Anorexia: Just In My Head

Grandma is visiting. She lives close by and visits regularly. I’m seven years old. I am “the healthy one.” I hear it all the time. It seems to come up when Grandma is over. Maybe because my mom and grandma can’t talk about anything real so they talk about the size of me and my older sister.

My sister is nicknamed “skinny minny” and alongside her I am “healthy.” Maybe there has to be a contrast, a comparison in my family. It seems that “healthy” is synonymous with “chubby” though. At times, the word chubby slips out of someone’s mouth and is directed towards me, as if it’s not a bad thing. My mom always speaks out in my defense quickly, “She’s not chubby; she’s healthy.” They talk about me as if I’m not there.

I’m in my underwear, and I’m 15. I lie on my back in bed and stare at the skin scooping down between my hip bones. There’s a bigger space there now; less fat, more bone. That’s definitely what I’ve been going for - more bone. I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

Just minutes ago when I blinked open my eyes, I weighed myself. It’s become a morning ritual… wake up, take off every centimeter of my pajamas, but leave on my underwear, and jump on the scale. I’ve lost another pound. It gives me an indescribable high to know that I’ve lost yet another pound. I lie back down on my bed and run my fingers along the edge of my hipbones and my stomach rumbles; I love that sound.

I get up and put on grey sweats and my favorite t-shirt worn thin, and then I bounce down the stairs.