I didn't mean
to hurt anybody.
I just got
tired of being fat and feeling ashamed while I looked at myself in
the mirror--
jiggling my flabby thighs, pinching my loose stomach,
resting my hands on my hips then pulling them straight forward to
see their span for myself.
The solution
seemed simple enough,
and I wanted to prove to myself
that I could look like a supermodel, too.
It was hard
to ignore the twisting, stabbing pains
in my gut, but they went away after a couple of days.
Everything was going great after that.
I got to be really good at the Art of Food Manipulation.
Every plate looked like it had been eaten from.
I chewed phantom bites of steak if I could get away with it.
If not, then the handle of my toothbrush at the back
of my throat manipulated it back out for me.
Everything
went fine, until I started losing my hair
along with the pounds. That is when I first thought
something was wrong--to me, ninety-five pounds
on my five-foot-five frame was a victory, not a problem.
Now the doctors
tell me that I have to be really careful
when I am in a car, or walking around, or do anything
that might cause injury because there is nothing
to protect my insides from trauma.
They tell me
that I could have died.
But that doesn't scare me as much as it should, I guess.
I'm more scared of butter.
Do you know
how fat I'd get if I ate that?
1993-2001 by Regina M. Raab
This page created: 21 February 2000
This page last updated: 18 February 2001
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