes.

She was clearly attempting to impress me by her 16-year-old maturity, and although I would have rather done almost anything than go to one of her weird plays, voluntarily no less, I was jealous. At least she had something, anything, to do.
Mom appeared in the kitchen a few minutes after Olivia had finally found “her” keys. “Carrie, do you have anywhere to go tonight?” she wondered.

My cheeks grew pinker. Why was everyone expecting me to have plans all of a sudden that I was in seventh grade? “No, not really,” I murmured.

“Dad and I are going to a movie tonight, and we were going to drop Ben off at David’s house for a sleepover. Do you want to come with us to the movie?” Mom offered.

I sensed the pity in her voice. I felt ashamed. Mom and Dad clearly didn’t want the loser middle school 3rd wheel to ruin their evening. I shook my head. “I’m fine here. I’ll order a pizza or something.”

It took all that was in me to present an image of coolness. When everyone left, however, I exhaled loudly. I wanted to cry. Get a hold of yourself, Carrie, what is wrong with you? I scowled.

So the rest of the family had plans. What of it? For the last year, I didn’t have weekend plans with friends… mostly because I didn’t have the best friends. I hadn’t found that “group” with whom I could gush about guys and eat too much popcorn at sleepovers. I had done that when Jessi, Felicity, Lizzie, and I were all friends, but things were different now. Jessi and Felicity were cool. They had cool friends. And as for me? I watched MTV on Friday nights now.

Olivia was very busy—she had her dramatic acting friends, and when she wasn’t at play rehearsal, she was watching plays. Ben had lots of friends through sports. He was a popular kid and in his prime years for slumber parties. My parents were always big into social activities as well, although they would stay home sometimes with Ben and me, or more recently, just me.

For some reason, now that I was in 7th grade it was more embarrassing. Shouldn’t I have a social life? Why was middle school so impossible? I slumped down on the couch, pretending that I wasn’t really there, that I wasn’t a loser alone on Friday night. Was this the way it was always going to be this year, everyone gone, and me alone?

You are so pathetic, I told myself again. I watched a few more music videos before getting bored with the same old tunes. My stomach grumbled a little, and I called for pizza—my favorite: ham and pineapple.

I was so bored, I considered starting on my math homework before realizing how utterly absurd that was. The waft of the pizza filled my nose before the delivery boy even rang the doorbell. As if in a trance, I paid the bill and stared at it for a moment.

All of a sudden, as if in a voracious frenzy, a grabbed a piece and inhaled it. The crust and cheese slid down my throat, burning it. It felt good, and I grabbed another few. This time, I made it to the couch to eat. I ate so fast and eagerly, I scared myself. Before I knew it, I had eaten almost half the pizza. Then three-quarters.

My stomach was aching, but I still considered washing it down with some candy. How could I possibly eat candy? I groaned. Yet, I still yearned for a Kit-Kt or something.

I rolled on the couch, so full I could barely breath. What had just happened? Had I really just eaten that much? My heart was throbbing so hard I could feel it. My head ached from so much food in such a short period of time.

I waited until the stomachache had lessened in intensity, and then I crawled up to bed. It was early, but hey, what did I have to stay up for? Lying motionless under my covers seemed like the only comfortable option. I was still stunned at my appetite, still stunned at how easily I had eaten so much. I hadn’t thought I was that hungry.

Whatever. I closed my eyes. I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. The next thing I remember, it was morning. I pulled open the blinds and tried to remember if last night had been a dream. My stomach throbbed a little. Nope.

How weird, I thought. But it was a fresh morning, at least. It was a one-time thing. I must have been really hungry, is all. A few days later, I had forgotten about the whole incident.

The next week seemed to never end. Any hopes and dreams for seventh grade had shattered. It was the same old, boring crap. In class, we were doing review. Maybe that wasn’t bad in a class I hated, like math, but in English, I got easily frustrated. Did Mr. Jenkins really have to explain how to read again? Were we really that illiterate?

Then of course the social situation at school was the same old. There were some juicy rumors that satisfied me for a second, like the fact that potentially Felicity hooked up with a guy in her father’s beach house in Canada. Besides that, though, it was the same cliquey, miserable situation.

Home was even worse. Mom had been a constant presence during the summer, wondering if we wanted to go out for ice cream or to play tennis. Now, she was back to teaching high school history and coaching girls’ tennis. Most of the time she came home late and exhausted. Dad worked late hours as well.

Olivia was out nearly every night now, either for play practice or with friends. Even Ben was getting a social life.
Why couldn’t middle school be just like elementary school, that amazing time when Jessi, Felicity, Lizzie, and I had been best friends? When sleepovers were weekend staples? When I didn’t feel so lonely?

I was having one of my “times.” Periodically, I’d get this relentless desire to do something meaningful, to make me famous, to make me known. At least if I was lonely and miserable, I could be a lonely, miserable prodigy who would make it and write about it later in life in my bestselling autobiography. At least this time would be worth something.

I started spending most of my time fantasizing of what I could do to be famous while eating Cheetos and watching MTV.
One day in the shower, I got a brilliant idea… I could write a novel! I’d always loved writing, and maybe I could get published, the youngest New York Times bestselling author! What could I write? Hmmm… I could go undercover, trying to expose middle school life. Actually, that was too much Never Been Kissed. Well, what about a romance novel? Maybe historical? It would have to be a decent one, of course, not trashy.

Into the wee hours of the night I was brainstorming, writing, chugging Dr. Pepper to keep me awake. The next morning I was comatose, and worst of all, I read over my scribbles from the past night… utter crap. And now I had a massive headache. Great.

I sighed, pouring myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. I munched mindlessly, the house quiet, with Olivia rustling around upstairs and Mom packing our lunches.

