TW // disordered eating, purging

I was never someone who truly hated anything. Now don’t get me wrong, I felt passionate about a lot of different things but I never really hated anything. Except, about two years ago, I did begin to truly hate something, an inanimate materialist item of clothing; The tiny plaid skirt acted as a butterfly, a butterfly that flapped its wings and disrupted the state of the deterministic nonlinear system that was my freshman year, resulting in a catastrophic typhoon. So I did hate something, every ounce of intense negativity that word somehow has the power of holding now applied to the little black plaid skirt that for some reason, one I can’t explain, still sits in my closet today.

Forcing myself to get out of bed I saw my new outfit waiting for me, all folded from the night before. The white button up sweater lying neatly on top of my new plaid skirt. The black plaid was a tighter fit with a zipper going all the way up the back. I threw the white sweater on and began to put my plaid skirt on as well. Turning and dancing around I watched my reflection, very satisfied with my new purchase. The extra small skirt was tight against my stomach and I felt it as I walked away from the mirror. I ignored the feeling, excited about my new skirt and sure the feeling would pass before I knew it. 

Still, I felt it digging into my skin even three hours later walking to lunch. Still, I ignored it, and I momentarily forgot about the black plaid making an outline right above my belly button as I ate with the rest of my friends. About fifteen minutes later, my skin started to scream against the tight cloth suffocating my waist, shots of pain followed, echoing throughout my torso. I excused myself immediately. I ran to the nearest bathroom and locked myself in. God, I have never felt anything like this before. What the heck is going on? I unzipped my skin tight skirt and took a few deep breaths. 

Misty-eyed, I dialed my mom's number as fast as I could. My shaky hands held the phone to my ear as I prayed for her to pick up. “Hello?” Thank god. I gave her the rundown as quickly as I could, my favorite skirt was tight, I ate, favorite skirt no longer fits, I feel sick. “Well Arienna, I told you you’re not an extra small, unzip the skirt a little and deal! Don’t wear it again.” My mouth quivered as I pleaded for my mom’s sympathy, hoping she would remotely understand my fear and embarrassment. She did not and hung up before I could even argue. Mother of the year award. Now what do I do? I looked at myself in the mirror and watched the tears stream down my face, my eyes so wet I could see my own reflection in them. The rusty white toilet on the other side of the room dared me to pursue the only recurring solution I could think of. 

I walked over to the bathroom stall and hung myself over the gaping hole. My cheeks were hot and sticky as tears trickled down them, disrupting the unobstructed water my reflection haunted me in. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, tasting the salt from my distress. If I don’t look, maybe I won’t feel it. My index and middle finger shook as they began to slide down the back of my throat, my whole body shaking with them. My left hand now gripping the edge of the toilet seat as I pressed hard on the back of my tongue, wincing immediately after. Wow that hurt. My tongue screamed where my fingers had previously forced themselves, my lunch now visible in the water below. Standing, I zipped my skirt all the way up, wiped my tears, and flushed away the last two minutes. What have I done? I reassured myself that this was just a one time thing, a consequence of a bad decision, an outcome I wasn’t able to escape and not the start of a pattern. 

Soon after, the blurring winter days became full of tears and self criticism. Food acted as a constant trigger for self harm when the muffin I ate for breakfast wasn’t sitting right or the crop top I was wearing was a little tighter than when I originally bought it. A pattern entangled so intricately into my life, roots began to grow deep into the soil of my freshman year, roots that I made the mistake of watering. I watered them everytime I walked out of the bathroom with a small sense of satisfaction hidden among my dried tears and vibrant red eyes. 

Sobbing on the bathroom floor at 2am, the fire constantly burning in the back of my throat, and the unignorable bruise on my tongue were all worth it. Even two years later the skirt that I claim to hate, the butterfly to my typhoon, sits in my closet, daring me to wear it, haunting me in my dresser and reminding me of everything I am not. Still, I leave it there, an untouched memory, because a part of me, a very small part, is anticipatedly waiting for the day that it fits. 

Those roots I once watered are now rotting in soil they don’t belong in. However, even though they're dead, their presence is still known. A pattern that I once relied on lying among them, too complicated to untangle, forever embedded within me.