Sometimes, it becomes hard to breath. Now is one of those times; the obnoxious feeling leaves you feel low, depressed and bloated. The soreness of your throat, the puffiness of your eyes. You feel heavy. Planted firmly to the ground like a boulder in a heavy heated mess.
I hate times like this, they all end in the same way. With me hating myself even more. Ending with mental or physical abuse which I inflict upon myself. The same ending will repeat itself until it becomes a habit. Once you start, it's impossible to stop.
I guess you call this whole thing a habit, a habit that turned into an addiction, which must have slipped into obsession when I was around 12. Too young, too pure, too innocent at heart. I presume the whole thing happened to quickly before I could even get a grip. I should have had just taken my insulin, I should have just eaten without obsessing over it. I shouldn't have thrown it all back up.
I should have just kept on breathing.
I was stuck in my own oblivion, trying to mould myself into something presentable, acceptable, something beautiful. Something that lacked everything Cartman had, but had everything Wendy had, everything all these perfect people owned, that is so natural to them, and not to me.
Trying to be something, someone, who is so far out of reach that I became lost. Walking down a road that is long, winding and full of hate and misery. With fear in my heart and that habit in my brain, I'm full of resistance. Refusing to turn back, refusing to run. My fate is known, I can prevent it, and I can stop it. But I won't – I can't.
And I'm scared.
No control.
Today starts the same as any other, leaving the house with my stomach rumbling and refusing a lift from Stan when he texts me. Sitting down quietly in my first class, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach, or the taunts from Cartman and the fact I know Kenny can hear it too. He can hear every groan, every rumble – it's almost like a sickening game. How long can I last before he says something, before he calls me on my bluff?
I doesn't last long, he slides a Belvita biscuit packet along my desktop, tauntingly. My stomach clenches in disgust. But I look at it and I begin to salivate. 54 calories. That's not so bad, I could have half of one? No. Decline and give back to Ken on basis of his lack of food, not mine. I do just that, sliding the packet across to him and giving him one of my looks. He gives it right back – same look marking his face.
This is the game we play. Sad isn't it.
The rest of the day plays out – the biscuit package left untouched on the table. My absence at lunch. I settle for a fruit pot which lays in my bag and a large bottle of water. I can feel the cold water dribble down inside of me and instantly, I feel relaxed and content.
I sit in the library and read, ignoring the nagging feeling inside of me telling me to empty myself. It's like a ritual. Listen to the voice to achieve happiness. The voice knows best, of course it knows best. With little resistance, I follow my stomach to the top floor toilets. As always the disabled toilet is empty as is the hall it's on.
I do everything the voice tells me too, first clean around the seat. Two lift it up. Three pull up your sleeves. Four make sure hands are clean. Five push on.
What enters the bowl is nothing more than froth and a water. But I feel instantly sick – I listened to the voice and I didn't have control. I walk back to the library with slumped, defeated shoulders. Scratching at my wrist out of habit.
Life if just one giant habit.
And I hate it.
If home is where the heart is, then I my destination must be wrong. For my heart doesn't lie with this place, if it did; it would be hard, cold and hollow.
But none the less I return, burrowing myself in books and homework until it becomes an expectable time to sleep. The weekdays normally always endure this way. Whereas the weekend I sometimes go out, free myself of the stale air my house offers and into the cold fresh mountain breeze. It's somewhat of a pity escape – but I continue to do it.
Probably just a habit.
Tonight Kenny drops in, smiling weakly at me in front of my family in a small attempt to hide the fact he's furious with me. Furious with himself. It is only when we have ventured into my bedroom does he begin his well prepared speech.
"I cannot believe it, Kyle!" He starts. "I could fucking hear your stomach growling and you decline a shitting biscuit thing, because what? 'You're on a diet'? Because that's the wrong sort of diet, Ky – dammit – you could easily kill yourself, man. Where would I be then?"
"Probably screwing Butters."