I had no desire to write another single letter of my sappy love story. Why are you so stupid? Why can’t you finish something? I indulged the thought, hoping it would lead to harder work the next time.

This Friday night I wasn’t alone. Mom, Dad, and Ben were all lounging around the house until Mom suggested we go out to dinner.

I perked up at the prospect of leaving the house and was at the minivan door instantly. We went to our usual pizza place and sat in a booth after a small wait.

Ben, Dad, and Mom were talking about sports something-or-other, a subject wholly disinteresting to me. I tuned them out, instead gazing across the restaurant. My heart clenched. There were Felicity, Jessi, and a few of their other blonde cronies. The group had a large table, and they were laughing loudly. They were also unsupervised.
I instantly grew pink. Here I was with my parents and brother, while the coolest girls in school, who actually had social lives, were laughing right across the restaurant. What if they saw me? They would know the truth: I had no plans on Friday night. I didn’t really have friends.

This couldn’t happen. It just couldn’t happen. My eyes darted about, as I sought an escape route. Mom caught my eyes. “Oh, look, there are Jessi and Felicity. You should go say hi!”

I gave her a look like, “Did you just ask me to run around the restaurant naked?” “Mom, I can’t just go say hi to them!” I hissed. It was so obvious. Why did I even have to explain?

She didn’t get it. “Yes you can. Be friendly!”

She couldn’t be serious. Did I have to lay out the nuances of social hierarchy? I couldn’t just say hi to them, as if we were friends. Felicity and Jessi had ditched me the second they became cool. They didn’t even acknowledge my existence in class!

Losers didn’t just address popular people. It was like unspoken dogma.

“Mom, you’re a high school teacher, don’t you understand? I can’t just say hi. It’s more complicated.” I finally answered.
Ben and Dad glanced at me, amused.

Mom let out a little laugh. “Why not? It’s the friendly thing to do! If you don’t say hi to them, you’re being as snobby as they are.”

Ugh. I rolled my eyes and waited until Ben would inevitably bring up sports. I nodded as they talked about first baseball, then basketball, and then football. Inside, however, I was praying that I would be invisible, just until after dinner was over.
I ate my burger and fries fast, meticulously, silently, as if they might hear me eating across the restaurant.
Mom eyed me devouring my food. “My, you’re hungry tonight,” she observed.

I nodded, returning to my plate. I felt her eyes on me as Ben and Dad continued their sports banter. Mom’s eyes locked in on my noticeably bigger chest. I became self-conscious.

Later that night, she sneaked into my bedroom to have a little girl-chat. Usually these girl-chats were awkward and annoying. Mom gave me little details, leaving Olivia as a necessary supplement to Mom’s feeble attempts at sexual education. When I’d started my period a few months before, she’d practically tossed pads at me.

Tonight the talk was about the way I dressed. “What’s wrong with the way I look?” I asked, somewhat hurt.

“You should just dress your age more, wear makeup that isn’t so dark and heavy, buy some trendy clothes.” She gazed at my admittedly childish wardrobe. “I just want you to look like other girls your age, that’s all.”

And I didn’t? I had been trying to dress nicer and put on makeup. Apparently that wasn’t good enough. I was immediately embarrassed. Here my mom had to tell me I didn’t look good enough. Olivia was tall, slender, and radiant, a fashionista in her own unique way. I guaranteed Mom didn’t have to have this talk with Olivia. And then there was me, the ugly duckling. I was shorter than my family members, bustier as of late, and dressed like a kid.

Maybe this is why Jessi and Felicity didn’t like me anymore. How could I be popular if I didn’t have the right brands? In fact, maybe this was my in to popularity. “Mom, maybe we could, uh, go shopping this weekend?”

She consented, and the next day we were at the mall first thing. Apparently she thought it was a crisis that needed immediate addressing. I had looked online the night before at the coolest brands—True Religion, Guess, basically, anything expensive. I was ready to get a new wardrobe.

The world of teenage shopping was new to me. I had been significantly smaller just a few months before, but now kid jeans were just not an option. I had graduated to the juniors’ section.

Navigating through clothing racks was overwhelming. What size was I? I had no idea. I grabbed several pairs of jeans and blouses that had acceptable brands. Mom grabbed a pile of her own. By the time I made it to the dressing room of the department store, I had a good 20 outfits with me.

Most of the jeans I had picked up didn’t fit. One pair of skinny jeans didn’t even get up a knee.

“You should try a bigger size,” Mom volunteered, handing me another pair. I barely fit into Mom’s choice either. My thighs were suffocated inside the jean pant legs. I looked in the mirror, and I was almost surprised to see the reflection staring back.

The same curls bounced down my face, but I looked different… bigger. Everything was larger—my thighs, my breasts, my hips, my stomach. It was as if I was looking in a fun size mirror. No way, this couldn’t be the case, I rationed, thinking of the scrawny child who might have walked into these doors just a few months prior.

Mom saw the look of horror on my face and reassured, “You’re developing.”

I was developing? My head spun. Into what? How much longer was it going to be like this? When was I going to be finished “developing”?

We emerged from the store with a few socially acceptable outfits. I triumphed in finding a pair of jeans that fit and a few cute blouses. After I tried on one shirt, Mom quietly recommended that we try the bra department.

Feeling horrified and disgusted by the end of our shopping endeavor, I slinked out to the car, not even realizing that Mom had stopped behind me. My neck craned around. “We’re parked this way!”

“I know, but I thought you might want to stop for some ice cream before heading home?” Mom smiled, knowing I could never pass up ice cream.

It took me only one look down to my foreign body to refuse her offer. “I’m just not in the mood,” I shrugged, to which Mom’s eyes bulged out in surprise.

