Shaking, I typed the terrifying but necessary words into my Google search bar under an incognito tab. The pixelated letters instilled a fear in me, staring at me in disapproval. I rested my hand on the mouse, slowly scrolling through all of the websites that gave me instructions on how to do this, making mental notes of every possible thing that could go wrong. There could be yellowing of the nail beds from lack of vitamins, brittle nails, dry skin, or weak hair. My mom called upstairs for me to come down for dinner. I ignored her, tossed a small bottle of floral lotion in my backpack, and grabbed a bottle of dark blue nailpolish. This was the first step towards the edge of a cliff that I couldn’t see directly in front of me.
Some people see the glass as half full or half empty, but I saw it as a bit too full. In reality, the glass was so empty that the universe could curl up inside it--drinkable--like a star studded smoothie. Naturally, I didn’t drink it.
Time passed much quicker than I thought it could, and my head spun while I tried to keep my crooked life straight. A day became a week, then a month. My midnight blue nail polish had chipped off in little flakes of night sky, revealing the nail beds that had somehow managed to retain their light pinkish color. I blamed every issue I came across on the bits of dinner I picked at every night. After a month, I found it so easy to lie and say believeable things. Art supplies, I found out, can dry your hands. It would only make sense that when the lotion didn’t help as much as it used to, I began to pollute my sketchbook with dark, twisted figures; it was a stark change from the once colorful flowers and poorly drawn manga. Less and less did I flip through the worn pages to see my progress.
Two and a half months in, my mom finally managed to put the pieces together. She noticed I hadn't been making my lunch in the morning, and she hadn't been notified that my lunch account was low. My clothes fit looser than ever before, and I was so close to that 100 pound mark that I wanted so badly. It was right there, in front of me, and I reached out. I stretched my hand towards that number, but I grabbed something else. It was my mother, pulling me out of the hole I had dug for myself over the course of the past few months. I didn’t know it, but she was just in time.
“Brianna,” she questioned, the worry eating at the voice that she tried so hard to keep steady. “We need to talk.” I immediately thought that she was talking about my grades, which had slipped since last semester. My focus had gone, blocked off by a cinder block wall of fatigue and hunger.
“I’ll study more,” I lied through gritted teeth. It was always so much harder to lie to my mother, she put so much unwarranted trust in me. “I’m just having a bit of trouble in Eastern Global, is all.”
“Not that. Why haven’t you been eating?” My severely underused stomach dropped. “You haven’t been eating breakfast or lunch, and you barely pick at your dinner. What’s going on? I’m worried about you.”
The tears stung the back of my eyes, because hearing someone say the words out loud broke every carefully constructed wall as if it were made of paper. Perhaps they were. My palms were clammy, though they were ice cold, and I dug my nails into my arm. The sting distracted me from the situation and left little crescent shaped marks in the skin, like little moons peppering the sky.
I stammered and stuttered, hoping that I wasn’t caught and sort of hoping that I was. I was so close to that number, but so close to help as well. For the first time in what seemed like both forever and no time at all, the lies wouldn’t come out. My shoulders began to shake with sobs, and my mom sat down next to me and pulled me into a hug. One thing I will always be thankful for is the fact that she never judged me, she just rubbed circles into my back and repeated quiet “It’s okay”s while I sobbed apologies into her shoulder like an elementary school child.
I couldn’t even say what I had done, for the words stuck in my throat as if I were choking on them. Disgusting. They made me sick, more than I already was. All I could do was apologize for becoming one of those girls the school counselors warned kids about in the school assemblies. “If you know someone with these symptoms,” they’d say solemnly, their voice echoing through the auditorium with the mechanical undertone of the microphone. “tell an adult right away.” Anorexia. That was what I had become defined by. My life was controlled by the food I didn’t eat, by the intangible number on the scale.
It was there, on the couch, curled into my mother’s arms, that I decided that I needed to fix this.
Years later, I’m lounging on the couch, my head resting lazily on my boyfriend’s shoulder while some nameless movie played on the television. It didn’t really keep my attention, so I began mindlessly playing with my hands. My nails were painted blue--midnight blue--and they were chipping pretty bad. The sight of chipping navy blue nailpolish hit a chord of familiarity for some reason. The memory of sitting in my room, stomach far past growling, and picking at the nail polish hit me like a ton of bricks. I cringed, but then I smiled.
To say I’m okay would be a lie, but I’m surviving. The relapses that plagued me slowed over time and eventually came to a stop, weakening themselves to mere thoughts that skirt across the back of my mind. It was a demon that I had let in willingly, but it was a demon that I had conquered, and though that’s far from something I’d brag about, it’s something I’m proud of.
My boyfriend looked down at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Why are you smiling?” He asked incredulously, nodding towards the television. “Your favorite character was just killed!” I just laughed as his confusion steadily increased.
Some people see the glass as half full or half empty, while I finally managed to wash the emptiness of the universe out of my glass and found it to be just full enough.