He gives me this look, full of anger and distress and pure rage. But past his confused burrowed brows, and his sorrow filled eyes – there was something more. Pity. Pity and something else; something dangerous and new, and totally exciting.
It was almost thrilling.
The feeling latched onto his face and engraved itself into his skin. Giving him this permeable look of anxiety. That stretched his features that makes him look so gorgeous, so forgiving – so mine. I control myself enough not to kiss him, to fasten my arms around his neck and slowly lean in, taking him in and starring into his seaside orbs. A Dark outer ring of deep merciless blue, blending with this light Caribbean blue glowing and shinning and making him look oh so delicious.
"Kyle, what's happening to you? You're disappearing." He whispers to me a gruff voice. And much like his anger, the control is also out the window and I'm kissing him. He doesn't hesitate to kiss back, nor does he hesitative to wrap his hands around my back and nibble on my bottom lip, and pull me close and tighten his grip when I mew softly against his skin.
We haven't done this in oh so long, and it feels oh so right, content almost. I've missed it. The nimble kisses, and the firm squeezes and the flicks of his tongue in my mouth.
The speech has dissolved in a gooey mess that we pass back and forth between our soft, sweet kisses. His anger squashed between our tight embrace. Everything is disappearing, our woes, our fears. Our dreams – it's just us and our paper mâché hearts. Hollow and empty except for the bitter sweet thoughts that make the casing crack with each thump.
He leaves in a similar fashion to how he came, a weak smile gracing his cheeks, still with those dangerous new lines peaking from the folds of skin. I return to my homework, to my isolated dungeon that lacks every emotion other than hope. But a new emotion is worming its way inside my cave – love.
Today starts the same as it yesterday, or the day before. You get up, get dressed, get out the house. Burrowing masses of book into my locker I make my way towards my first lesson, catching myself on the door frame as a dizzy spell washes over me. Regaining my senses I seat myself and wait for the lesson to begin.
My head pounds and my eyes haze up, forcing me to close them. A white noise has entered my field of hearing, and it's hard to block it out. I rest my head on top of the desk. Ignoring the painful thump of my brain.
Class hasn't started, so I slip through the throng of late comers and wobble towards the nurse's office. Frailly tugging at the door, barely opening it before I fall, my mind spins, collecting various thoughts, most contain Ike and Kenny. I decide I'm dying and beg that those insignificant words Kenny whispers to me are true. They must be, for he repeats them with the same silky voice.
'I love you.'
When I awake, I can smell a burning sensation before I even open my eyes, I presume these are hell's flames. I can hear a faint noise, such like a chatter. I try to latch on to a voice, trying to dictate who it could be. Unable to do much that listen to the twitter, I let my eyes flutter open. But instead of Hell's fire, my friends look down at me. Smiling gratefully at me with teary eyes.
Confused, I open my mouth, only to cough and groan a bit. "You collapsed, dude." Stan starts, clasping onto my hand in a feeble attempt to make both of us feel more secure. Cartman sits at the end of the bed, the smallest amount of fear sneaks through his 'too tough to care' appearance.
Kenny's hand is stroking my cheeky protectively. His other is grasping firmly at my other hand. His palms are sweaty and from his puffy red cheeks, it's apparent he ran here. I look up at him, giving a quiet smile – he has tears in his eyes. But he's too proud to let them leak. "Your parents are coming back from Denver, they should be here soon, Ky. They won't let Ike out of school though…" He trails off, having nothing else to say he just stares at me warmly.
A knock brings us out of our little world, it's the doctor. My usual one. He gives me a peculiar look, something I can't place. Raising my eyebrow at him, I gave him the same look back. "Mr Broflovski – it's the third time this month. If you continue to shock us with your stupid stunts we will have to discuss you going to a designated place. Such like the ones we talked about before"
"I've already told you enough times, I am not going to one of those places." I croak out. "I won't fucking go and you know it!"