The rest of the weekend, I tried on and retried on my new clothes. I was bigger, sure, but not terrible looking. At least I had brand name clothes now. Maybe this would be enough to catapult me into the popular circle. Maybe they would take me seriously with a new wardrobe. Maybe even Jessi and Felicity would look me in the eye.

I woke up early on Monday morning to ensure I’d have enough time to look good. How would a popular kid get ready for school on Monday morning? I imagined Jessi and her painstaking hair straightening process, Felicity and her effortless pursuit of vintage outfits.

I chose new dark jeans and a white satin top. I put on extra eyeliner. I even crunched lightly on my Cheerios so as to not mess up my lip liner. Popular, popular, I chanted.

What would happen if Jessi and Felicity freaked out over me today? If they were like, “Ohmygosh, you’re wearing True Religion jeans, wanna come sit with us at lunch today?”

It would be the gossip of the school: “I didn’t think Carrie was cool.” “I guess she is, Felicity and Jessi love her!”
We could chew gum together in class against the rules. We could go to the mall by ourselves on Friday night. We could see movies and have sleepovers and--

“Carrie, you are wearing so much eyeliner!” It was Mom, who was standing horrified with a cup of coffee in hand.
I rolled my eyes and ignored her. Popular kids wore a lot of makeup, duh. And why was she always talking to me? Olivia was the one who went through a bottle of eyeliner a day!

I didn’t get any real comments from anybody until mid-morning. Colleen Parker, a girl of semi-popular status, told me she had those same pants at home. A compliment? Or not? I wasn’t sure, but at least she was talking to me.

Being beautiful gave me an appetite. I was practically hobbling to the cafeteria in my heels. I found Lizzie, Alex, Jake, and Tessa at the regular table, and I plopped down, grateful for an opportunity to discard my painful shoes.

“Wow, Carrie, you look so… pretty,” Tessa stuttered out, the first words I’d ever heard the silent girl utter.
Lizzie nodded, giving me a look of approval and simultaneous, “You sold out.”

Just then, I heard the evil low rumble of Peter Simmons. He was enclosing on our table. Please, God, have him leave us alone. Please, God, have him leave us alone. Please God—

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” He snarled, getting so close to Lizzie and I that we could smell his bologna breath. Disgusting.

A few of his sidekicks were hovering around him, guffawing in their usual idiotic manner.
Please, God, please, God, please God—

“So Carrie, why are you dressed up so much today? Is there a special someone in your life? Maybe your secret crush Lizzie?” Peter sneered, loud enough for the tables nearby to hear.

Oh, please, not again with that, I prayed, my eyes down on the table.

“Cut it out, Peter,” Alex’s, Lizzie’s semi-boyfriend, stood up for us, and I gave him a desperately grateful look. Alex’s head was high, and his tone was confident.

Peter whipped his head around to the meek Alex. His lips curled up. “Oh, I see, is that how it is? You want Carrie’s tits to yourself, do you?”

An eruption of laughter, both mean-spirited and nervous, filled a section of the cafeteria.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the principal talking with a teacher in the hall, once again lacking in his supervision duties. Of course, he’s not around when we need him.

I felt Alex, Lizzie, and my faces burning crimson.

He can’t do it forever. It’s going to be over soon. Please, God, have nobody hear this.

“Well, I see how it is, I guess we have a love triangle here. You lovebirds work it out, but my bet is for Lizzie and Carrie,” he laughed hysterically, and returned to his table to stuff some more disgusting bologna through his large, evil mouth.

Our table was silent for a few minutes. I heard the familiar sound of Felicity and Jessi’s table… laughing… nearby. I was ready to burst into tears right there. Somehow I managed out, “I’m sorry, guys.”

Lizzie shook her head forcefully. “No, no, it wasn’t your fault.” She was certain, but I noticed her lip trembling.

The bell couldn’t ring soon enough. I went to sick room right away. I was already shaking and red, so passing for sick wasn’t that much of a stretch. “I’m feeling very sick,” I told the nurse and gave her an Academy Award performance, enough for her to call Mom.

Mom sighed, annoyed to be interrupted at school. I wanted to tell her, “But I need you, Mom, I need you right now, you’ll never believe what just happened!” I just couldn’t, though. Maybe if I didn’t acknowledge it, I could pretend it never happened.
Mom agreed to pick me up, but she would need to go back to work after she took me home. That worked, I lied.
At home, I settled into bed and pretended to get ready for a sickness-induced sleep. “I’ll be fine, Mom, you just go right back to work. I just need to sleep.”

She conceded easily and hurried back to school.

With the house silent, I stood up and paced around the room, trying to absorb the events of the day, trying to absorb the sounds and tastes and smells and feelings. How could a day of dressing cool go so horribly wrong?

It came back to me—the smell of Peter’s balogna breath, the shaken image of Alex standing up for us, the peals of laughter coming from Jessi and Felicity, the throbbing of my heart, the feeling of utter terror, the suffocation of the stuffy cafeteria, the suffocation of school, the suffocation of my life.

I sprinted to the bathroom and started scrubbing. My washcloth attacked the eyeliner so much I nearly bled. I wouldn’t stop until it was all off. In a few minutes, my eyes were blotchy but clean.

I burst into tears. I started screaming about how much I hated Peter and middle school and popularity and loneliness and boredom and my body and life. The tears streaked my cheeks, and my voice became hoarse.

I was done. I needed to do something other than dressing differently or trying to be popular or writing a famous book.
Maybe I could join a sports team?

Yeah, with my hand eye coordination? And the teasing at school isn’t bad enough?

I could be in a play?

I hated plays—that was Olivia’s thing. I hated watching my own sister’s acting, let alone suffering through a show of my own.

Transfer schools?

Yeah, maybe I could transfer schools, maybe go to Catholic school or something.

