prologue
it's been a long year


Emma Chota is six years old the very first time she compares her body to another girl's. They are in line outside of the cafeteria, ready to ample down the ramp back to their class rooms where they'll count to one hundred and finger paint skyscrapers until 3pm. She can't remember the conversation now, only the barest mention of a girl being a size 6 xs in clothing. She was a 7.

Emma did not want to be a 7.

Her fingers grasped the hem of her shirt. She frowned.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing, in this world like hating yourself. Like feeling like you are not enough and too much at the same exact time. Her fingertips found the skin of her slightly prodding belly that evening before her nightly bath. She stared at herself in the mirror for a long time.

It was the first, but not the last time she'd be disappointed with what she saw in her reflection.

This did not wane. As she grew older, it only grew stronger. She became more aware of herself, of her body. Too much, too much, too much; why was she so much? Her fingers grasped her hips, nails dug into skin, clothes scattered over the floor. She was thirteen the first time she cried in a pile of clothing that only made her feel ugly, that only made her feel fat.

Later, her therapist would tell her not to use that word.

Later, she would have a therapist.

Later, she would think constantly about food. About calories: 100 calories for this; 90 for that; 230 for this; how many is that all together? How many does your body burn again? How long will she have to run later to burn this off? How hungry she is. How much she wants to eat.

How much she doesn't.

There is an internal battle every second of every day.

Sometimes she stops, realizes that there are people out there who can't tell you how many calories are in a salad with cheese, turkey, and tomatoes (230). Who don't look at the calories on cereal boxes, on milk cartons, on every coffee. Bananas have 120 calories. It's not a lot based on a 1000 calorie diet, but it feels like too much.

It's too much.

Here is the thing about mental illness: there is no medicine to cure it. No surgery to remove it. You can't take a shot of morphine to stop it. So many people say "you are not your mental illness" but, aren't you? It is you. It is that part of your brain, whispering to you. Telling you, "you are not enough. You are too much." When you have a disorder of any kind, you are that person for the rest of your life. Once an alcoholic, you are always an alcoholic. The first time you bring a blade to your skin, you are labeling yourself: Cutter. The first time your finger finds the back of your throat: Bulimic.

Because it is more than illness, it is addiction. This becomes first instinct. Long after you've put the bottle down, long after you've buried the blade, long after you can look at yourself naked in the mirror.

Long after you've learned to be okay, you were first not okay.

Your brain never forgets that, your shaking palms will never forget that.

Emma is not okay.

How could she ever learn to forget that?