"No one want's to go, but if you continue to hurt yourself in this way – then I'm afraid it's your only choice. You've already made us book you a councillor." I mumble a fuck you at him, before he continues "Oh and also, it would be in your best interests if you told some people. That way they can monitor you and your behaviour, Kyle. If you are not willing to share your illness, I will have to inform your parents to break it to those close to you."
He leaves after, letting me dwell on his words and stares of my best friends. They all look mortified and angry, looking at me with their burrowed brows and concerned eyes; they're terrified of what my 'ilness' is and why I haven't mentioned it to them before. It's not that I haven't told them out of choice, I just never found the right moment. Which is hard to find as it is.
Now with the added pressure and heavy atmosphere, I can barely breathe let alone accumulated coherent words. I let my eyes flicker passed their pained expression. My eyes rest on Kenny's, his eyes are wide with fear and his mouth hangs slightly.
I swallow thickly, trying to process my words.
"I – uh – I have, this thing… um. I'm um – please don't hate me." I cut myself off, feeling tears pool at the side of my pillow, God, how weak must I look. I let out a choked breath; wiping my eyes in the process.
"I'm not killing myself, I swear! I-I just… It's so stupid, like, guys shouldn't even get it, you know. Actually no, no one should, for fuck sake"
"Kyle" Kenny and Stan warn. Even Cartman looks worried, eyebrows creased and a cool sweat working its way down his forehead, he tries to cover it up with a jagged cough, but I've noticed, I've seen - the damage has been done.
"I-I've got an eating disorder" I whisper, barely catching the words myself. But they hear them, letting them float around in the air and turn it into something sour and dead.
"Bulimia. I have bulimia."
They left shortly after the words had spilled from my mouth. I thrashed around wildly, demanding that they had to come back and help me. To save me.
"Dude, you are disappearing." Kenny stated, repeating the same words from the night before. His voice was broken and hoarse and it made my heart shatter. Stan had looked at me with his big sad eyes, red rimmed and broken. He tried to speak, but just looked at me lifelessly as his lips quivered and an inaudible sound which left me breathless – for his reaction had been much like Ike's.
Unlike the other two, with their sensitive, heartfelt glances. Cartman had locked a cold emotionless stare onto me. It was almost nerve racking until he shook his head and left. I watched him leave, my eyes lingering on the door in which he had exited from.
I watched the other two follow suit, both lent down and gave me a feeble kiss, no words uttered. No feelings mentioned.
It felt like a lifetime before I could hear the monitor screeching at me with a morbid beep. Crying out for me to do something – to act on my anger.
I did just that.
Ripping numerous leads and needles out from my body; listening to the beeper cut out mid-scream. Screaming and crying and trying to do something other than let the pain multiply. It didn't work – it never does. I roll off the bed, letting a loud thud echo around the room and blur with the wails.
Nurses and doctors flew in, pulling me back into the bed and struggling to keep me down and still as the doctor injected something in me. When he pulled out the nurse's grips decreased rapidly. My body became heavy very quickly. As if I was awake whilst in a coma. It sure felt that way – pins and needles in all of my limbs, hard to move or feel. Let alone think.
Now I lay still as my parents run a gentle, loving thumb over my cheek, and whisper infinites to me: I can barely keep my eyes focused on them. But I manage, blinking twice as much and adjusting myself every now and again.
My friends stick in my mind – Kenny's eyes, Stan's quivering lip, Cartman's cold gaze. It hurts.
And now, as I stare at my mother I know that this is the end of the rope I'm tied to, I have reached end of my tether and I'm ready to move on. "Ma" I hoarsely gasp at her, letting my voice growl and grumble in protest of being used. "I'm ready" I whisper.
She cocks her head at me, confused. But she smiles, it has clicked within her mind. She lets a soft smile grace her lips as the lets words flow past them "OK." She whispers, as if some sort of Jewish lullaby – such as the ones she used to sing.
None the less, I am instantly lulled by her voice.
