In the streaked, foggy mirror, I stare at my body. Slowly grabbing the loose fat gathered around my hips, I make eye contact with the person in the mirror. The face of the scared, sad but sacred goddess.
Like an airplane in the sky, the tips of my fingers travel across the pale, cold skin. They dip and rise. My body is a treasure, but I want no one to discover it. Because over the years, this goddess has been beaten, trashed and forgotten. It carries the ware like a weary widow. It mourns the loss of life and love.
Early in the morning, I wake and drink deep in water. Room temperature. Not cold. Not warm. Perfect. Below, the stomach turns, pinching my ribs, reminding me that it's empty. I fill it with liquid. Carefully, the water trickles down my body like a downpour, suddenly crashing into the empty abyss.
While the birds sing, I only hear my mind. My skin bites, burning my bones. It shakes. It is cold. But as I look down, I see my stomach grow. Everything grows silent. No one believes me or cares, but this is the monster under my bed. No one knows. It's no longer hidden in the closet, it sleeps with me, a goddess.
Instead of things worshiping me, I pray to food. When I wake, I thank it. When I rest my head, I hate it. This has been the downfall of a powerful woman and the crash of an empire. Something else is ruling, now.
In the mirror, my eyes are a cocktail of confusion and admiration. I hate how much I love praying now.
That's how an eating disorder distorts the thoughts. At first, it comes steady. Then, out of nowhere, it consumes every thought like a cancer.
You think you need it. It defines your beauty. It is you.
But, no. That can't be true...can it?