The year I got sick, I was told that I was just tired. I was told that school was just stressful, that working 20 hours a week was just too much for me, and that crying was an appropriate response, even when I did it every day, twice a day, added to my daily routine like eating breakfast or brushing my teeth.
The year I got sick, I was told I was just sad, that it wouldn't matter in a few weeks, that I would get over it, that I just needed to go for a walk after I had already walked for an hour to catch a bus and had to do it again on my way home.
The year I got sick, I was told that they were proud of me, that I was getting healthy, that I was finally going to be like the other girls, as if I had won the competition on weight loss and dropping three pants sizes in three months was my trophy to be held up and applauded and cherished.
The year I got sick, I lied, said the scratches on my arms were from my cat, from catching the loose nail on the railing, or falling off my bike. I didn't even own a bike.
The year I got sick, my mother bought me new skinny jeans, said I would finally look good in them, said that I didn't have to worry about buying plus sized clothes anymore, that I could finally wear normal clothes like a normal girl and didn't have to worry about being different. I didn't know how to be anything else.
The year I got sick, I was told that I was an inspiration, that if I could do it anyone could, that I should be proud of myself. How can you be proud of yourself when you don't even know who you are anymore?
The year I got sick, I wore so many different hats, if only to distract myself from the reality that I wasn't the same person I used to be. I wore baggy clothes to hide this body that I didn't understand anymore, to keep this body trapped inside, to keep myself in and everyone else out. I wore baggy clothes because that's all I had.
The year I got sick, I spent my time by myself. I did not play with my friends, I did not talk to my parents, I did not share myself with anyone. I acted like a lone statue, solid and unwavering. I acted to hide the scared, selfish child that I was, held my shield up and made myself a cave within my head, sealed the door and locked away all sense of self. Because it was better to feel nothing at all.
The year I got sick is not over, nor will it ever be. I tell myself it's done, that I won, that I have become better. But it still haunts me every day. In these eyes, in this skin, in those jeans, in these scars.
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