To Be Her

(TW: Mental illness, Eating disorder)

I blinked against the slender rays of light that slipped, uninvited, through my blinds. I was sitting up. I couldn’t remember if I had sat up intentionally, or if I had done so in my sleep. I pressed the frozen tips of my fingers against my cheekbones and sighed; I really didn’t want to get out of bed. Moving was exhausting…always so exhausting. But I had to go to school today; I had already skipped the past two days. I heard glass shatter downstairs and I glanced at the clock. It was seven in the morning, and she was already drinking.

I pushed myself out of bed, grabbed a sweatshirt off the floor, and pulled on a pair of jeans that I snagged off the green bean bag chair that had occupied the corner of my room for who knows how long. I looked down at the hair tie on my wrist. I had to put my hair up. I hadn’t washed it in a couple of days and just by running my hand through it I could tell it wasn’t going to cooperate with any other style I tried. But that meant I had to look in the mirror. I tapped my fingers against my clenched jaw, squeezing my eyes shut. I really didn’t want to go anywhere near that mirror. Or any mirror. But I didn’t have a choice. I kept my eyes closed. I felt my way to the bathroom attached to my room, dragging my fingers over the peeling wallpaper and the edge of the chipped porcelain sink. I heard more glass break. The living room was right over my bathroom. Muffled curses followed the sound. I had to hurry up so that I could go make sure my mom hadn’t accidentally, or maybe even purposely, slit open some major artery.

I took a ragged breath and forced myself to open my eyes. I had to stop myself from gagging when I saw my reflection. Was I imagining it, or had I really gained more weight? I immediately turned around and stepped onto the scale. It was digital, and I had done a tiring amount of research to make sure it was as accurate as possible. I had bought it for myself for my eighteenth birthday. I waited, holding my breath. 105. I quickly stepped backwards off the scale, turned, and slammed my fist down onto the counter.

“Shit…” I exhaled. That was two pounds more than yesterday. I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead and tried to use logic to calm myself down. I was only 5’2. The healthy weight for someone my size was anywhere from 113 to 138 pounds. When I met my gaze in the mirror the second time, I wasn’t alone. Well, technically, I was alone. Because logically I knew the bitch standing next to me wasn’t real — no one else could see her — but that didn’t make her presence any easier to deal with. She was opposite of me in every way. She had light blonde hair that curled delicately over her shoulders, bright blue eyes that made my stomach turn, and a tiny, fragile little body that I would kill for. My hair was dyed black, with lighter brown roots peeking through at the top of my head that matched my eyes. My body was…fat. Ugly. Undisciplined.

She smiled at me and waved. Her blue eyes shining. Her collar bones perfectly visible through her flawless pale skin.

“If you’re wondering,” she pointed at the scale, “That’s from that piece of toast that you thought wouldn’t matter yesterday morning.”

I ran my hand over my face, trying to stop my lips from trembling, “Can we not do this today, Ana? Please? My mother needs me.” I didn’t know why I felt the need to answer her, given that most of the time I knew she wasn’t real, but it was difficult not to. She always knew exactly what to say to make me feel guilty, ashamed, or jealous. She didn’t answer me, but she followed me out of the bathroom and down the stairs after I managed to secure my hair in a pony tail. That meant she would be with me for the rest of the day. That’s okay. I’ve gotten through plenty of days with her trailing me before, and I could do it again. Maybe then she would disappear for another week. Or forever.

I slammed my hand down on the kitchen counter to balance myself, I had one foot up, ready to step down onto a large shard of glass. “Bottle number one…” I mumbled, and stepped carefully over it.

Ana leaned down gracefully and ran her thin, bluish fingertips over the sharp edges; I knew what was coming next: “Why don’t you come back here and use this to cut some of that fucking fat off of your body?” She smiled up at me sweetly. I stuck my middle finger up in her direction and walked into the living room. Bottle number two was in pieces on top of the coffee table. Bottle number three, not yet broken, rested haphazardly between my mother’s pointer finger and thumb.

She looked up at me, and squinted, brushing back a strand of her brunette hair from her sweaty forehead. “Hey baby,” she cooed and then frowned, her eyes traveling up and down my body, “Have you lost more weight, honey?” The ‘lost’ came out sounding more like ‘loss,’ because she was already starting to slur her words. Ana snorted and shook her head. I ignored her.

