by Kasondra Morin

Created on: November 07, 2007

I stood facing the mirror, washing my hands without looking up. I knew what I would see. Eyes bloodshot and watering, face flushed, that look of defeat. I tightened my belt one more time to keep my pants on my hips. After rinsing my mouth and putting eye drops in my eyes to fight the red I finally looked up. I lifted my shirt to expose a stomach now slightly concave with ribs and hipbones clearly visible. I squeezed the loose skin on my stomach, convinced that it was not skin but fat. I checked the lacerations on my hips and thighs to ensure the wounds were healing properly. The last thing I needed was to be rushed to the hospital with an infection and have to defend how the cuts got there in the first place. Finally, I sighed as I found myself fighting back tears.

"What have you done to yourself?Why do you keep doing this? You are dying. This is nothing but a slow suicide. Why continue? Why not just stop and get help?" my reflection asked.
"I have made us beautiful. I have actually committed to something. I have worked hard for what I wanted. I refuse to give up now, not when I am so close to perfection," I answered in anger as I threw the towel to the bathroom counter.
"What happened to the happy child that could eat whatever she wanted? Where was the girl that could brush off an argument as no big deal? Where is she?" the reflection begged.
"Gone," I whispered with tears in my eyes. "She's gone."
Gone was the ability to eat dinner without having to rush off to the bathroom with the excuse that I had to shower. Gone were the normal lunches and snacks eaten with smiles and with friends. Gone was the girl that could wear shorts and tank tops without worrying someone could see cuts or scars. She was gone for good because I wanted to feel special. I wanted to be able to control the pain that I felt inside. I needed complete and total control.
Instead I found myself vomiting dinner because it was more than eight-hundred calories, skipping lunch all together because that was the only meal I controlled on my own, and cutting myself every time I got even the slightest bit upset because physical pain made the emotional pain lessen. I gave up believing in God because He never answered my nightly prayer, "Please, just let me not wake up." Even after half a bottle of Midol I still did not get what I wanted.
Sure, I was the thinnest I had been in years. The classmates that never gave me a second glance were suddenly my friends. At one point I had a total of thirty cuts on my body, ranging from just a scratch to those that bled for more than twenty-four hours. My schoolwork might have been suffering and I fought with my parents every night, but none of that mattered. I was convinced that I felt beautiful.
That was three years ago. It's been many late nights of tears, many forced meals, and a tough road to end a cutting addiction; but I'm here. I no longer count calories or hurt myself because I cannot cope. I have also found faith in God again and praise Him daily that he didn't answer my prayers for death. I understand now that I was purposefully damaging my body for emotional reasons. I never actually wanted to be thin; I didn't want to live. I won't say recovery has been easy, but I will say it's been worth it.

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