12.25.08

Those who suffer in silence are the ones who need reassurance.

Those who suffer in silence are the ones suffering the most.

Cutting, eating disorders; people think we do it as a call for attention. That's not entirely true. Sure, I sometimes think if my family and friends really were concerned for me they would notice me sneaking off to the bathroom. Other times I wished they didn't pay attention. I wish I could freeze time, do my business, and be back before they noticed. I can't have both, but I can't decide which I'd prefer.

Christmas should be a time of celebration, eating great food, enjoying the company of your relatives. It should be fun. I shouldn't be sitting on the bathroom titles on the abandoned second floor looking at myself in the full length mirror. The room is dark. I don't want to be noticed, not that they would even realize I was gone.

Over 100 elite Upper East Siders crowd my penthouse tonight. If an 18 year old girl slips out of the party for a few minutes who would notice? No one.

My breathing is deep and shaky. It gets like this when I am about to do what I'm about to do. The face in the mirror is not the mask I wear in front of others. I stop pretending I am okay. I don't cry though. Crying is pathetic. Crying is for girls seeking attention. I don't cry.

I stand up feeling uncomfortable in my dress. My arms look huge, my legs look chunky, my stomach like a pregnant women's. I lift the dress over my hips, over my stomach, up to my bra. My sides seem to hang over the edge of my tights. I turn for a side angle. My thighs look bulky, my torso thick. I turn for a rear view. The word fat can't even describe my ass.

I take a spot near the toilet, still in front of the mirror. The deep breaths continue as I pull my knees to my chest.

I shouldn't have eaten that cake. I shouldn't have eaten so much. I'm fat enough as it is. I've gained so much weight already.

My left hand holds back my hair as my right shoves its index finger down my throat. It takes a couple shoves, but finally the cheesecake comes back up and into the toilet bowl. The aftertaste of my vomit is awful, but familiar.

I feel the food pacing its way slowly back up my throat. I feel the roundness of stomach. I feel the guilt and qualms of eating the fattening desserts. I know I'm not done.

The process repeats. I think of things to keep the food coming up:

I shove my finger down my throat. Size 0.

I shove my finger down my throat. Skinny models.

I shove my finger down my throat. Penelope asking me if I gained weight.

I shove my finger down my throat. My mother comparing me to Serena..

I shove my finger down my throat. Chuck.

I don't cry but tears do escape from my eyes. I can't control them. They don't appear because I am angry or sad. The watering of my eyes occurs when my oxygen intake is cut short by the purging of my food.

I don't know what this pattern is called. Perhaps I can label it as a "cleansing" process. "Cleansing" my body of imperfection. Insecurities are to blame for all of this. I need to be skinny. What I am doing is disgusting, unattractive, an unhealthy, but I can't stop. The remorse from my actions is too strong. I refuse to call this condition bulimia. Or maybe it's not that I refuse, but I can't.

I look in the mirror once more. I blink I few times to rid my eyes of any redness or excess water. I wipe my face clean of any smeared make up marks. Deciding I look decent enough, I open the door of the bathroom and head downstairs discreetly.

I joined the people who I call "friends" in the living room. They are sipping drinks, chatting; some are on their cell phones checking the latest scoop on gossip girl. A few look up as I enter the room. I receive a couple greeting nods and smiles, but nothing more.

I guess I won't have to choose after all. Between them knowing or not knowing about my "cleansing" process, that is. I guess they aren't concerned for me at all. None of them noticed anything. None of them noticed anything at all.

Those who suffer in silence are the ones who need reassurance.

Those who suffer in silence are the ones suffering the most.

I suffer in silence.