“Just sick, mom.” My mother watched me as I cleaned up the glass pieces, but didn’t say another word. By the time I walked back in from cleaning up the glass in the kitchen she was asleep. I pulled the bottle from her hand and set it on the floor beside the couch before grabbing my book bag and shoes and heading out the front door. I leaned my ear against the screen for a few moments and listened to her snore.

~~

School went by slowly — as it always did.

I sat in the back of the classroom so that I could scroll through pro-ana and thinspo Tumblr feeds on my phone under my desk. The pictures made my fingers itch. What I would give to look like them. Their thighs were no where close to touching, their upper arms were almost as small as their wrists. The bruises that covered their skin made my mouth water. I wanted to look like that — so tiny that people were afraid to touch me because I might break. I rubbed my hand over my thigh, pinching the fat. I dug my nails in, frustrated that I had ever let myself gain so much weight in the first place.

Ana sat on the floor beside me, chattering over my teachers, making sure I couldn’t hear anything but her. She would occasionally comment on a picture I scrolled by, or encourage a diet tip or trick that was listed under one of the photos.

At lunch I stood in a bathroom stall and continued to research more about calories and restricting. Ana leaned against the stall door, smiling and nodding every time I glanced up at her. I started jogging in place as I saved certain pictures into my photo gallery to look at later.

~~

I made it to the last class of the day. I hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. I felt dizzy and sick, but proud. I sat in the back again, but I was feeling a little better about myself. I could have binged at lunch, but I didn’t.

That’s when the new girl walked in, just making it to the seat in front of mine a second before the bell rang. My lips parted a bit. She looked so similar to Ana that it was eerie; there were very few differences between the two of them. Her blonde hair was pin straight and shiny, instead of curly, her eyes were even bluer than Ana’s, and her spine was visible through the back of her tight white shirt. She smelled like almonds and vanilla. My pen slipped from my grip and I leaned over to grab it just as she turned sideways in her chair to look back at me. Her thighs didn’t touch. She was sitting down and her thighs didn’t touch. My hand hovered over my pen, frozen in place, and she bent down and grabbed it before I could force myself to move. I sat up quickly, and my face got hot.

She smiled at me and sat the pen gently on my desk before pointing to herself, “I’m Kodie,” Her voice was high and sweet; she pointed at me, my queue to respond.

I picked up my pen and nodded, “Tegan,” I cleared my throat, “My name is Tegan.”

And that was the only interaction we ever had. But Ana wouldn’t let me forget Kodie, and I dreamed about her tiny wrists as she dotted the ‘i’ in her name with a little heart. I couldn’t tell if I was obsessed with her, or if Ana was. But honestly…what would be the difference?

~~

I found it harder and harder to think about anything but Kodie and calories. It also became impossible to ignore Ana. She had taken to screaming into my ear the past two weeks. Tears ran down my face and I picked at a piece of dead skin on my lip while I stared down at a banana that I had cut into pieces so small that they were barely chewable. My hands shook. I was sitting on my bed with the plate in front of me. I had dragged the full length mirror out of my mom’s room, and it was positioned at the end of my bed.

I stared at myself. Ana sat behind me, her chin on my shoulder, and screamed. It was piercing and constant and I couldn’t hear anything else. My thoughts were scattered. Choppy. Short. I had no concept of time. And I had reached my breaking point. My mom was out for the night. Drinking with friends, again. I stood up on the bed and threw the plate against the wall as hard as I could. I couldn’t even hear it break over Ana’s screeching.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP?” I yelled back at her, clawing at my temples.

Ana stopped, she finally stopped screaming and relief poured through me. I sat back down on the bed and looked at her, defeated and ready to comply with whatever request she threw at me.

Ana moved to kneel in front of me, and leaned forward so that her face was just a couple of inches from mine, “Just. Be. Her.”

~~

For the next week I followed Kodie. I took pictures. I documented her habits: where she lived, where she went, who she went where with, and at what times. I didn’t think about what I was doing while I did it. I just let Ana tell me what to do.

