A Demise of Purity

A Story by Winwin4ever

A girl goes through a phase of clarity in the midst of losing her sanity in the reigns of an eating disorder. Tw for Ed.

The emptiness remains void to appease my ecstasy.

It is 2 in the afternoon. Time is making it’s presence through the incessant ticking of the regal clock, golden streaks of paint intermingling with the pink hue. It is abnormally loud, the rhythmic tick sounds against my ear drums and I wish it would pause.

Stop.

I almost laugh, stop, I briefly recollect yelling the word with charge on the putting green, as if I held authority. I wish I could pause time too. Allowing me to appreciate the falsity of solidarity. To embrace my self-imposed isolation and wallow in self-generated comfort.

The measured pulse of the clock does not sink within the background, it has become louder. Perhaps, my grandma going asinine in her age had put a double battery within the clock. Or maybe my unconsciousness is trying to get its subliminal message across.

It is 3 in the afternoon, and I have yet to remove myself from the comfort of my bed, my defensive bulwark. Perhaps it is me who is going asinine here, an inimical attachment to oblivion, floating within space. I had not ate lunch, but perhaps that was a given.

Given.

I am brought back to the terrors of Geometry. Of rows of statement and reasoning. Of my murky mind, hazy due to my paltry diet.

Neither had I consumed breakfast. I do not believe this is too far a stretch, quite common. Perhaps it was abnormal to have ate breakfast during those jejune years.

I had not consumed yesterday either, nor the day before. I do not believe this is aberrant, perhaps I am on a fasting diet.

Others scoff at that, “diet.” When I decline to practice the art of consumption, they remark on my thinness and how I must eat. Duh resonates with sarcasm in my mind, but fails to make its appearance within the eardrums of the person I am internally volleying with. I do not speak. I remain silent.

I am not incompetent, but my fat wishes to cling to my bones. Fleshy and soft.

I must not eat. I must not eat. It is like a mantra. The only way to preserve my lithe frame.

I had not ate for the previous ten days. I struggle to justify myself here. Perhaps one other will come to my aid. No one does. Not a shock.

Then I attempt.

Maybe I had come down with the flu and am facing a delayed recovery due to immunodeficiency. There. A sufficient amount of words. A collected statement, calm-headed and not worthy of misgivings.

The clock continues ticking, registering loudly in my mind. It is ceaseless. Like a younger sibling begging for a game of Patty Cake until you have no choice but to surrender or be subjected to the budding noise for eternity.

I force myself to exit my bed and get dressed, I have a doctors appointment to get to today. I wear my worn “Arctic Circle” hoodie and a pair of pink sweatpants. They are well-loved pieces. Soft and frayed. My mother would remark that I looked like a homeless hooligan. I peer out the window, a thick duvet of snow conceals the yellowing grass beneath. I grab my parka too.

I walk into the kitchen. A sacred place, of terror and love. A love for food, a terror of consumption.

I grab my canteen, a canary yellow, some parts flaxen. It is filled with iced tea. Freshly poured from the walter filtration pitcher. Extra ice is added, and the tea is green, not black. Unsweetened.

Then I chug it, hoping it may add some weight before my appointment.

When I undergo my annual physical, a necessity and requirement of my education, I smile with false confidence. Placing my tongue at the tip of my mouth and flashing my recently unbracketed teeth. My smile is not terse nor tense, it is perfectly natural.

I try to force relaxation into my body. I laugh shakily at the oxymoron. Force can never beget a state of relaxation.

I am measured for height, a mediocre 5’5, and my act continues. Making small talk on the weather with the pediatrician. I thank the gods, my birthday is in February, not July and I can remain bundled in my parka. Its heavy weight, a consolation that I would not get caught.

The pediatrician tells me to remove my jacket. A swift manner, taking no notice of the uprooting of my life. Perhaps the gods are against me, I decide. Or maybe there is no god.

I see no route to freedom, no way to escape. I am stuck between Scylla and Charybdis. Running or staying. This is a medical professional after all.

I step on the scale, 78 pounds. It does not phase me, I had weighed myself in solitary earlier. But she blinks twice. I watch her face for flickering emotion. First comes shock, but it flees after a moment, a resigned understanding sits. Eyebrows slightly furrowed.

She states in monotone, “This is an abnormal weight for your height, extremely underweight.”

