To the voice inside my head,
I suppose you’ve always been there but your involvement changed throughout the years. When I was little you stood back in the shadows where you belonged, but occasionally you would walk into the sunlight and voice your opinion. At two years old you made me have two emotions, crying or laughing. No in-between. That’s when my parents decided, “If she’s not crying or breaking anything, let her be.”
At four years old as I was looking in the wall length mirror of the dance studio I attended, you told me my (perfectly healthy) tummy was too big and my (short, developing) legs shouldn’t touch when I put my feet together. At six years old you made me dread going to gymnastics because I was too fat to wear just a leotard. You told me that I would never amount to anything because I couldn’t properly do a cartwheel. You made me believe that the key to happiness and success was being able to do a cartwheel. At seven years old you made me write in my diary “...And I am DEFINITELY NOT skinny...”
At eight years old you told me I couldn’t wear a bikini to the beach because I might sit in a way that made my (perfectly normal) belly roll over itself. At nine years old you told me to I needed to watch what I ate because weighing 70 pounds was disgusting. At ten years old you made sure that I watched what I wore and told me I was too fat to be wearing shorts. At eleven years old you told me that I needed to be skinny and pretty to have friends. You told me I didn’t fit into either category. At twelve you told me if I just ran another mile and did more sit-ups I would be skinny and it would justify what I ate. At thirteen you told me I would be pretty when I could start wearing makeup. You promised me that beauty was based on what I could hide. When some stupid boy didn’t “love” me anymore you told me no one would ever love me. You made me hate myself and believe that he stopped loving me because I was stupid, annoying and fat. You told me the only way to ease the pain inside was to put it on the outside. You suggested I grab my hunting knife and carve a heart into my thigh. “But don’t forget, beauty is masking the flaws. Don’t tell anyone, Ashton.”
At fourteen I broke and I told the only person I thought might understand. You told me shortly after that it was a bad idea because now she probably thought I was a freak. You invited depression to your party, as if you weren’t mean enough. You hated me so much you put me through a stomach ulcer, something rather uncommon in someone my age. I turned to music as an outlet. The anger, sadness and disturbance of Marshal’s lyrics were where I hid you and depression. At fifteen you took over. You told me I was obese, worthless and a terrible person. You told me not to tell anyone. You told me the only way to lose weight was to stop eating and exercise all the time and I listened to you. You made me take my pocket knives and rip into my skin whenever I was feeling down, which was nearly all the time. You told me to engrave “FAT”, “FAIL”, and “WORTHLESS” into my legs so that I couldn’t forget what I was, as if you would have let me forget it regardless. For the millionth time you told me no one cared at all, no one loved me. You told me to kill myself, for I’d be doing everyone a favor. I believed you. At age fifteen and a half, I attempted suicide. Pills, alcohol and a cut here and there would take the pain away. My mother took me to the Lutheran Mental Health Unit for minors. I was inpatient for five days. Once I was admitted you took a leave of absence, leaving me to handle everything by myself. I was there and treated as a joke, my suicide attempt wasn’t “good enough” I didn’t need my stomach pumped or my wrists sewn up. At sixteen years old you weren’t the only one who had told me to kill myself. I had to eat now that my parents were watching my every move, so the only solution was to eat then excuse myself to the restroom so I could rid myself of the poison I’d filled myself with. You told me I had to shove my fingers down my throat after every meal to be beautiful. You told me it would be worth it. You told me that if I tore myself to pieces I could feel some relief. You convinced me 413 times that the razor was my only friend. At seventeen years old I found out who you were; borderline personality disorder. You lied. You stole my self-worth. You stole my happiness. But then something inside of me clicked; maybe it was Vic Fuentes promising me, “Darling You’ll Be Okay”, maybe it was the medicine fighting the war against you, maybe I didn’t want to be a disappointment to my baby sister Maddy Jo anymore, maybe it was divine intervention. I have no idea what it was, but I finally stood up to you. I threw you back into the shadows where you belong. Now and then I’ll hear you whisper, “No, stop don’t eat that, don’t you know how many calories that has?” or “You are worthless, no one wants you, killing yourself would benefit everyone.” It still hurts and I still have to fight you, but I win. You don’t control me anymore. I’ve beaten you every single day for the past year. I hate you more than anything and you’ve hurt me more than anyone else ever could, but I’m thankful for my time with you because you made me stronger. I am worth something. I am beautiful. I am happy.