My eyes felt as heavy as oatmeal. I thudded down the hall to my room, suddenly exhausted. I couldn’t do this anymore, that was for sure. I just needed sleep. Sleep would make everything better.

Somehow I garnered enough courage to go to school the next day. No longer did I strive to be popular. From now on, I wanted to be invisible.

I walked through the halls with my shoulders slouched and eyes down. Rather than my new clothes, I wore an oversized tee. I wanted to hide my “tits” from Peter Simmons’ sadistic cafeteria torture. Hey, I was a nothing. I might as well look like one.
How could I have even thought I’d be popular material? I was plain, nerdy. I was the editor of our middle school literary magazine, for goodness sake. Destined to be a loser.

I was so grateful when Lizzie suggested we eat lunch in the art room so she could finish her sketch. Lizzie was a talented artist, I realized as I chomped on my tuna salad sandwich, watching her shading a picture of a hallway. “Have you thought of being an artist?” I offered between bites.

Lizzie looked up, her brows furrowed in thought. “I could see it.” Her head lowered back to the painting. “You know, art is so… therapeutic. Even when life sucks, it’s there. It doesn’t decide to get divorced or call you names or move to stupid townhouses so far away from your children.”

We locked eyes for a minute. I felt instant guilt. Here I had been so self-absorbed when my best friend was clearly struggling. I wasn’t the only one in pain.

In an out-of-character lunge of affection, I squeezed Lizzie’s hand. She held it for a second and then furrowed her head back into the paper. Lizzie scribbled her black pencil so hard I thought it would break, but her strong façade was holding up well. I noticed a tear stream down her cheek.

We spent the rest of lunch in silence. It was the best lunch period I had had in a long time.

Lizzie and I ate lunch in the art room the rest of the week, and I began savoring our time together then. The art room was 25 minutes out of the day without judgmental squabbling or gossip.

On Friday, Lizzie looked sort of sheepish as she grazed on a salad. “I have a silly question to ask you. My dad is having a little housewarming party for his apartment tomorrow night, and I was wondering if you’ll come? It’s a few towns over, so I’ll pick you up, and maybe you could even sleepover after.”

I perked up. Lizzie was never one to invite people to things, especially not in the turbulent aftermath of her parents’ divorce. “Yeah, of course, I’d love to!”

I looked forward to it the rest of the weekend. Come Saturday night, I would have a social life again!

On Saturday morning I woke up early out of excitement. I lay in bed for a while, not cajoled even by my rumbling stomach. I was ready to get some breakfast, but then I remembered that Lizzie’s dad was a big eater and would probably have tons of food for us that night. I pat my stomach. I had developed a large appetite lately… maybe I could go easy during the day so I would feel less guilty about eating so much at night.

I lounged around the house all day, trying to ignore my grumbling stomach. I allowed myself to have a thin sandwich at lunch, but that was it. At Lizzie’s, I’ll get tons of food, I kept reminding myself.

By the time Lizzie’s dad picked me up, I was ready to eat an elephant. Rest assured, there were chicken wings, fries, and tons of desserts at hand at her dad’s apartment.

An assortment of Lizzie’s family friends and relatives were at the little soiree. Everyone was eating heartily, and I was happy to oblige. Lizzie and I played computer games for a while and made several trips for more food.

It seemed like I had a voracious appetite. I downed chicken wing after chicken wing, fry after fry, cookie after cookie, chocolate bar after chocolate bar. By the time the guests started heading home, I was still just getting started on the food. There was so much of it, and it looked so good. Even when I started getting nauseated, I continued eating.

Lizzie didn’t really notice what I was eating, but I still took it upon myself to “got to the bathroom” and stuff a few more brownies through my mouth on the toilet, just so Lizzie wouldn’t see.

I was feeling very ill. What was wrong with me? I was out of control. If I continued at this rate, I would be 400 pounds by next week!

I stopped eating only when Lizzie’s dad had put away the food and retired to bed. Lizzie yawned and said that she, too, was ready for bed. We set up our sleeping bags—Lizzie’s dad had yet to buy most of the furniture—and a few minutes later, I heard Lizzie snoring.

I was far from tired. Scared, anxious, panicked, sugar high—I was all of those things, but definitely not tired. My heart beat fast due to anxiety and excess sugar. I felt like crap. Did I want to keep eating uncontrollably like this?

Proper normal women ate like Lizzie, like Olivia, like Mom. They didn’t eat until their insides were about to burst. They didn’t eat too many desserts. They ate healthily.

Did I want to get fat? Did I want to gain tons of weight? I should be more like Jessi and Felicity, who got only salad for lunch.
I needed to do something. That’s it: I wouldn’t eat tomorrow. Well, maybe a little but not much. Yes, that was it. At the moment, with my gurgling, nauseous stomach, it sounded pretty appealing. It would be only for a day, and then I would go back to normal.

I was still so full by the morning, it was easy to resist breakfast. My stomach started churning by lunchtime, a few hours after I got home.

Everyone in my family was in the kitchen, grabbing lunchmeat and bread. “Want me to make you a grilled cheese?” Mom asked.

“Uh, no, I already ate at Lizzie’s,” I lied, hoping my growling stomach wasn’t a giveaway.

I sipped tea at the dining room table as the rest of my family ate and left. I had never noticed much about everybody’s eating habits. Did Ben always slurp his chicken noodle soup? Did Dad always devour his food in like 3 seconds?

Olivia was eating a hearty sandwich and a brownie. A shiver of ecstasy went up my spine. Maybe even after last night I wouldn’t get fat at all. Look at all that junk Olivia was eating! And I wasn’t eating any of it. She wasn’t fat, so I wouldn’t be fat because of a few nights of overeating, right? Just to make sure, all I needed to do was finish this day without food, and last night’s activities would be null and void. It was like penance.

