I cannot remember the first time
I skipped a meal on purpose. Skipped is
the wrong word -- like I wasn't
screaming inside for the food on my
plate, like I wasn't imploding, like
I wasn't ready to eat the stupid
burger already, shove it down my mouth
and smile to say "just kidding." I
watched the mirrors in my house that
year, always watching, looking at my
thighs and my love handles. I remember
my goal was to be able to stand, look
down at my toes and see my whole
feet, not eclipsed by the tiny roundness of
my pale stomach. The doctors told
me 125 pounds was healthy, my
friends told me that I looked fine, but
all I heard was fat fat
fat fat fat fat fat fat, the
sick tattoo of an internal drum.
"All I want is to be skinny and
beautiful" I kept saying, like if I
became skinny, true beauty would follow.
"All I want is to be beautiful" I said,
which really meant I want
to be liked, which really meant
I want to like myself.
I was 15 and tall and gawky and just
wanted crushes to crush back, wanted
to be stunning and amazing and
womanly. My cup size
and my shoe size told me I couldn't.
My daddy said i could and so did
the Bible on my shelf. But the creaking
in my stomach made me burn, made me
feel better, made me smaller, made me
better, I was pretty, I was pretty --
and one day, God said, "no more." Just --
stop. And I did. It was hard. It hurt.
They never tell you that it hurts to
start eating after not really eating.
It feels strange, and then you have to
not throw it back up. But then you can live again.
I am not 125 pounds anymore. I am more.
But I am beautiful. And it has been a long time
since I did not eat, on purpose.