I think I see an exit. She doesn’t care in reality, merely her job. I can wield this shield to my advantage. I quickly make up a false ailment I am unaffected by.

“I have hyperthyroidism.”

I feel a rosy tint light up in my cheeks, but it goes unnoticed. Nonetheless, I must switch my mindset. I am not lying this is a true affliction. Lying to others is easier if you lie to yourself, I had gathered through first-hand experience.

I am untruthful and dramatic. A liar at heart. I never used to be able to lie. Until my innocence was stolen by fear. Fear so great, I’d rather drop a plate of food, and enter a state of false upset, than to eat.

Thank god for masks, for other, my rosy cheeks will give me away. God. Never-mind, the thought is dismissed, I desecrate the presence of god mentally. No offense to the believers. God did not answer my call previously.

4th grader me filters through my mind in remembrance. When that pink flush gave me away. Who knocked over the teacher’s desk aquarium. Wet papers in clutter.

A pathetic liar I was.

My mind is in jumbles. The silence is thick and tense. She has not spoken, nor had I. I try to find something to say.

Then I piece together, “I moved from China last year, so you won’t find my records, but I was diagnosed.”

“Do you still get your periods?” Her brows are raised.

“Yes.” My accordance is not stammered. I am beginning to believe I am a compulsive liar. But I am not one, my lies hold purpose. I merely receive practice.

“Do you eat 3 meals a day?” She questions.

I feel as though I am being interrogated. Sitting in court as the felon of a great crime. Awaiting the jurisdiction, awaiting my execution.

“Yes, on a daily basis.” I answer again. Then I add, “I had just gotten over a bad case of the flu. Caught it at school.” Perhaps this will make my cover more believable.

“You should work with a dietician to gain some weight. Here’s a name card.” She speaks in an average voice, balanced and without a hint of disarray.

“Ok, I’ll work on it.” I agree. I almost cringe at my one word answers. By now, my mom may have struck me.

My false smile grows brighter. I take the name card, the lettering is in a faint cornflower blue. My fingers trace the edges of the card, but not hard enough to receive a paper cut.

I’m hiding behind a veil. A veil of shame. But my stance remains open, and my arms hang by my side even though I feel the temptation to fold them across my chest.

I have no intent to meet with a dietician. A wretched being set on obstructing my progress.

The previous light in her eyes dies down in understanding. A light out to get me. Catch the tiger by its toe. Never to peach on a fellow. A recognition of a wrongful assumption. Wrong thinking.

It goes against the nature of a doctor to not peach.

She apologizes. The regret is for assuming I had an eating disorder. She believes she wronged me. But it was me who wronged her with my dishonesty.

When I retire to the safety of my home. I crawl up the stairs and reside in my bedroom. I felt myself winded. Winded by a flight of stairs. Weak.

Perhaps I have lost. I remember that eerie video I had watched. A haunting dirge playing quietly.

“Winning is living!” Jumping with color.

If winning is living, we all lose in the end. So to win is no outcome. Perhaps it may be more fun to quit this life and begin a new life sooner than attempt to make ado with such.

I feel content. A euphoria unmeasured. Not truncated like all other. A joyous merriment in running my fingers along my bones and an unparalleled pulse. Mutual and consistent rhythm of calm heard as the clock ticks.

Now there is no doubt. I have lost, but is there any death as pure as in one of controlled action, of willful activity leading to a beautiful demise?

© 2021 Winwin4ever

Author's Note

This is why I write. I write to have written this, to relief from my cowardice, and perform catharsis. I have finally found the courage to develop this piece after sitting on it for 1 year.

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Julie McCarthy (juliesp..

Congratulations 🥳 in gaining a place in competition

Posted 2 Years Ago

Vertigo Cat1111

‘Now there is no doubt. I have lost, but is there any death as pure as in one of controlled action, of willful activity leading to a beautiful demise?‘
This is such a deeply beautiful line and I completely applaud you for gathering up the bravery to put this out into the world. I love the way you wrote this, a constantly misunderstood subject and made it matter as it always should. The detail and descriptions are absolutely haunting and gorgeous. I desperately want to read your poetry and work in a cafe, in a bookstore, it feels that classic and brilliant.

You keep on getting better each new piece you come out with and I’m just so excited to read more and see you get the recognition you deserve. Thank you again for being such a kind friend on this site, and I’m so grateful and can’t wait to read more of your work!