The tile pressed against my bare skin as I let the warm water rush down my face, my back, my shins. My arms tightly wrapped around my legs. My eyes shut. The water droplets running down my cheeks feel like tears. I open my eyes and watch the water fall off my hands, to the tile, and down the drain. I think about adding up what I have consumed today, but it doesn’t matter. It’s less than 200 calories, and I ran that off. I think about how mad my parents would be if they realized all this time they didn’t know what was going on. Water rushes off the copper ends of my hair. I’ve barely eaten in three days, and I know I am in trouble. I am not phased. I care about one thing only: losing all this weight.

Things stopped being fun. All the things. Nothing seems remotely exciting; everything is hazy and I cannot see anything through this thick grey fog. Water droplets continue to dive off my pale skin. Time is going to keep going. March is going to arrive and I am only a week away of not eating before I am in the same place. The epitome of failure, any way I look at it.

I got really sick on Christmas and never really recovered. I was down and out and cannot seem to make it back out to see even a single ray of sunshine. My body failed me when I was trying really hard to be healthy and a wave of depression is drowning me.

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