When Will it Ever be Enough?

113. 

One one three. 

That's all I see 

A number haunting me in my dreams. 

A piece of metal determining how worthy I am to be loved. 

I have to get that number down. 

So I drown, 

drown in tears.

Tears from hunger, 

tears from pain,

tears from comments,

tears from gain,

tears from distancing myself. 

From my parents; 

from my family,

from my friends

and school.

All so I can see the number go down. 

112. 

One one two. 

It's still not enough. 

When will it ever be enough? 

100. 

One zero zero. 

Finally, 

All it cost was weeks of my;

Happiness.

Hunger.

Health.

Tears. 

Love.

Joy.

Family. 

When will I realize, 

I've given too much? 

When will I learn that 

People like me for what I say and not what the scale says?

But how will I know if they love me if I’m not curvy?

I don’t feel worthy,

So I just keep hurting,

Because I have this longing 

To feel complete.

And how can I feel complete if that number says

117?

One one seven.

Oh my god I went up again. 

It’s too much. 

I feel gross, 

I feel useless. 

I feel fat, 

I feel foolish.

Help I say,

But it comes out a whisper.

No one can hear my screams,

Cause they’re all in my head,

Late at night in my bed.

I hate my weight.

And I wait and I wait.

I feel like there’s a weight on my shoulder from the weight I’m carrying knowing I hate the way that I see my weight. 

I suffocate, 

On air. 

Because I refuse to eat,

And when I do I count every single calorie. 

I’m in misery just trying to survive.

It’s eating me alive. 

One one five,

115. 

That’s progress,

Not a lot but I’ll take it I guess. 

I hate,

I hate her,

I hate the girl who I see when I look in the mirror.

She’s short and she’s gross, 

She could never be like those other girls who she sees on the street. 

My worst enemy is a scale and a mirror. 

I don’t know to be any clearer,

Sorry if I’m being a bummer.

I don’t think I’m addicted to numbers. 

But I go back to that scale again and again and again.

And it hurts my soul again and again and again. 

It’s slowly becoming out of control,

It’s taking a toll on my;

Happiness.

Hunger.

Health.

Tears. 

Love.

Joy.

Family. 

Just hang on a second and listen,

In the kitchen, I stand there- 

Waiting, contemplating.

Do I eat what I want or what I “should” 

Eat something healthy or eat something good? 

I hate but I still take the path that this is leading me.

I hate that a piece of machinery can make me see my body differently.

I hate the way society paints the unrealistic as the expectation. 

They’re throwing a bomb, ready for detonation.  

It’s ruining our generation and the entire nation.

Because how can we improve the future if we’re too busy “improving” our bodies. 

But the sad thing is I’m not the abnormality,

I’m essentially the 2 out of 3.

78% of girls are unhappy with their body by the time they’re seventeen. 

Unhappy in their own bones, skin, and heartbeat.

I want an hourglass, 

But I feel like I’m running out time, 

Am I running out of time? 

Is my whole life a lie, 

How do all these people just get by

When they see all these beautiful girls, 

Do they not feel dead inside? 

This should be my time to shine, 

But instead I just hide.

Why do I feel uncomfortable in the body I call mine? 

113,

One one three.

A number determining whether or not I’m happy,

People are always afraid of what they can’t see.

I’m afraid of what I can see.

I’m afraid of that little number standing under me.

Some people say I’m anorexic. 

But I don’t really care, 

Oh wait no I do. 

No I don’t! 

I don’t what to think,

I don’t know who to be.

I hate what I see, 

Or do I? 

My brain and my eyes keep lying to me. 

I hate how I whine,

I hate how I cry,

I hate how I throw my whole life to the side. 

And I have to decide what’s wrong or what’s right.

But I can’t decide, 

Because I was raised in a society full of lies. 

Where the impossible is presented as the perfect.

Where the normal is depicted as the defect. 

113, 

One one three. 

It’s still the same thing. 

Will it ever be enough?

It’s never going to be enough. 

When you look at weight stats, 

I’m under the average, 

but I feel above average. 

When I see all these beautiful girls 

All around, surrounding me in the street. 

It’s part of what caused my embarrassment to what I eat. 

I feel incomplete and obsolete. 

When my weight does increase,

My joy decreases, 

Appetite seizes, 

Life breaks into pieces.

It didn’t use to be this way, 

I used to be confident, 

I used to eat whatever I want, 

Not even a second thought. 

I used to not even not know what a scale was, 

A number was just a number instead of a life goal. 

A number was just a number instead of a being that takes total control. 

A being that controls of what I feel on the inside, 

And controls what I see on the outside. 

I felt complete

Until I saw the beautiful girls in magazines, 

Until I saw the endless hourglass bodies on the disney screen, 

Until I realized all the main characters in a movie were just so skinny. 

Until I only heard boys call girls that were underweight pretty. 

Until I was told I wasn’t good enough as is.

I miss my innocence as a kid. 

I miss when you would only judge someone if they haven’t seen Sophia the first, 

But even then it didn’t matter because you obviously didn’t think they were the worst. 

Half an hour later you’d be playing on the swings, 

Laughing and singing. 

I wish I was a kid, 

I miss being a kid. 

Everyone always sees the smiles, 

But they don’t realize it’s fake, 

They don’t realize I’m about to break. 

I don’t know how much longer of this I can take.  

I always say “I’m fine” 

Fun fact: that phrase is only the truth 14% of the time. 

I stand there on the scale, 

Afraid to look. 

“Did I go up again?” 

I’m blinded to the reality that I’m a beautiful human being. 

I’m blinded but I’m still seeing, but only seeing the parts of me that I hate. 

My bones, my skin, my weight. 

118. 

One, one, eight. 

I went up again,

I can’t believe I let myself do this. 

How could I be so foolish?  

But I was blind to see that it was only a few pounds, 

To me my life was still in the ground. 

My heart, soul, nowhere to be found. 

What’s that sound? It’s the pound of my stomach grumbling, 

My life is crumbling. 

I'm trying to climb this path but I just keep stumbling. 

Falling, 

Failing. 

Stumbling, 

Falling, 

Failing. 

Failing at what? 

Failing at losing weight?

Or failing to recognize and appreciate the beautiful person that I am? 

I want an hourglass, 

I want to be curvy.

All so that I can be worthy of confidence and pride. 

But is losing weight worth dying on the inside? 

I don’t think so but yet this is the trajectory that I am on.

In my mind I have an unrealistic imagery set in stone. 

Of what I want to look like. 

Of a number that I “need” to be.  

But as you can see this is not helping me. 

Not making me happy,

Not improving my personality. 

Because the truth is I’m beautiful, 

No matter what they say. 

I’m kind and confident, 

Despite what gets in the way. 

I’m learning to love myself, 

And I know it’ll be a long journey. 

But maybe if I can change the trajectory that I am on, 

I will be able to differentiate between right and wrong. 

I will be able to look in the mirror and not hate the girl that I see, 

Standing right in front of me. 

I can move away from the scale that I jailed myself into. 

I can walk away from the scale that I don’t belong to. 

I can look at a number without breaking into tears, 

I can let others help me, and reveal my greatest fear. 

My tears flowing and going like a storm, 

Beautiful and horrible but eventually the clouds and doubts move along, 

Soon enough the feelings I'm cursed with will be long gone. 

Though my route may be tough,

My path may be rough,

Soon I’ll be able to say: 

I.

Am.

Enough.