My hunger at 4 PM scared me. I was as voracious as I had been last night pre-binge. I paced around my room, trying to distract myself from the hunger. I played checkers with Ben. I even cleaned my room.

I finally decided to go on a walk. It was relatively cloudy but decent enough walking weather.

My limbs plodded forward weakly. Come on, Carrie, you can do this. You wouldn’t have to do this if you hadn’t screwed up last night. You deserve this. It’s your fault.

Although I made it down the street, I was out of breath. Come on, fatty, come on. Do you want to get fat? Last night you were out of control. You deserve this! If you weren’t such a failure, you would have gotten to eat today.

The thoughts pressed me forward. Too hungry to silence them, I indulged these ideas that popped into my mind.

I was so exhausted after a block of walking, I headed home for a nap. A few hours later, Ben shook me awake. “Dinner’s ready!”

I was groggy, forgetting where I was, what day it was. Then I remembered: I wasn’t allowed to eat dinner. I stumbled downstairs to make an appearance at the table.

Mom had cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Ugh, it figured… mashed potatoes were my favorite! Starving, I slumped into my regular dining room chair. Everyone was already eating away. Shaking, I picked up a fork. No, you can’t do it. You can’t do it. Today’s no eating day. Don’t you dare eat a bite.

But I want to, I protested to myself.

Well, you can’t. Do you want to be fat?

I mashed the food around my plate, and systematically emptied it into a napkin.

Olivia was gushing about something. “Carrie… Carrie?”

It took me a minute. “Huh?” I muttered. Had she been talking to me?

“What is wrong with you today?” Olivia snapped. “Have you been paying any attention to what I’ve been saying?”

I shrugged, mashing more food around my plate. “Just tell me again.”

Shooting me an annoyed glance, Olivia nevertheless proceeded. “I am Leisel in The Sound of Music at Downtown Players. Isn’t that great?”

I forged some inkling of happiness. In reality, I didn’t care. I was wholly concentrated on one thing: food. The remaining mashed potatoes were staring at me, and without an adherence to the voice in my head, I forked a large bite through my mouth. Mmmmm… so delicious, so moist, so warm. A slice of heaven.

Immediately, I was attacked. Failure. You ruined everything. You weren’t going to eat today. Now you’re just going to get fat again. You’re such a failure.

In shame, I scooped the rest of my plate into the napkin and hid its contents discreetly in a pant pocket.

The day had been foggy. But only one thought blared its disapproval so loudly: You failed. Failure. Failure. Failure.

Stop, I thought weakly. It was just a bite, that’s all.

Yeah, one huge bite. A bite a fatty would take. Just for that, you need to try again tomorrow.

I pondered this. Could I try to not eat that much tomorrow? Why not? I didn’t really have anything else to do. In reality, as much as the day had been painstaking and exhausting, it was exhilarating. I had something to do that seemed meaningful. I had a task to complete. I felt proud, superior.

The next morning I ate a miniscule bowl of Cheerios and headed off to school. I felt simultaneously weak and victorious.
School was still mostly review, so I could tune out. Usually I would think about friends or cliques or what to do to keep myself occupied after school. Today, however, my thoughts wandered on their own.

The entire morning, I dreamed of a buffet… a full buffet, with roasted chicken and tons of fluffy, buttery mashed potatoes. Then of course, tons of dessert. I imagined eating each slice of cheesecake, each brownie, each cookie. I imagined the way the frosting settled on my taste buds. I imagined taking bowl after bowl of ice cream.

Unlike a real buffet, however, this buffet never ended. I kept eating and eating… until the bell rang and I marched to another classroom. Then the buffet would start again.

This imaginary buffet was great because I didn’t have to actually eat to access it. Why hadn’t I tried this before?
By lunch, I wasn’t even hungry anymore. Numb, dizzy, maybe, but not hungry. Lizzie and I retreated to the art room once again during the lunch period, and I savored an apple and some carrots. Lizzie was working on another sketch, and I decided to try as well.

I had never been an artist type, and it showed. My attempt at a cartoon person ended up looking deformed. I laughed at it, before sneaking a glance over at Lizzie.

In between bites of leftover casserole, Lizzie was sketching a beautiful flower pot. I felt utterly pathetic. Failure.
I had little homework that night and was bored after school. I roamed around the house listlessly. I didn’t have enough energy to concentrate on one thing. Standing for too long tired me. I just rotated around, doing a little math homework here, taking a nap there. Regardless of what I was doing, however, the dreams of a buffet haunted me. All day long, I was eating something on that buffet… cheesecake, ice cream, more potatoes, whatever.

By dinnertime everyone was still gone. Olivia called to say she would eat dinner after play practice. Dad was working late. Mom was watching Ben play soccer. I was to get myself a T.V. dinner.

I pulled out a frozen Macaroni and Cheese dish I might have normally heated for myself. I eyed it cautiously, as if it might be contaminated. I had never looked at a calorie count before, but I decided to. 350 per serving. 10 grams of fat. What did that even mean? Whatever it was, it was too much. I needed something a lot less.

The smell of the cheesy pasta nearly enticed me to rip it open and devour it frozen, but I resisted. I couldn’t eat that stuff anymore.

I scoured through the cupboards, scanning calorie counts. This one had 150 calories per bar, this one had 200 per ¼ cup. I devoured through the calorie labels for what must have been hours, my mind feasting on the labels. With numbers circling in my head, I chose a piece of bread with a little turkey on it. That couldn’t be that bad, right?

I was getting used to my new eating plan. It wasn’t so bad, really. If I needed any motivation, all I had to do was think of myself at Lizzie’s dad’s the other night, voraciously consuming everything in sight. If I wanted to stop eating so much, I had to train myself was all. If I wanted to get myself under control, I would just have to follow this for a while.

