The Voice

The snow falls heavily outside when I wake. I hadn’t realised it had gotten so cold outside. I’ve been living each day the same as the one before, struggling to get out of bed and not wanting to eat. The voice tells me not to.

My stomach growls at me, begging to feed it. No, I tell it, I can’t. I’m trying to fast and the voice will be mad if I do. The growl subsides for now but I know it will return eventually. I check my phone for the time: it’s past noon already. Before I know it, my stomach is being vocal again. It won’t be long before the pains set in. The voice tells me not to leave the bed where it’s safe, but I know I have to eat- I can’t stand the idea of pain today.

I use the majority of my strength just to pull my body form the bed. The first thing I see is the mirror.

“Look at you,” sneers the voice, “You’re so fat and disgusting. That collarbone doesn’t show as much as it needs to and your waist is the same as your hips.” I look on in disgust at what my family would be calling unhealthy. I look at my arms, which my parents would tell me I needed to ‘fatten up’. My arms, which are scarred from shoulder to wrist in all different directions. I try not to think about those scars and continue with my mission: retrieve fruit from the kitchen.

Each step feels like a hundred and then the stabbing pains start. Jab, jab, jab, they attack from every angle, aiming their attacks at my stomach and my chest.

“Alright, alright, I’m going!” I mutter but yet they continue regardless. I finally reach the kitchen and pick up a single apple, rinsing it and then skinning it, my frail fingers slipping off it every so often. I place the skin in a small bowl and begun slicing the skinned apple into as many small pieces as I can. Once again, my fingers slip but this time, the knife goes straight into them. Blood spills over the kitchen counter but I continue placing the apple chunks in the bowl, wash them and take them back to my room. I plaster up my fingers, making a mental note to pick up some more as I’m running out.

“For every three bites of apple you have, you must do six sit ups.” The voice whispers in my ear. “For every couple mouthfuls of the skin, you just do ten star jumps.” I nod, though there is no one else in the room. I begin with the skin as the calories are less and the workout is easier. I have little strength today. As I jump, the voice and I converse.

“Why do you care about how I look?” I ask, huffing.

“I just want to help you. You don’t like how you look, do you?” The voice replies. I shake my head and finally stop jumping to eat more apple skin. My stomach gurgles hungrily. “Well then,” continues the voice, “I’m just here to make sure you can start to look how you want to.” I nod and begin my exercise again.

“Do you help anyone else?” I pant. The voice seems thoughtful for a moment as it doesn’t speak but finally it does.

“I suppose you could say... I have friends who help others. They go by all sorts of names.” It is quiet again and all I can hear is the floorboards shaking from my jumping alongside my quivering breaths.

“Do you have a name?” I ask eventually.

“I suppose you can call me Ana... for now.” Ana says and then they are gone. They say no more as I continue to eat and jump in what feels like a never ending cycle. I’m too tired to eat the chunks and do sit ups so I simply get back in bed.

The voice or Ana, as they wanted me to call them, had been around for a long time, slowly getting more vocal as my both body and my resentment for my body, grew. Sometimes I wanted to eat what I wanted and just enjoy the food but they always stood by me, making sure I didn’t make a mistake, making sure I remembered the calories, making sure to remember the lies.

No, I’m not hungry. Oh, no, I ate before I came. Oh, yeah, I had a big breakfast. I’ve got dinner waiting at home.

Many more falsehoods were ingrained in my brain and it felt like they would never leave.

Some days, I would make a mistake. I would eat a lot and Ana would get angry, forcing me to work out or to purge the calories in other ways. It was often uncomfortable or painful but I needed to look the way I wanted.

Ana also introduced me to a new online community of people who were similar to me. I checked my phone daily to look at ‘thinspiration’ and to inform my followers of how many calories I had eaten that day. Many people were impressed and often asked for tips. I had little to say but tried to explain how Ana helped me.

Ana told me to stay away from accounts that promoted ‘recovery’. That wasn’t what I wanted, they told me. They would make me change and go back to how I was. Fat. Disgusting. Ugly. Insecure.

Yet, with each day, I don’t really feel any less of those things. Ana is mean and puts me down every day, multiple times a day. Ana doesn’t feel like my friend but they told me we were best friends and that they just wanted to help me.

I look into the mirror. I note the size of my thigh gap in comparison to an old photo taped in the corner of the looking glass; I acknowledge the resemblance my limbs have to sticks and rulers; I can see how hollow my face looks. It’s like...

It’s almost as if...

As though maybe I’m almost...

Like I’m almost pretty.

“That won’t last forever you know!” Ana startles me and I feel I can see a slight apparition in the mirror. “There are so many things I must teach you... you have to keep up your diet or you won’t reach the ultimate goal: pure beauty. You just remember that once in your hips is forever on your lips, and that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, and we can keep this going. Yes?”

I stare into the mirror at myself and then look at the old photo. I nod.

“Yes.” I respond. “I want to be pretty. I want to be beautiful.”

Ana tells me that’s good, keep telling myself that. Now come to the bathroom, they tell me. Let’s get rid of those nasty calories.

Then Ana tells me something.

They’re sending me a new friend. Their name is Mia, says Ana.

“You’re going to get on so nicely!” Ana says. “And you will finally, truly, become beautiful.”

And then everything goes black.

***

Author’s note: I would just like to say that if this story upset or disturbed you in any way, please talk to someone. It’s meant to not only show what a day in the life of someone struggling with an ED can be like, but also provoke conversation about something rarely spoken about since the format for many young girls is still to be slim and skinny. Pro-anorexia accounts are still floating around the internet as well as vent accounts. What must be said is that vent accounts are NOT the problem. They do not promote eating disorders but instead help others and themselves to vent and cope. Most are pro-recovery and could be helping to keep a mentally unwell person alive- do not report them.

Anyway, this story is written by a girl who actually has an undiagnosed eating disorder and it must be said that all people with eating disorders are different; I am not trying to spread false information, if this story doesn’t apply or relate entirely to you, it may relate to someone else. Skinny shouldn’t be the standard that young girls and boys are grasping to reach. Many people say that their goal weight is either something really unhealthy or death. It’s really important that the many different eating disorders stop being taboo and glorified in the media as it’s making people, mostly teenagers but other ages too, suicidal.

Finally, please. If you think you are struggling with an undiagnosed eating disorder, do find someone who doesn’t struggle with eating and to confide in them, someone you trust, someone who can help you; alternatively, speak to a doctor or therapist.

Thank you for reading.