Everything really kicked off about two years ago now.
What is Anorexia?
Not me, my elder sister. Don't worry, she's okay now. She got betterish.
Anorexia is a mental disease. I used to think it was just a word for when people were really skinny, but it's not. It's a condition in the process of insanity. An illness. It corrupts minds and tears apart families. And trust me, I know.
Two years ago she began to develop the symptoms. At first, I didn't know, though. My parents didn't tell me. She didn't tell me. I just carried on with my own life.
Then one day, my sister was out and my parents were downstairs. I was in my room, playing with my toys, because that's what I did then. I was just a child. That's when my phone started bleeping at me, and I received a text from my sister, telling me that my parents were clearing out her room, and I had to get some papers from under her bed that she didn't want them seeing.
I did what I was told. I always did. I was a good girl. So I crept into her room, feeling like a spy. It was exciting; a new game. I had to crawl across the floor, because it creaked horribly, and the kitchen where my parents were was directly below it. So I made my way over to the bed and crawled underneath it.
I spent about ten minutes looking for these 'papers', but I didn't know what I was really looking for, so I gave up and ran off. I didn't think anything of it after, and my sister never mentioned it. I think I must have forgotten about it for a while, but there was always that feeling at the back of my mind; the constant one; the one that never fades, even now: Is this normal?
Months passed and nothing much happened, but I knew that it was. That doesn't make sense. How to describe it? I knew that something was going on behind my back, but I didn't know what. I sensed it; whenever I walked out of a room quiet whispering began; whenever my family thought I was asleep, the hissed conversations began outside.
I couldn't understand it. The only time that I'd ever known secrets to be kept from me before was at Christmas, or my Birthday. Maybe I was getting a present? Or a treat? Something that I had always wished for.
At least that was what I told myself. In reality, though, I knew that it wasn't that. Something else was going on - something bad.
In the end, I snapped, and stopped feigning stupidity. The next time that my parents started talking as soon as I left the dining room, I quickly hurried back in and gave them both a strange look as I cleared the table.
That's when they told me.
It's your sister.
We think something's wrong.
No.
We know something's wrong.
It's called Anorexia.
It's an illness.
It's a disease.
Food.
Eating.
We have to help her.
So that's how it began. I'm not going to fully explain the concepts of the illness, because you can look it up somewhere else. Google it if you don't already know, but you probably do.
Imagine looking at yourself in the mirror, seeing your bones sticking out everywhere at odd angles, your skin stretched across them; imagine seeing yourself hollow; a skeleton. Bags under your eyes. Skin yellowed. Fingers long, skeletal. Then imagine not seeing it at all; imagine taking that image; that disgusting, sickening image, and seeing a fat person.
That's what Anorexia is. It messes with your brain and changes who you are. It's not right. I can't even convey to you how much I now despise it. I'm still a kid; I'm fourteen years old, but if there was anything that I could do to stop such a thing, I know that I would, whatever the cost.
My sister became my life. That's just how it was. I'd always had to give her a lot of attention, and expect little to myself, especially from my parents. She was the moody teenager, throwing temper tantrums and pretending that she knew everything. That should have been enough attention. But it wasn't.
I can remember how scared I was back then. I wanted to run away and hide. I thought she was going to collapse at any moment, and my parents didn't help.
She might feint.
Don't worry.
Call an ambulance.
Tell them what's wrong.
Anorexia.
Tell them.
Stay calm.
She could go to hospital.
Food forced into her.
I wanted it all to stop. I'd had enough. So I kept looking after her, devoting two years of my life to looking after her; to creeping up after tea to see if she'd made herself sick in the toilet. To see if her razor blades were lying all over the shower floor again.
This is Anorexia. Not a state of fat or thin. A monster.
That's not what I wanted to talk about in this post, though. Not my sister. Me. My parents. Me.
To cut it short, they think I'm copying my sister. They think I'm like her, and I honestly don't have a clue what to do. I've spent my whole life hating it, and now they think I have it? I'm scared. I want to run downstairs and stuff my face. But then they'll be waiting, expecting me to make myself sick.
I'm not like her. I won't be. I know I'm not. They're wrong. I eat normally; I see myself as a perfectly average size. Don't make me be like her, please.
Word Of The Day: Trapped.
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