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Janeene’s Journal.

Day one,
I can’t believe I am doing this because some girls called me fat today at school. I mean I have never really understood why appearance is everything to my high school peers. I guess it’s something to be said about this snivelling piece of society I am caught in, but that’s another story. Recording this will probably be easier then actually taken on this task, but I don’t care. So, sprawled across the cool tile floor, my face is covered in disgust of what I have to go through. Perfection seems to come at a very high price these days and I guess I am just another girl who has fallen subject to the plastic manikins in the store windows. I guess my friends were right about an eating disorder being a slower form of suicide.

Day 4,
My throat hurts and I am loosing a appetite for more then food. I am starting to see such beauty in pointy hip bones and such glamour shown from collar bones as well. I love how my wrists look like they are about to snap in half. I guess I was never that fat to begin with but there is always room for improvement isn’t there? Right? Right. But when I look in the mirror I still am fat faced and hideous waiting for her next stomach flu to come so I can reach my next goal weight. I was supposed to be beautiful, every part stunning, now I am thin haired and hideous.
Fat faced and hideous.

Week 1 and a half, Day 9,
Something is soothing about the cold on my face again. The chilling porcelain bowl beneath my face is full of my guilt. Gross. I roll over and lay down again. But I guess this beats the fiery glances I get from all the other girls at school. It’s like they know... know my secret; I didn’t think that this was going to work so well. They're just jealous that I look better than them. But if they knew what I was doing through they wouldn’t be so jealous. With cheek bones sticking out and skin pulled tight like plastic wrap I somehow am feeling tortured by my appearance. This indentured servitude to gagging myself empty is choking more then my throat, hurting more then my memories. I just want to be pretty, photocopied; gorgeous, is that too much to ask? Everything looks easier from the looking glass I guess. I bet if those girls knew why I wear clothes so loose that I look like I could get sucked into them they’d be scared for me just like I am for myself. No one knows. No one knows... that secretly I am hiding myself from the world because it is embarrassing what is truly underneath of these mammoth clothes. If only they knew though, that I am being enveloped by more then just oversized clothing. I know this is wrong, trust me I know all too well considering this wouldn’t be the first time, but it will be better if I do this anyways. I have to tell myself this, maybe to keep that last part to myself the part I used to understand and maybe just maybe… the last bits of my sanity intact. Gorging and purging should be something a little child in Africa does, not me. But it doesn't matter after all that my waist line is a dying fashion, or should be soon. No matter how many times I try to tear the seams of my head’s ideas apart, they are still stuck together in a body that has made my nightmares a reality,
Every mirror draped, Every reflection broken,
Every inch gone, maybe my integrity will soon follow if it is not already disappeared as well, for in this last inch my freedom is attained.

Week 2, Day 14,
The lights cast shadows of what isn’t there anymore. The room’s walls are bigger then I remembered. Everything won’t stop spinning and it’s odd that I get dizzy so easy now. The girls on TV make everything look so easy, like being this abnormally thin is alright. I only wish I knew better. I only wish I knew what beautiful was. I only wish that I knew how to stop this reckless weight lose path. Why can’t I seem to remember the skinny in disguise as a fat girl, have the tables have turned for the worst now? I remember when there used to be something reassuring about coming home and knowing that I could eat something. Now I just want to throw up at even the sight of people eating on TV. It’s hard to think that I used to eat things like fruit or pizza. Now I am starting to worry about how many calories a glass of water contains. Stupid, stupid, stupid.


Week 2 and a half, Day 19
I can’t stand this sight of myself anymore and I have stopped losing weight. I wish I could get my body to listen to my wishes. My wishes are coming at too high of a cost now for my pity change to cover. I wish I could be me but I don’t think sitting in the tub slipping bone chilling metal through and across my skin is going to make matters better, but oh, how it feels amazing. Watching the plastic wrap stretch and become something human again is simply refreshing. I never knew something as remedial as slitting your skin could feel so intoxicating. I watch as the dripping redemption crawls from my veins and flows into formulated crystal-like patterns across my saran wrap arms. Slit after slit into the pulled tight skin, now loosening. I can’t feel my disappearing thighs anymore but that means that things are getting better. Pooling at the edge of my feet my DNA is trying to run away from me, but who wouldn’t now? My anatomy is made up of no heart anymore, no brain, no defined skeletal structure either, just nothingness. That doesn’t matter to me though, for in these actions...
I can feel free.

Month 1 day... I lost count.
Imprisoned I lay screaming in my own head so no will hear my agony. Nothing has made me feel as alien as the feeling of her skinless body. Well there is skin but there isn’t any to pull at, primp or preen. Not one ounce of fat to be seen but it is all hidden underneath. Some days I wish I could leave this book somewhere with a return address. Maybe a friend’s book bag or a desk in a class room, but would they help, could they? I have left the signs behind and stopped bothering to bandage the embarrassment that makes up my wrist, ankles and thighs. Still no one talks to me, no one cares or at least not enough to do something about me. Am I easier to be dealt with in silence? Is that all I have become, a silhouette of a girl everyone used to know, or am I even there anymore? It’s just me in this world, just me fighting against… It is myself isn’t it? Sigh…I can’t recall the reasoning behind this anymore, but it’s like something in the back of my head is telling me not too. Something is keeping me from being ordinary again. I am a robot, every feeling I feel now has been programmed by my society I live in, and nothing is real anymore. Cellulite hangs from my every vile and distasteful limb, even though I can’t see it, I know it’s still there hiding waiting to be torn out like my will to live. I must be flawless...
Imperfectly, flawless. Even though I have forgotten the sweet taste of freedom and gentle feeling of sanity’s grasp, held in the self vendetta,
I feel imperfectly flawless in this self mutilated perfection.