After another week or so of this kind of eating, I had to say, it was getting easier. I no longer was tempted by fatty junk food. When I passed up one of Mom’s fresh cookies, I saw it as strength, rather than temptation. I was getting good at knowing the calories in just about everything.

I was less miserable at school, for some reason. I was less stressed, less anxious… more numb. The only thing that mattered now was my imaginary buffet, which had become a staple of every spare moment. No longer did I care about stupid cliques and gossip. I was beyond all that.

One problem, however, was that we were done with review in all my classes, but I just couldn’t concentrate. On my most recent math test, I had gotten a C. I stared at the paper as if it were death. A C? What was wrong with me?

Failure. What a complete failure you are. I hung my head. It was true. I was a failure. You couldn’t do well on that test? Wow, you are never going to be anything in life.

I would have challenged the thought, but I didn’t have enough energy. I just submitted to its truth and hung my head the rest of the day. I would work harder next time.

Most of the time I was home alone after school, sometimes until the late evening. Mom was consumed with Ben’s sports, Dad was consumed with work, and Olivia was consumed with her play. For the first time, I was consumed with something.

I did some homework after school, but I got restless and agitated. I could concentrate better if I watched the Food Network, although inevitably the imaginary buffet would come up again.

I started a new hobby: cooking. I started with cupcakes, then milkshakes, then cookies, then carrot cake, then rich pasta alfredo. It was a high, getting a whiff of that rich frosting, the heavy cream, the blended ice cream, the raw cookie dough. Back in elementary school, I would have eaten all the cookie dough raw and forsaken the cookies. Now, however, I was stronger. I didn’t so much as touch the cookie dough, let alone the cookies.

Rather, I watched Ben and Mom and Olivia and Dad feast on my creations at night. I watched in glee as Olivia bit into a fudge brownie. Haha, she was going to get fat, and I wasn’t! Even Mom, slim even into middle age, couldn’t pass up a slice of carrot cake. I looked as the fork went into her mouth. It gave me pleasure to watch them eat. I always told them, “I’ve eaten already.” I had, sort of… I had the same piece of bread and slice of turkey every night. Of course, I refused to touch my baked goods. I knew better than that.

Within a month, I had dramatically less teenage angst. I wasn’t concerned about my lack of friends. I didn’t hate middle school so much. In a way, I was much happier. My food habits were solidified. No longer did I question why I ate so little. I just didn’t. Food was equated to fat.

I had a 24/7 hobby… food. I fell asleep by dreaming of food. I got through school by dreaming of food. I cooked up feasts all afternoon. I did homework with the Food Network on. During tedious weekends, I looked up the calories of my previously loved foods.

I started making motivation charts and food plans during lunch time. Lizzie continued extravagant sketches, while I drew pictures of my own. On one sheet, I drew a slim girl with an enlarged stomach. Below her, I drew a picture of a slim girl with an emaciated stomach. Between the girls, I scrawled, “Do you want to get fat? If you eat too much, you will look like this” (arrow to the girl with the engorged stomach). Then, “If you want to eat less, you will look like this” (arrow to the emaciated girl).
Then I wrote up mock food plans for myself, in which I urged myself to eat yet less. I scrawled, “Aim for a tablespoon of Cheerios rather than ¼ cup. Cut the turkey slice in half at night.”

It was all-consuming. The more I got into it, the more I loved it. Sure, I was more tired and less energetic. My math grades weren’t what they had been, but it was worth it. I was happy now.

On October 21st, I knew I was in trouble. My report card should be in the mail by now, and I knew my math grade wasn’t good. I was so ashamed. You should have gotten a better grade.

I stopped in the bathroom before walking home after school. As I was now accustomed to doing, I glared at myself roughly in the mirror. I had just begun noticing pockets of fat in my stomach, arms, and thighs. They just wouldn’t go away. Look how hard I had been working, and I still wasn’t thin. I was doomed to be fat forever. That’s why you need to eat less Cheerios.
On the way home I imagined a seafood buffet, and that kept me occupied until I walked through my door. To my shock, Mom and Dad were sitting on the couch, mouths pursed. Uh-oh. What had I done?

My heart beat against my chest. “What- what’s going on?” They must have gotten my report card. Now they knew I was a failure.

“Sit,” Dad offered, gravely.

I obeyed and braced myself.

“Mr. Timothy called us today,” Mom started. Oh no, the principal! Did he know about my math grade?

“I was going to tell you about math—”

“Hold on. It wasn’t really about the grade. You did get a B+ this quarter, which, for Olivia we would have been proud, but we know you could do better than that.” Mom continued.

My head hung. Did she have to say it out loud? I have never gotten a B anything in my life!

Dad began. “Mr. Timothy has been concerned from various teacher reports that you seem out of touch, not concentrating, too quiet, tired. Mom and I were thinking it over, and we agree that you have seemed a lot less energetic lately, very distracted.”
I thought it over. Maybe I had been less energetic, but it was only because I didn’t care about the things I used to care about. I was different now.

Mom added quietly, “He also noticed you’re a lot thinner since the beginning of the year.”

Thinner. The sound of the word reverberated in my eardrums. Thin… ME? I laughed out loud. “Are you kidding? I’ve been fatter! I can’t seem to get all this fat off me!” My tone was bitter, energetic.

Mom looked at me as if I were crazy. “Carrie, maybe you’d better get your eyes checked, because it does look like you’ve lost a lot of weight. We have never thought about it, because we see you every day, but looking back to September, it is concerning.”

“You know, I have been really tired lately. Maybe I have mono!” I suggested. That was a plausible explanation. After all, I had been so lethargic. It would make sense.

