By Sreyoshi Sehereen Sattar, Bangladesh.
Starving, I look to the nearest reflective surface. I had previously obliterated everything which would compel me to look at myself. I had somehow missed this mug. My eyes look sunken in. Bags under my eyes from not sleeping the last few days. My hair a huge, frizzy, mess. A bunch of it comes off as I run my fingers to detangle them. This was supposed to happen. I’ve been expecting this for a while now. The doctors had warned me that this was something my unusual diet entailed. Yet, this had taken me by a surprise. I still cannot believe it. I keep running my hand through my hair. More and more falls off. At this point, paranoia consumes me. I fall to the floor, surrounded by the hair that I pulled off.
I never expected myself to be so superficial. I was always the cool girl. The one with the pretty laugh and a myriad of admirers I didn’t care about. Your brain is your biggest asset. Your skin, your size, your height, these aren’t supposed to be things you have control over. Well, except your size. I am fat and I would like to change that and I can, I think. But I am above that, I am an empowered woman of the 21st century. But I let lose tears. Actual tears. Water and salt. The entire schtick. I grasp on to what little hair I have left as I let out a long, distraught wail.
How did I get to this point? How did I become this pathetic? I don’t remember the last time I ate solid food. My body has adjusted to what has now become my diet. I don’t even miss eating. The thought of it makes me gag. I’ve come way too far to back down now. Just 10 pounds away, I’ll stop then. Funny enough, that’s what I had said 10 pounds ago.
I can finally fit into clothes I couldn’t fit into. No one has the audacity to tell me I’ve gained weight. Not anymore. I don’t have to worry about getting new stretch marks. I will look like what I’ve wanted all my life. We’ll see who’s laughing then. Who am I kidding. I am still so fat. I wish I could saw off some of the fat. I did try. I almost died because the razor I used was rusty and hit a vein. I’m not suicidal. I’m just trying to get into shape. I told the nurses that. And the doctors. They didn’t quite believe me and sent me off to the psych ward. Luckily, I still have my parents’ name and they can’t quite afford to affiliate their name to a mentally ill person; what would people say? Not that I am mentally ill. I am fine. I am just trying to get into shape. I anxiously bite on to my bottom lip, trying to convince myself of this fallacy. Darn it, I bit down too hard and now my lips are bleeding. Some blood gushes out. I haven’t really drank any water the past few days. Water weight is disgusting. I’ve come too far to back out now. I draw some deep breaths. I feel light headed. My vision has become blurry. My limbs shaking.
I live all alone in my one bedroom apartment now. I left my parents’ house when they started saying that I was losing too much weight. That I was anorexic or something. What would they know? Me ? Anorexic? Pfft. I’m just getting into shape. They’ll know soon enough.
I stopped socialising. My so called friends kept organising these parties that obliged me to eat junk. I know what they are up to. They can’t handle my success. They don’t want me to be beautiful. Who needs them anyways. I’ve got me.
This page features a collection of personal anecdotes and reflections by authors based on their individual stories.