thin thin

My foot

My right foot gave me tremendous trouble in high school. Part of it was from how weak my bones were in the first place, another part was my tendency to lean on my right. Also I did once make a long cut down that one vein from my Big Toe to my Ankle.

Either way, I had my foot tied up in a brace for most of Junior year, on and off. I limped a lot and still refused to get an elevator key and 5 minutes between classes gave me just enough time to get up the stairs anyway.

But I digress. My foot only became a nuisance when I wasn’t allowed to work out during physical training for class. I could do every exercise on one foot, even if it wasn’t that graceful. They still made me sit out. As time went on, and my foot failed to recover from being stupid its injury, I was forced to take daily visits to the nurse. These visits were completely idiotic unhelpful as all she ever did was unwrap the bandages, comment that it wasn’t looking good and that I should see a doctor, and rewrapped the bandages.

All those unhelpful nurse visits: the reason I only lost 4 pounds a week and still don’t know what went on in Spanish class. Ever.

I’m a pro ana blog

I write a lot about my experiences and reblog thinspo pictures and whatnot. If you’re looking for a blog to follow, I’m available. Just saying.

English Class

My English Class in High School was the one class filled with friends everyone who knew about my eating disorder. In any other class, they were all strangers, all people I never talked to who didn’t miss me at lunch.

Even the teacher knew about my eating disorder. One day, I was grabbing the vest we had to wear in the halls to go to the restroom. She looked at me and said “Kristina, have you eaten anything today?”

I shrugged and mumbled “Kinda.” I grabbed the vest and worked on untangling it.

“What does that mean? You threw it up?”

“No, I haven’t been weak today. I had gum.”

“That’s not eating.”

“It’s five calories. I’m still getting fat from it. It counts as eating.” and I left to purge. Not because I had eaten anything, but because I needed to and because It felt good. It was so easy when all I had to purge was some stomach bile. And throwing up all that acid prevented it from sneaking up on me in the middle of the night and setting my throat on fire so I woke up gasping for breath acid reflux. Also, the lightheaded/high feeling I got from purging got me through the second half of any given day.

Then there were my classmates. On the first day of school after halloween, Christmas, or Easter, I would hand out all the candies I had gotten over the holidays. I’d get rid of all the chocolates and lollies and marshmallows so I could make everyone else fat but me show off how generous I could be.

We had a party once in english class, and the girl who sat across from me dared me to eat a cookie. A small cookie, filled with fats and oils and sugar and chocolate. There was only the one in the whole classroom, so there was no worry of bingeing. I ate it to shut her up. When I finished, I noticed everyone was staring at me and I felt like a fool. Like a circus act: “Watch the skinny waif magically turn into a whale.”

Everyone started clapping. They were trying to be supportive. I grabbed the vest and excused myself to purge use the restroom, and my English Teacher had a tremendous look of pity in her eyes.

cheerfitness asked: Love to be your anabudyy I need a serious one too

Answering publicly because I’m getting a few like these. I have too many buddies now for the program I’m doing. But I can try to hook you guys up with each other. Try messaging the people who liked that post. :)

When I was in the Hospital

I had some sort of panic attack. We were in group therapy and I shut down. I curled up into a little ball and didn’t talk and stopped responding and I was shaking. I remember walking, and my fingers digging into my arms.

Then I remember the Director, Monica’s voice. She was telling me to breathe I did. I was hyperventilating, no air getting into my lungs, but my mouth trying to gulp in oxygen that was somehow getting lost in transit.

Monica was in front of me, her hand prying my fingers from my arms. I fought to fold my arms back together. To protect myself, to hide my fat, to keep my body from shattering into a million pieces.

She unfolded my arms and held them at my sides and the blood started pumping. She told me to breathe again and as I gasped for air it actually made it to my lungs. She asked me a question that I didn’t hear and I didn’t reply. my gasps turned into sobs and suddenly I was crying. Everyone else was moved to the gym while I was in the common room, crying my heart out.

I knew this would go on the charts. I could hear the doctors whispering. But seven years of tears were finally rushing out of my eyes and I couldn’t stop. My body was wracked with such an incredible amount of sadness, I couldn’t get up and sit on the couch. I curled up on the floor again, lost in my depression. They ushered me into the shrink’s office, where I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t talk.

I wanted to say “Make it stop.” I wanted to say “Let me out of this nuthouse because the meds aren’t working and I don’t want to recover.”

But I kept crying and crying and crying, until I was able to stop. They asked me questions and I answered them with lies that would keep them satisfied. The fear drained out of their eyes and they gave me a little white pill that tasted only slightly better than aspirin that made me sleep.

The next day we argued over how important it was for me to eat a banana or not and everyone pretended to agree that it never happened.

When I was in the Hospital

We would have to sit in the common room for hours. Watching TV, talking, studying, or just waiting for something to happen. And everyone would be talking and fine, all the druggies, the cutters, the schizophrenic people and the alcoholics.

And then there was me, and the other anorexic girl. We wouldn’t talk. We didn’t want to. I don’t know why she didn’t, but I only ever talked when I had something important to say. Strangely enough, this made everyone stop and listen when I opened my mouth.

Anyway, the other girl one day just looked down, then stood up and walked around. I watched her for a while, and then she frowned and squeezed her thiugh.

“Stop it.” I said. Just like that, the music was turned down, the dancing stopped, and everyone looked at me. I was looking at the girl.

She sighed and looked at me. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking, because you look beautiful and you’re not fat and you’re an amazing human being.”

Then she started crying.

And everyone looked at me and said “How do you know? Did you read her mind? Does she actually talk to you?”

No. I knew because she squeezed her thigh. Because she frowned and because she was doing everything she could to keep moving and keep burning calories. And while everyone else was dancing and laughing, and their minds were filled with the lyrics of the songs, I knew exactly what she was thinking.

Because when I frown and squeeze my thigh I think the exact same things.

I’m fat.

No one loves me.

I’m horrible and stupid.

Stupid.

Fat.

Ugly.

I hate myself.

Die.

FatFatFat.

Don’tEatDon’tEatDon’tEat

Fat. Ugly. Die.

And I wish there was someone who, just once, would see my squeezing my thigh and tell me I’m beautiful.

Sometimes I wonder

what my reaction would be if someone I didn’t know came up to me and said

“You’re not beautiful. No one loves you. You’re stupid and I hate you.”

I don’t know what I would say or do to the stranger, but when the girl in the mirror tells me that I just say

“I know.”