I reach other for her, flailing my arms and weakly panting as I struggle to hold her. Tears are rolling and I breathe in jagged, shaky breaths. "I love you, I love you…" I mumble. "Ma, h-help me – Save me" I grasp out and now she's crying too. Clinging on to one another as if I will die and she cannot save me.
That is so close to being our reality, our fate – but I shan't let it happen. I won't let her plant lilies on my grave and I won't make her grieve over me. I will have children, and get married and I will do everything she has dreamt of. Instead, I will save her.
Soon my dad walks in holding Ike, who charges towards the bed when he catches sight of me. He climbs onto the bed and cuddles into me once he is under the covers. Only eleven, his small body stiffens as he begins to sob. He hates this – I hate this.
We continue to lay still for a while. Locked in a trance; we're a perfect, loving family. Smart well behaved children, dream job dad and adequate mother. But a knock brings us out of our trance. Now only a broken family looking at the doctor instead of the picture perfect one we all dream to be in.
"Mr and Mrs Broflovski, I would wish to speak with you. Also, would it be suitable if I could leave the boys who came to the hospital with your son, to speak to him before they leave?" My parents nod robotically, following him out the room, Ike in tow. A few seconds later Stan, Kenny and Cartman re-enter.
"Hey." I start.
"Hey." They return.
It continues you like this, short light conversation which repeats itself when a silence washes over us.
"Guys, I'm so sorry" I whisper as I begin to cry. "I'm so so sorry, please forgive me" I begin to wale; desperate for them to understand the hurt I am feeling. "I was never meant to get myself in this deep!"
"What's happened, happened." Stan whispers "We're just gonna move on now, together"
"Yeah, Ky – we're gonna save you, y'know." Kenny smiles, his teeth showing and eyes squinting.
"If you're sorry, then you have to prove it. Aren't they the rules?" Cartman smirks, arms crossed and his yellowy-brown eyes gleaming with something other than humiliation.
These are them, my three best friends. Believe it or not. And I need them, God do I! Between our arguments and pranks and fall outs. We have something deeper, more meaningful. That something is one thing I cannot live without. Something my body churns for. Love, appreciation, acceptance. Those are a given, a must – friendship is something earned, something I don't ever want to lose.
More importantly, I don't ever want to lose them.
Slowly, the weeks past and turn into months. Torturous, painful months that were goddamn excruciating. But I'm still breathing, still surviving, and I will survive many more. I will become accustomed to living and I will thrive.
No pain, no gain. That's what they say, isn't it, although it's a pretty useless thing to point out. You can gain without pain. You can also just receive pain without gain. But I guess this is one of those keeping fit quotes for body builders. Though, I guess it does fit this whole experience. The pain is Kenny's eyes looking at me fragilely and brokenly. How my parents breathe over me as I eat, and I walk and talk and live. How even Cartman's jokes have limited themselves to a time when no one else is around to witness them.
But I'm living. I guess that's all matters.
I guess this is life, nothing more, nothing less. But it's going to get better. Even if my happiness is forced and even if my mind tells me it's wrong, I will be happy, joyous and alive and so goddamn peaceful.
I've said this to Kenny before, in the cold hushed nights we spend together. He just nods understandingly, he then pets my hair and whispers to me "It won't be forced, it won't be forced" and I believe him.
I remember crying a few days after I was discharged. He just held me and asked how much I wanted to do it now, I wouldn't answer, and I just kept on crying and crying. Until my voice was hoarse and sore and I couldn't cry any longer. Kenny had held me the whole time, letting me cry into him.
"I don't want to do it. Why am I making it something it's not, it's not my life, it is not my freedom and it is not me. I don't want to do it, ever. Don't let me do it. Ken." I whispered, he nodded. He scooped me up from the bathroom floor and took me to bed, I refused to let him leave.
He had curled into the sheets and retold stories of when we were eight. He told me how he fell in love with me and the stupid poems he would write for me but then get too scared to read them to me.