Mom and Dad seemed to accept that. “I’ll set an appointment up for you tomorrow,” she consented. With that, the conversation was over. I heaved a sigh of relief. Not that I was hiding anything exactly, but I wanted to make sure they didn’t want to stop what I had been doing eating-wise. They couldn’t ruin it. Nobody could.

I got to miss social studies to go to the doctor’s the next day. I flipped through cooking magazines as we waited… forever, it seemed. A nurse took me down the hall to get weighed. “Wait, get back on the scale,” she said, and I obliged.

When we got back in the room, the nurse reported, “Carrie, since you had your physical in August, you have lost 25 pounds!”

It took everything in me not to have a massive cheering session right there. I couldn’t hold back the smile on my face. Wow, it was really working! It was really working! Yessssss!

One look at Mom and the nurse, however, and I knew better than to indulge my happiness. “Carrie, are you happy about this? This is really dangerous!” Mom was cutting, concerned.

The nurse exchanged a few private words with Mom, and we were left waiting for the doctor for another period of time.
Mom flipped through her magazine with genuine concern wrinkling her face. Why was she so upset? This was great! I was actually getting good at something! This was good news!

She didn’t understand, and neither did the doctor. “Carrie, you have tested negative for mono, but we’ll leave the culture overnight just in case.” Dr. Miller then paused. “Have you been starving yourself?”

I nearly laughed. I ate way too much. What a silly question!

Another pause. “Carrie, do you think you’re fat?”

I rolled my eyes. She was saying it like I was some crazy psych ward patient. Mom watched intently for my answer. She looked horrified. “This is really stupid,” I replied saucily.

“Don’t be so rude, Carrie,” Mom snapped. I had never seen her this way. Come on, these people couldn’t be serious.
“25 pounds is a lot of weight to lose,” the doctor pressed slowly. “Usually people, especially growing girls, like yourself, don’t lose weight unless they’re very ill with mono or cancer… or if they’re making themselves lose weight.”

I stared blankly.

“I am worried that you might have anorexia nervosa,” Dr. Miller announced, pronouncing each syllable as if I were mentally retarded.

Oh, I see. So she thought I was some psychotic crazy person. Anorexia was for Karen Carpenter and celebrities and people who were actually skinny. I would have to get a lot skinnier before I could be concerned anorexic. “I think you’re full of shit,” I answered.

I thought Mom was going to kill me. Luckily, now the doctor was asking her questions. Did she know what anorexia was? Sort of, but no one in the immediate family had suffered from it. How long had Carrie been acting differently? A few months.
I was so violated. They were acting like I wasn’t sitting in the room in front of them.

“Patients with anorexia….” The doctor was saying, obviously referring to me as a mental case. What a complete bitch! I didn’t have to take this.

I lunged for the door, but Mom blocked me. “Carrie, I have never seen you like this!” Mom hissed, her eyes full of fire. “Sit down RIGHT NOW, or you’re in big trouble, young lady!”

Furious, I stomped back onto the table. I didn’t pay attention to the rest of the conversation. They were not going to ruin this for me. They were NOT going to ruin this for me! There was no way in hell I was going to listen to any of their stupid psychopath suggestions for me. I was fine, I was happy, and they’d do best to leave me alone.

The drive home was long. Mom was infuriated and worried. Her arms shook on the wheel a little.

What was the doctor’s problem? What was Mom’s problem? They’re jealous. They want you to be fat. I glared at her. Was that true? Were they trying to mess the one thing up in my life that made me happy? I wasn’t buying their act.

Mom was quiet the rest of the day. She decided to call in sick from work and spent the remaining afternoon hours cleaning, talking on the phone, going on the computer, and pacing around, mumbling to herself. All the while, her hands were shaking.
I was confused by her behavior but also defensive. I hated the snarky attitude they had had with me today, talking about me as if I wasn’t there, treating my as if I was a gorilla in a case study, like I wasn’t a rational, living, breath human being.

Mom talked to Dad for hours while he was still at work, and when Olivia came home from practice I heard them whispering. “Oh my gosh, really?” Olivia whispered, always the loud one.

Dinner was a battle ground. I felt like a specimen. Mom had made burgers, which I sure as hell was not eating. I could practically see the fat oozing out. Not happening. I tried to mush the food around my plate as usual.

Dad’s face grew red. He looked as angry as when the Cubs lost a game (which was often). “Carrie, eat your burger.”

Silence.

Olivia stopped mid-bite. Ben furrowed his brow. Mom’s fork shook. Dad was seething.

I was taken aback, but then equally angry. “No!” Who did he think he was? I wasn’t going to eat the burger, and he couldn’t make me.

Dad was appalled at my retort. “Excuse me, young lady, but I have told you to eat your burger, and you better eat your burger.”

My eyes turned to ice. I stared back at him, defiant. “NO!”

“You are not leaving this table until you eat that burger,” Dad continued, his face more flushed than a strawberry. His cheeks were puffed, swollen, his eyes withered. I had never seen him so angry.

I met his look. “Watch me.” With that, I stormed from the table and sprinted upstairs to my room. After I slammed the door shut, I waited a minute until I wasn’t so winded. Then I proceeded to do some push ups.

After the stupid appointment with Dr. Bitch, my life became a living hell. Nobody had noticed anything until the whole condescending “anorexia” conversation. Now Mom and Dad had become the food police, and Olivia looked at me strangely.

A few days later, during English class, I was dreaming of an endless bowl of spaghetti when the classroom phone rang. Mrs. Giordano answered it and promptly relayed the message, “Carrie, please report to the office.”

All the kids oohed, as was customary, and with an eye roll, I gathered the energy to walk down the stairs to the office.
An odd looking woman with fish eyes blinked toward me. “Carrie?” After I nodded, she extended a hand. “I’m Mrs. Potter, the guidance counselor.”

