I slump back, closing my eyes in frustration. I open them, and survey my bed. The contents of my backpack are littered around me. One binder is open on my lap, covered in notes for a test tomorrow. My laptop lies next to me, blaring music. I idly check facebook, unable to focus on my work. Suddenly, a message pops up in the bottom of the screen. I open it, ignoring the accusing way that my binder stares at me.

Janie: hey… can i tell you something?
me: sure, whats up?
Janie: i did a bad thing

I sit up straight and pull my laptop closer, staring at the message in confusion. What bad thing? Janie seems to be one of the most content, put-together people I know, so a “bad thing” on her part could mean anything, from cheating on an assignment to accidently stepping on her dog’s tail. With a slight smile, I think back to the last time she did a “bad thing”.

We were sitting in her room, watching Netflix. I noticed that she had been spending a lot of time texting, blushing slightly whenever she received a new message. 

“Who are you talking to?” I asked with a laugh. She giggled, leaning away from me, holding her phone so that I couldn’t see the screen. “Is it Sam?” She squealed in response, confirming my suspicion.

“I know, I know! I shouldn’t talk to him- it’s bad!” she said, winking mischieviously, “but read this! Look! We’re flirting, right?” While she spoke, a goofy grin spread over her face, and her voice rose in pitch and volume, betraying the depth of her glee. We read through their conversation, laughing and giggling at every sentence.

However, this latest message seems different; there is no air of lighthearted playfulness behind her words. A tense knot starts to form in my stomach, and my heart begins to beat faster.

me: what? are you okay?
Janie: i just threw up
Janie: like on purpose

My mind goes blank and I stop breathing. She can’t have. No. I refuse to accept this information. She can’t have, could she? The idea of Janie hating the way she looks is unimaginable. To think that it reached a point where she felt a need to harm her body because of weight is heartbreaking. And yet, there have been signs, obvious ones that I should have noticed. The way that she never eats a full meal with friends, the way that her eyes trail to her waist line in the mirror… and how she goes to the bathroom immediately after eating.
I freeze, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What do I say to her? How can I respond?

Janie: the worst part is i feel better now
Janie: god… whats wrong with me?
me: nothing. nothings wrong with you

The words start to pour out, my fingers flying across the keys, desperately trying to show her that I’m there for her, that I want to help.

me: its okay… it doesnt make you a bad person… you’re not a bad person
me: but just… if you feel like you have to again, please dont. just tell someone… please
Janie: but i liked it… i felt good after… or at least, better

  I start to feel a burning sensation in my eyes, as I begin to process what she is going through. My best friend: happy, smiling. Not stick thin, but far from overweight. Always loud, expressive, and filled with energy. I can’t help but smile, thinking of her talent for fixing other people’s problems by laughing them off, allowing them to feel happiness in spite of whatever problem they had been facing at the time. It’s remarkable, her ability to bring out a positive outlook to a bad situation, simply by being her effervescent self.

Now this. This other side of her: sadness, shame, hurt. The emotions that she never shows. God, she must be just as screwed up as the rest of us. How could I have believed that she lived without these thoughts? I know her, I’ve seen the amount of effort she puts into her appearance every day. Every morning carefully selecting an outfit, painstakingly applying make up, and rechecking her reflection every two seconds. She must be dying inside, unable to deal with the insecurities that plague her mind. They’re hidden, buried under the laughing exterior.

I feel paralyzed, unable to put into words what I want to say. I wish there was a way for her to read my mind, to realize how much I need her to be alright. She’s one of the most dependable people I know, managing to remain above the pressures of being a “perfect” size zero that the majority of society has succombed to. I’ve always admired this about how her, but now I feel lost. How can she have fallen prey to the self-hatred that plagues teenagers everywhere? Why can’t she laugh it off, helping herself like she has helped so many of our friends?
I shove down these unanswerable questions. I have no right to demand explanations, not when she’s going through this. I begin typing as my worry consumes me again.

me: im sorry… that you feel that way, that you felt like you had to… im here for you though, anyway you need me to be
Janie: okay thanks

A short pause, and then:

Janie: i’m going to sleep… night

She goes offline. I stare at the open facebook tab for a few seconds, then slam the laptop shut, nearly throwing it on the floor. I shove all of my binders and papers off my bed to join it. I curl into a ball and pull the blankets around me. Safely tucked into this fetal position, my mind turns to the actual emotions that she must be experiencing. The shame, the self-loathing that must be filling her mind. I think of her body, the natural fat that she resents. The curves that are her worst enemy. I want to scream at her: You’re not fat! Why can’t you see that? You’re perfect exactly as you are! Instead, I fall asleep, wanting to make her feel beautiful, knowing that I’m powerless to do so.