Content Warning:
strong discourse around eating disorders
Article by Raychel Stark Art by Mariana Martin
It always starts like that—the mirror. Silver and exact with indentations that create a pattern representing nothing; frivolous for the sake of distraction and for what stands in between. She sees darkness until I fill the reflection with every flaw and curve of my body. I grow old under an intensity of questioning looks.
I live inside my thoughts—breathing in sadness and exhaling no relief—a deep cesspool of self-hatred. I thank Sylvia Plath.
From my journal in my senior year of high school:
My mind holds no value. My subconscious stretches to grasp a sense of worth, yet I am left empty-handed. I imagine its fingers extending in every way, distorted, wanting to find a solution to my loveless substance. Like an alchemist, it experiments again and again, conducting trials on the flow of my brain, attempting to create renewed connections to my external, to my friends, to my family, to my teachers, to my therapist, to my work, but fails to understand that I hide in a cave—one that's carved deep inside of me: further than my thoughts, surrounded by no light, lifeless, and devoid of nutrients.
I’m writing from a river near my house, isolated and covered by large boulders. Rain is starting to fall. I’m not moving. Sitting still, I let my hair soak in Mother Nature’s sacred possession. Like stammered kisses on the back of my neck, I appreciate that when I choose to self-deprecate the rain chooses to soothe me. Increasing speed, the rain allows soft splashes in the river, singing me a lullaby. I unfurl my clenched fists for the rain to caress me with its lips. The air smells of green leaf dusk, reminding me of childhood days when I could find joy from splashing in puddles and running through wet grass.
My mind unfurls and unfurls like a loosening thread. I have no hope of returning. Will someone please teach me how to tie the strings on my shoes?
Will I ever be a kid again?
With deep concern,
Ray
I’m twelve, in pink tights, a tight, black leotard that reveals all my bulges, a loose, big bun, and ballet flats, staring at myself in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. My eyes immediately dart to my thighs. They jiggle when I turn and quiver when examined too closely. My blonde, skinny, tan friend stands beside me—Brooke, what a stupid fucking name. She looks at my shapeless legs.
“Where is your thigh gap, Ray?”
Six staggering words that succinctly stab me. I wish to ooze out my fat and watch as my body reduces to nothing. I yearn for Brooke to slip and fall on my greasy, gross insides. I daydream she soaks up my beef and flesh, becoming a disgrace to my ballet teacher, Madame Catalina, becoming worthless in her eyes.
Madame critiques the curve of our feet, the spread of our toes, and the placement of our dangling fingers. In purposeful ignorance and disobedience, while at the bar changing from fourth to sixth position in perfect silence, I dissociate. My eyes follow the delicate raindrops falling gently outside as they waltz to the music playing inside. Synchronised swimmers, perfectly in time. The sun warms them as they fall on the black, greedy asphalt. Something so simple, so mesmerising, so — she approaches me with her luscious, ominous oval eyes. Her loud footsteps juxtapose her mantra: “Graceful and Gentle like a Woman.” Her icy, bitter, long fingers squeeze my arms; her eyebrows locked in constant agony and contempt fill my heart with cold blood. Her nails are sharp, painted a bright red that stings me. The fluorescent light reflects on her forehead, creating a shine that forces me to turn away. Her long flowing chestnut hair grazes my neck; I wish to grab and pull it. She holds onto my fat for longer than necessary, and without words, I know she desires to see and touch only bone. She moves my arms up and down, showing me the correct rhythm in which I should shift. I remind myself that my thick skin allows me to persist and resist her psychological damage. Yet, what comes to shape my sense of self is Madame Catalina’s words, opinions, and attitudes.
I go home, grasp the gilded frame in my room, and direct her towards my lower half until the world sways. What is staring back at me? I contort my waist by grabbing my fat and pulling it behind me — I look like Brooke. How worthless has my life become?
I’m thirteen. My mom is complaining about sugar and calories and fats. Through her whispers and weight watching, I learn and gather information from my elder, my muse.
I imagine decomposing my food, picking out each morsel of sugar, counting each calorie of the crumbs, washing away all the badness. As I collect scraps and smidgens of each chip before it enters my mouth, as I wipe the grease from my pizza, take off the fatty cheese, as I clean the butter off my toast, I wonder if my mother is proud.
I stare at every thigh that passes me. I have a mental ruler that serves to compare my own measurements to random figures in my life — woman after woman travels around me. They circle me, surround me, their bodies suffocate me. I’m wrapped around by fat and bones, my face pushed up against each thigh. She grabs my eyeballs and positions them downwards, dizzy, stumbling, on the verge of passing out, she traps my face with Saran wrap. When I try to speak, I realize my only power now is to survey thigh after thigh, forced to mock or gawk. With a lack of nutrients, I hallucinate. Tripping, I lose my voice.
I’m sixteen. I’m still taking the bread off my hamburgers and putting my dinner and lunch under a microscope. I’ve started weighing myself on my mother’s scale. Watching the weight decrease one pound by one pound, I feel healthier, more put together, and in control. I can wrap my hands around my upper arms now. I’ve learned the calories of every scoop of oil and piece of fruit. My thighs no longer quiver or jiggle. I’m motionless. Stripped, I’m bare from years of exhaustion and exertion.
My mother is starting to loathe me; I see jealousy in her eyes. I’ve surpassed her diets and workouts, I’ve surpassed her goal weights, I’ve surpassed her calorie limits. I am more. Yet, I’m on the floor of my bedroom looking deep into my eyes, searching for my soul, but get lost staring at my thighs.
I’m no Barbie doll. My body is discombobulated. I’ve been moved and twisted and warped and tortured by her and her and her; my mirror, my mother, and Madame Merciless. I never got to feel pretty. I never got to feel free. I lost my childhood. I never got to explore myself and my capacities. I’ve never felt at ease.