He spilt his life to me that night. Sometimes when I'm scared and desperate and long past fighting it, I think about the words he whispered into my neck that night and how he held me. And even when his arm was dead and the pins and needles were almost painful, he refused to budge.
I'm grateful to him. Truly.
"One day, you'll need to tell me your story. Not your bulimic one. Your real one." He said after the silence had swirled us into a dark dreamy nothingness. "Promise me"
"I promise"
I returned to school a few days after being discharged, claiming my diabetes was playing up but I'm now back on my feet. I hate lying; I really do. Maybe it was the way I was brought up or maybe it was the religion I follow that has caused me to think this way, but never the less. Lying doesn't sit well with me.
This is probably why some of Cartman's schemes don't bode well with me, the idea of lying and humiliating people just seems pointless.
Which is probably why that after Mr Johnson informs us on a project, I feel guiltily obliged to follow every rule. We are to write a poem, about something that has happened or is happening to us shaped the way we are. It can be anything, a loved one, a pet. A tragic incident; anything.
We are to read them aloud in front of the class, the five top poems in the whole school will be published into a competition. Although, I am not worried about the competition and I don't think I'm really all that bothered to enter it.
Unless Cartman wins, or Craig. Maybe then I wish I'd have won, but it's unlikely.
He's giving us a fortnight to write and finish our poems, Kenny looks at me, dumbstruck – obviously having no clue to write about. Well, no clue as to what he should write, without Cartman mocking him.
We discuss a dew light ideas, before our convocation drifts to other things. I realise that I haven't told Kenny what my poem is going to be about and I decide to keep it a secret.
Once I return home, I begin to draft out ideas – some lines flow into my head robotically, other lines are thought through and painful. But after a week of pouring my heart, soul and woes onto a small strip of paper. I quake under the idea of reading it out loud.
I try not to worry about it too much, but the as the day dawns on me I realise that it's fertile to change my mind.
Today is one of those days, a heavy, depressing day where it hurts to walk, move and talk. I remove any negative thoughts, ignoring the way they worm their way back into my brain. I haven't told Kenny what I am writing about, even when he asks, I refuse to spill – I think he already knows though.
I haven't really been listening to day, somehow my brain can't focus and keeps reminding me today is the day I must read out my poem, to inform people about something that has happened/is happening to me as an individual. It's been now a fortnight now since he issued us the homework, but now I'm dreading it immensely. I knew from the start what my piece was going to be about, but now I am regretting it. I've spoken to Stan about it a few times, "You'll be fine! I know you'll do great!" he encourages, but they're not that helpful as I can feel the butterflies in my belly pounding against the skin and tissue, desperate to free themselves and escape.
After Wendy takes a seat after reading out her poem about dogs, Mr Johnson's eyes turn to me "Kyle, you'll be our last poem for today, do you want to make your way to the front." I gulp and nod, looking towards Kenny who gives me a glimmer of teeth to encourage me.
"You'll do great" He breathes, letting his eyes flicker away from me towards the front of the class. I think he is just as nervous as I am about this whole ordeal, although he has no real conclusion what my poem is about, but I think he has a faint idea.
Heading towards the front a sudden wave of nausea washes over me, and when I think it's passed another wave hits me, I let out a few ragged breaths, ignoring the confused glances of my peers. My eyes connect onto Kenny's again, who gives the same encouraging smile as before.
My poem will be nothing like Kenny's, with his 'Immortality' nor will it be like Cartman's and his quest for a 'Jew-Free, Fag-Free, maybe even a You-Free' world. I suppose I cannot compare it to my friend's poems, which don't hold deep meanings and painful words. I knew this from the start, yet here I am holding a poem full of deadly letter that I am regretting immensely. Deciding against winging it.
I take a few shaky breathes. I breathe in. Then I breathe out. After I begin.
"Crying and dying I'm doing nothing but multiplying" I start lowly, "And I cannot save myself from the devil within, because the devil within will always win."
