Oh, I gave blood yesterday and got so nauseous I had to go home. I had a huge breakfast, loads of fluids, and a snack before giving and a snack after. But as I got up and wondered around, I go nauseous and stayed that way until I slept from one to five.
I should be working on homework.
But all that's running through my mind is, well, running.
And writing.
Not homework writing.
Writing for me.
Writing for writing.
These thoughts aren't really new to me.
Pampering myself before worrying about homework and school.
They're the reason I stayed home many times last year and the year before.
And the year before.
They're the reason I've cut before.
They're the reason I find myself on my floor, ten or twenty crunches later, panting and wondering if I can do ten or twenty more.
They're thoughts caused from not eating enough.
Or having enough calories, but having felt hungry too long.
Feeling sickly and accomplished.
Having told two people all you want is a drink.
I keep telling myself I need to take it easy today, eat right and be semi-ok.
Because my legs hurt from weightlifting yesterday, because I gave blood yesterday.
There's this part of me, though, that says "Those skinny jeans will never fit right if you don't, and those will never fit again if you don't. Neither will that top. Or any of those."
I have too many clothes from when I was tiny and basically none for the me now.
I have too many clothes for the girl I wanna be. Not the girl I am.
So, I have something to rant and rave about.
This guy that J.P. saw as a brother broke up with his baby mama because she was throwing crap at him.
Fair enough of a reason.
But then J.P. was trying to make sure he was ok.
And he starts hitting on her and saying that he thinks she likes him.
I was standing right next to her as he was texting this stuff to her. Right in front of me.
What? Are not "really" a couple because we're the same sex?
It was like seriously, hit on girls your age, not my seventeen year old girlfriend.
It's not her fault that she was worried about your mental health and you saw it as a chance to tell her you want to date her and think she wants you.
I texted his best friend and asked him to ask him to stop.
Apparently he did because the other guy was just like "What? I can't joke with my friend now?"
Yeah, yeah, at least try to seem like you're joking around.
I'm gonna lose weight this month.
I don't know how much because I don't have a scale.
But I'm gonna get skinny.
I wanna look like that girl that my dad took a picture of about a year ago.
She was me. She was so different. And pretty. Kind of sickly looking, but she looked pretty.
How did I not see it when I was there?
Her cocky school picture, her smirk, like she knows more than I do.
Her black hair looked like it was a tad thinner than mine, but that may have been from her not knowing how to take care of hair that's dyed almost too much.
She's got the look of a demon, a trickster.
I know she's me, but it's so hard to believe.
Her hair's longer than mine.
It's teased and her eyes are thickly lined with black.
She has a look in her eyes that I pretend I don't know.
But I know it.
Hunger.
On the phone, she looks confused.
Why would anyone want her picture?
Especially her dad who accuses her of being anorexic?
She looks almost too skinny.
Not that she ever saw it.
Why did I ever give that up?
She's the kind of pretty I had always dreamed of being.
She's the kind of girl that I always thought I would love to be, would love to at least know.
She looks like she could be famous.
Her black hair, black eyeliner, and black skinny jeans make me think that she's mysterious.
But I know that girl.
Or I used to.
She was medicated.
She typically felt alone and worried.
She never saw herself as pretty.
She never saw herself as thin.
She simply didn't believe it when her friends told her how pretty she had gotten.
She hated eating.
The doctors told her she had anxiety problems.
They said she used cutting as a coping mechanism.
When she walked through the halls she wondered if she looked ok.
She ran for thirty minutes using the wii, but never thought it was doing anything.
She was one hundred and twenty-eight pounds and still wanted to be less.
I know I shouldn't want to, but I want to be that girl.
She looks so small.
She looks so young.
She looks less than fifteen.
I miss her almost flat stomach.
I miss fitting into a size three.
I miss staying up late exercising and feel great.
I miss when eating felt like a game, and I didn't have to partake, but sometimes it just tasted and smelled too good and I allowed myself a couple bites.
I miss that feeling of caffeine on an empty stomach.
I miss feeling like a feather, even sometimes.
Ruby-tuesday that is easier said than done these days, and all I can promise is that I will try.
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