I am the girl with the eating disorder in your gym class. I’m always alone. It’s like people think bulimia is a disease that can spread, or maybe people think that the sick girls don’t need friends. It’s not true. I’m lonely. You’ve never spoken to me. I am someone else’s problem, someone else’s charity case. It’s okay, I wouldn’t want to be friends with the fucked up girl either. But it hurts sometimes. To look at all the black and white photos in the yearbook and realize that I don’t know a single person pictured. It makes me sad, not having friends. Sometimes I enjoy it though. No questions. And I hate questions. More than anything. So most days I eat lunch quietly and quickly in a bathroom stall, which makes it easier to throw up afterwards, anyway. Then I’m hollow inside. I love that feeling, because empty is clean. Empty is in control. Empty is strong. Empty is beautiful.
I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am hungry I am not hungry, and I really must purge. It’s the only way to get rid of all the hate and ugly and fat and pain and fear and failure holed up inside me. I release them all. Without them, I have a chance of becoming beautiful.
You probably don’t know, but I went to rehab last June, after my stepmom found me passed out on the bathroom floor. They let me leave that prison of a place at the end of the summer, but that doesn’t mean I’m better. The lies and binges and calorie-counting and purges still define my life. I don’t know why I do it anymore, to be honest. I’m not stupid. I know I should eat. It’s just that something inside pushes me, and all I want is for that number on the scale to go down, more, more, more. Maybe it’s because I don’t understand who I am, and I want to see myself laid out plainly before me in the mirror. Skin. Bones. It would be so simple. Perfect, even. Just lungs and a heart and bones covered by a thin veil of skin. A body so easy to break. But I won’t stop there. No, you have it all wrong. I’ve always been a girl with high goals. I don’t reach for the stars, I hold them in my hands. So I’ll go further, shrinking and shrinking, until I’ve disappeared altogether. Until I am nothing at all. Poof. Gone.
“And all at once I knew how Margo Roth Spiegelman felt when she wasn’t being Margo Roth Spiegelman: she felt empty. She felt the unscaleable wall surrounding her. I thought of her asleep on the carpet with only that jagged sliver of sky above her. Maybe Margo felt comfortable there because Margo the person lived like that all the time: in an abandoned room with blocked-out windows, the only light pouring in through holes in the roof. Yes. The fundamental mistake I had always made—and that she had, in fairness, always led me to make—was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.”—John Green, Paper Towns
“I wanted to breathe smoke. I wanted to burn the Louvre. I’d do the Elgin Marbles with a sledgehammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world, now. This is my world, my world, and those ancient people are dead.”—Chuck Palahniuk
Why do I always make myself feel so tragically inadequate?
I’m really not that bad. Really. I’m just being completely melodramatic, as usual. It’s normal for my age, to think I’m absolutely horrible in unique ways and more so than anybody else, but that doesn’t make it any more right. It’s stupid. It’s immature. I’ve done some good things, but I just shove them aside to stare at the bad things I’ve done for hours on end. And I have to stop, because it’ll drive me crazy. But still. I can’t help it. It’s there, always, in the pit of my stomach. I am not enough. And I never will be.
“I want people to eat less meat. Meat is bad…Eighty percent of the agricultural land in America is used to feed food. 80% of corn, 90% of soy, and 70% of wheat goes directly into the mouths of the things that will go into our mouths. And 50% of the water in America is used to water food that is fed to food. Aw, man, it’s so dramatically inefficient! …But I think that PETA’s problem is you create no meat-eaters, and 100% meat-eaters. And then you get like 5% of the people eating no meat and 95% of the people eating exactly as much meat as they always ate. This is not what we need. We need 50% of the people or 100% of the people eating 20% or 50% less meat…We can all cut back on the things that we don’t really love and that we don’t really need, and it will do the world a tremendous amount of good without really hurting us at all. It isn’t about saving cute and cuddly animals, it’s about saving the freaking planet! It takes 60 gallons of water to make a pound of potatoes. It takes 12,000 gallons of water to make a pound of beef. And we don’t have that water to spare. We don’t have the energy to spare and we don’t have the food to spare to support the meat eating of America.”—Hank Green
“Smoke gunpowder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, and roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all “a disappointment.” Puke and starve and cut and drink because you just don’t want to feel any of this.”—Laurie Halse Anderson
Once upon a time, at an inconsequential time in an inconsequential place, born to inconsequential people, a little girl came into this world. Make no mistake—there was nothing remarkable about her. She was not very beautiful. She was not very kind-hearted. She was not very intelligent. She was not very much anything, really. And she was fine. Just like all the other little girls. Skipping down the street, whistling tunelessly. Hugging her teddy bear, missing one eye. Kissing a boy with braces on his teeth in the woods, where she thought no one knew. Giggling on the phone with her best friend. Getting wasted with her guy-but-not-boy-friend. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was fine, fine, fine.