I’m not crying because I'm weak, I’m crying because I've been string for too long. Fat, salty tears fall into my lap, like rain falling from the sky. I am sitting cross legged, my head in my hands. I can feel the thinned notches of my spine pressed up against my skin; as if the bones want to rip out of my body in despair. Some days tears fall, crashing the world around me. Other days its blood, trickling out my veins, a scarlet river running down my arms. My tears are diminishing into a puddle on the stripped wooden floorboards; a ripple caused with every fresh drop. My sobs are loud and violent, like those of a child. Using both mental and physical strength, I stretch out on the hostile floor, before tucking my legs up into the foetal position. No one has any sympathy for me, for I am doing this to myself.
Curled up on the cold wooden floor, my body provides no comfort for me. My bones thrust out at odd angles, almost piercing my papery skin. My arms are no larger than an infants, yet the skin sags like a terminally ill pensioners. I drag myself to my feet, my body heavy with sadness and regret, even though I weigh nothing. Standing in front of the stark mirror I witness an unfamiliar reflection. My face looks hollow, my cheekbones, nose and chin are chiselled, like I have been carved from marble. Somehow I am contented with my reflection; my dark eyes are sunken deep into the concave sockets of my skull. Despite being happy about my appearance, there is no sparkle in my eyes or smile on my lips. I may be desperately thin but my mind is a fairground mirror, twisting me to believe I'm fat. Body dismorphia is a part of this nightmare. The bones of my ribs protrude, shrink wrapped by a thin layer of mottled purple flesh- cold and patchy like a new born baby. The formation of my ribcage is like the deepest of valleys and the tallest of mountains, both acting in antithesis. Clumps of my hair are falling out, leaving thinning patches of feathery down. My face has a ghostly pallor, leading me to believe that no amount of expensive makeup could make me look beautiful. Dark purple shadows ring my eyes, making me look withdrawn from this world. The pensive expression I permanently possess makes me look like someone out of a concentration camp.
I don’t need to be here, but the nurses won’t listen. I've told them time and time again. Screaming until my voice becomes nothing more than a hoarse whisper. They explained to me that anorexia is a mental disease, and that I need constant monitoring. My body has lost all its fat, and it is now starting on my muscle, leaving my internal organs vulnerable. ‘It’s getting too late’ they told me, their voices strict, their faces patronising, as if they pitied me. I know I am painstakingly thin, I know I need to gain weight in order to survive. But with every mouthful my body is forced to digest, I imagine my stomach ballooning, my body stretching and contorting out of all recognition. I can’t do this. I am not strong enough. I could give in and allow the doctors to help me, but that would be a slow and painful process. I need to end this. Now. Various ideas race through my diseased mind, but only one sticks. Suicide. However this would be impossible. With no privacy or resources it would be almost unachievable. Id need a drug overdose. Or a rope. And a shower rail. The dream could become reality. I could be so close to executing it, but a small needle of doubt is starting to form, piercing the back of my brain.
I'm tired of living but I'm scared of dying. I stare down at my wrists. Scarred and pale from the old slits. Crimson red and scabbed from my more recent affairs with a razor. Battle wounds. But the only person I've been battling with is myself. Every night I cry and cut, every day I try not to eat. Some days I put on a smile and pretend that nothing’s wrong. I've become as weak as a premature baby. My facade of strength is fading. The acting is starting to get hard, I'm going to crack. Yet I refuse to ask for help. I don’t want to seem selfish. Every doctor has tried a different technique to help me. Not one of them realises that I just want to be left alone to die. I don’t want to end my life; I just want to end my pain. But every morning I regret not killing myself the night before.