I breathe in "And I cannot save myself from the thoughts in my head, because the thoughts in my head could beat me to death." My voice begins to rise and I croak out the sour words faster and faster. "And I'm crying on the floors, cursing it all. The thoughts inside my head are the pain in my chest, is the thinness of my skin, is the darkness of my beliefs."
"No control." I whisper.
"I will rot away before I can be saved" I state, letting the words once again build up "I will slip away before there comes a day where you'll extend your hand you'll take me away." I breathe deeply and murmur "Together we shall run."
I speak fast, getting into a rhythm of how I should read my poem "Away from the devil and away from my mind and away way from the things I do to occupy."
"Myself and I are two different things and I don't know which one to believe, myself is right but am I too, so I shall blame. I shall blame it upon you."
"Mia." I whisper
"I shall blame the sourness in my heart and the darkness in my mind and I shall blame the emptiness my chest and, the devil which you can find within my mind, I shall blame all on you." My hand has cupped and grabbed at the fabric of my shirt that lays above my heart.
"Mia." The words are sour and painful to speak.
"From the thickness of my bones, to the thinness of my skin, I shall blame it all on you. I will blame the emptiness I will blame everything I detest." I begin to fill an anger rise from within and I begin to get louder and louder, feeling my eyes burn "From my stomach to my thighs to my neck and my lies, I cover it all up, but the real pain lies within, this is fight I will win, and there's nothing you can do, I will beat you Mia, I will beat you." My jaw tightens, knowing that it's nearly over.
"And there will come a day and I will look back and I'll say hooray, I will beat you."
"I'll beat you, Bulimia."
After the final words spill from my lips, I look up and let my eyes scan across the room for the first time since I've stood here. My eyes connect onto Kenny's who smiles warmly at me, his eyes squinting slightly and his lips parting and it makes my heart pound, pound, pound. He stands, bringing his hands to meet each other as he claps slowly. Stan stands up almost right after, clapping and smiling at me. Following him, Cartman, Butters, Wendy and Tweek all stand, clapping and encouraging the rest of the class to join in.
And they do, all of them standing up and giving me a round of an applause. My heart jumps and I can feel these happy warm tears pooling in my eyes and for once I'm not afraid to cry. Small light tears roll past my cheeks as I look at Kenny, still clapping and smiling at me, and something swells up inside my paper mâché heart, cracking the cold grey casing and making the hollow thin casket fall away; love. This is love and I can feel the warm glow of my new heart thump, thump, thump.
Sometimes I feel heavy, secured and unmoving from the ground below me, not today though. Today, I float.
Poem for viewers who are better suited to just reading the goddamn poem:
Crying and dying I'm doing nothing but multiplying and I cannot save myself from the devil within, because the devil within will always win.
And I cannot save myself from the thoughts in my head, because the thoughts in my head could beat me to death. And I'm crying on the floors, cursing it all. The thoughts inside my head are the pain in my chest, is the thinness of my skin, is the darkness of my beliefs.
No control.
I will rot away before I can be saved, I will slip away before there comes a day where you'll extend your hand you'll take me away. Together we shall run.
Away from the devil and away from my mind and away way from the things I do to occupy.
Myself and I are two different things and I don't know which one to believe, myself is right but am I too, so I shall blame. I shall blame it upon you.
Mia.
I shall blame the sourness in my heart and the darkness in my mind and I shall blame the emptiness my chest and, the devil which you can find within my mind, I shall blame all on you.
Mia.
From the thickness of my bones, to the thinness of my skin, I shall blame it all on you. I will blame the emptiness I will blame everything I detest. From my stomach to my thighs to my neck and my lies, I cover it all up, but the real pain lies within, this is fight I will win, and there's nothing you can do, I will beat you Mia, I will beat you.
And there will come a day and I will look back and I'll say hooray, I will beat you. I'll beat you, Bulimia.