Kodie loved coffee, and she always drank it black. She smoked Camel Filters and sprayed herself with warm vanilla perfume from Bath and Body Works after every cigarette. She preferred Coke over Pepsi, and she hated cats. It seemed like she always had at least one headphone in, and when she wasn’t paying attention, and her long sleeves rode up, you could see worm-like welts covering both of her wrists, like she had heated up the knife before she sliced into herself. I kept all of this information, and more, in a black and white composition notebook — just like the one she took everywhere with her.

I started buying cigarettes. I sat in front of the mirror while I drank bitter black coffee and practiced making my voice as high as hers. I bought new perfume, and refused to touch another Pepsi.

One day I followed Kodie to the mall and got really lucky. She left her notebook on the small seat in a dressing room. I went in after her to stand where she stood and found it. Kodie wrote poems about dying, and sketched pictures of dead trees and tombstones with her name written in perfect cursive across the faces. That’s how I learned her middle name was Nicole.

Kodie Nicole.

Kodie Nicole.

Kodie Nicole.

I practiced writing her name, over and over again. I kept her notebook and memorized every poem inside. I painted my nails white, the color she always kept hers. I started wearing eye shadow and reading Sylvia Plath. I copied every thing that I observed Kodie doing, wearing, or saying.

None of it was enough to satisfy Ana, “I told you to BE her, not to BE LIKE her.” The screaming started back up again. I crawled into my closet and buried my head in the dresses hanging up that I refused to wear until I was skinny enough to look right in them. Ana was right beside me in the dark. I cried and pulled at my hair and begged her to stop screaming, but she only got louder.

A couple of hours later I crawled out of my closet completely numb. I was worn out from crying, and a little chilly, but that was all I could feel. I stood up slowly and walked in front of the mirror. Ana stopped screaming; I barely noticed. She had won, and she knew it. She whispered what she wanted me to do in my ear.

I wandered into my mother’s room, she had bought a new surgical kit last week. It was on sale. I opened the plastic box she had put everything in: a suture set, four different pairs of scissors — which all looked only slightly different — a few scalpels, and a medical wound stapler. I picked up the stapler and Ana nodded her approval.

~~

Everything went sort of black for awhile after that. I only remember snippets of what happened next. I remember it was cold outside, and my car took forever to heat up. I remember nails digging into my wrists and face. I remember smashing a rock into Kodie’s head after I kicked her off of me. I remember how heavy she was for being so small. I remember listening to some lucky tenth caller win a gift card to Olive Garden for answering a question about where a movie quote originated from on the radio.

And then I was standing back in my room, and Kodie was duct tapped to my stupid bean bag chair. I didn’t remember doing that. I rubbed at my eyes. I didn’t remember a lot of things. I didn’t feel like I was even capable of trying to remember. All I could hear was Ana giving me explicit directions about what to do next.

Mascara tears had streaked down Kodie’s cheeks and dried there. I had her mouth taped shut too. She was unconscious, or dead. I didn’t bother checking. Ana sat cross-legged on my bed, and when she moved her hand, I moved mine. I was her puppet.

If I was real.

If I was me.

Just. Be. Her.

Ana tapped the tip of her nose with her pointer finger. I tapped mine.

Ana had a scalpel.

I had a scalpel.

I cut large pieces of skin off of my body. It stung, but besides that I barely felt it; I was simply copying Ana. I could only hear two things: Ana’s steady and determined voice, and the wet sound of skin as it fell and slapped against the hardwood floor. For every piece of skin I cut off of me, I cut a piece off of Kodie. Ana brought her hand to her stomach. I — a wonderfully dutiful little marionette — brought the piece of Kodie’s skin I was holding to my own stomach, and picked the medical stapler up off the bed.

My vision was dotted and blurry. Ana moved slowly now, and so did I.

I heard a noise. A different noise. It wasn’t a wet slap, or the medical staple, or my own breathing, or Ana’s voice or laughter.

It was a sharp inhale of air. I turned, dizzily.

Through the blackness that filled the edges of my vision I saw my mother drop to her knees, “My baby…oh god my baby girl…what have you done…” she hiccuped and grabbed the door frame, “My baby girl is…”

Ana and I held our fingers to our lips, shushing her. We spun in front of the mirror. Flecks of blood hit the reflective surface.

We looked at my mother, Ana and I, and we spoke at the same time,

“Your baby girl is finally perfect.”