You had to be kidding me. I bet my parents had set me up to this! Fuck them. I was seething by the time we got to her office.
“Tell me about yourself,” she started, her disgusting fishy eyes drooping.

All I could think about is how delicious fish sounded right now… and that I was furious to be there. “Um, I’m a seventh grader here, and I don’t really know why I’m being taken away from my education to sit here.” I was a little caustic, but I didn’t care. Lately all politeness had seemed to go out the window.

“Well, Carrie, some people are concerned that you have a problem with food,” Her fish eyes rested back on me.

How stupid was this lady? A problem with food? Did she think I was too incompetent to put a fork to my mouth? “I think ‘some people’ need to be concerned about themselves.”

Silence. Fish lady was grappling with her words. “Did you know anorexia nervosa is a serious condition?”

There it was. That stupid term again. I was fidgety and squirmy at the sound of it. “So put me in a mental ward, lady. Is that what you want?” I was getting more livid by the second.

“That’s not what anyone wants,” she reassured, her words so slow I wanted to punch her in the face. “We want you to be well. And I’m just going to ask you a few questions.”

I acquiesced temporarily. The questions were typical: are you trying to lose weight? Do you think you’re fat? How are you trying to lose weight?

I was as vague as possible. I wasn’t really trying to lose weight, I was trying to be healthy. No, I wasn’t that fat. I was just probably not eating enough. Was that all?

She tried a few more times, but I didn’t budge an inch. Luckily I was released back to English before the period ended.
At lunch, Lizzie noticed that I was a little more than distracted. “Is everything okay?”

I was taking baby bites from a baby carrot. “Yeah, my parents are just being annoying.”

Lizzie shook her head vehemently. “I know how that goes,” she sympathized. And just like that, she was fooled.

Unfortunately, it was getting hard to fool my parents, who followed me like hawks. They were so persistent, and the more they tried to get me to open up, the more I shut down. They didn’t get me.

Olivia now treated me like an alien. She would shoot me strange looks, but besides that, she was quiet.

One night, Mom came into my room, looking very upset. “When is this going to end, Carrie? When?” She was near tears.
My muscles tightened. “When will what end, mother?”

She ignored me. “How much weight do you want to lose? How much more? When will it be enough?”

I had lost another 10 pounds the second time I saw the doctor. The second time, I was equally happy at my weight loss, and Mom and Dr. Bitch were equally horrified.

I considered her question. When would it be enough? I didn’t know. I didn’t have a particular number in mind. But in my mind it was a one-way street: weighing less was better. I softened a little.

“Do you want to die?” Mom was quieter this time. The tears were obvious now.

I considered her question. Did I want to die? She just wants you fat. She just wants you to pork up and be miserable again. I was so fatigued I could barely think. I hardly knew what I was saying anymore. The words just came out, “Well, maybe I do.”

Suddenly, my feet led me down the stairs and out the door. The air was icy, especially because I had been frozen at anything under 70 degrees recently. I didn’t have anywhere to go, anything to do. I just needed to escape.

Everything had been perfect until people wanted to interfere. They weren’t going to mess this up for me. I was not giving in. I was stubborn, I was willful, and they would just have to shove it.

I walked a few blocks, then decided I might as well take the opportunity to burn some extra calories on a late night run. Although I was in no condition to do so, I started running… at least until my feet grew shaky. I stumbled and suddenly felt my knees hit the pavement. There was a feeling of blood and silence… then sirens, and people talking. I was semi-conscious through this stream of shadows. The next thing I fully remember, I was in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm and something beeping.

I noticed Mom sitting in a waiting chair, resting her head. When she saw I had awoken, she jerked awake.

Groggy, my words sounded infused with syrup. “What happened?”

“You fell running in the neighborhood across from ours. Dad and I came looking for you just in time,” She seemed vacant.
I had a huge headache. The clock on the wall read 5. I was guessing that was AM? I didn’t even know what day it was. I had screwed it up this time. Fainting people have no credibility on their medical conditions. I was sure I’d have to suffer another stupid lecture and more condescending stares.

I felt like I wore a book A on my forehead, like everyone was judging me, “ANOREXIC, ANOREXIC.” The term made me ill. I hated everything about that word—the big puppy eyes of sympathizers, the strange stares, the whole “Let’s talk about her so she can hear us but pretend she’s not listening.”

So fine, maybe I had been trying to lose weight. Maybe I had kind of been in a trance lately. Maybe I wasn’t myself. Maybe there was something wrong.

But I was still myself. I wasn’t psychotic or crazy. I wasn’t a specimen or prisoner. I was just being dedicated, that was all. There wasn’t something so wrong to warrant such harsh responses.

How had I gotten here, anyway? A mess of words and pictures flashed through my mind. I sighed. So much more was about to unfold, I knew it. I didn’t want to be peppered with another single question about my eating habits. I didn’t want Olivia to treat me like I had AIDS anymore. I didn’t want to feel diseased or different. All I ever wanted to fit in. All I wanted to be was normal.
I thought back to the first day of seventh grade, when I cared so much about what people thought of me, when I was so miserable and lonely. Maybe I was still miserable and lonely, but I was numb to it now, and dammit, I was thin. The girl who bounced to school in September was dead. A new regime was in town.

I both longed for the old, simplicity of childhood and reviled at it. In a strange, maybe unexplainable, way, I was happier in this hospital bed than I had been any other time in my life.

Everybody seemed very intent on helping me right now. They wanted me to see that I was sick, that I was weak, that I was dying inside, slowly.

It was as if multiple life boats were extending floats to me. But I didn’t know if I wanted that float. Maybe, just maybe, I wanted to drown.