Another girl's legs carry me down five flights of stairs. Her fingers push the coins into the vending machine. Another girl hides food in my sweater and walks my body back up five flights of stairs, into my bedroom and locks the door.
She puts the food in my mouth. I obediently chew and swallow. I am not hungry but I want the relief she is offering. She closes the curtains and takes my sweatpants off. The cool air of the room feels clean.
The razor slides across my legs. I want to see the blood drip down. I cut deeper than normal, almost too deep. The slight, pink razor suddenly weighs a thousand pounds. I set it on my desk and sit underneath the fluorescent light. Except it isn't blood dripping across my thighs. It's self-hate, anger, not-good-enough, it's calories, it's anxiety and tests. Tears are almost flowing now. I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth and cry. There is blood all over my hands. I try to hide it and the cuts the best I can and go to the bathroom to clean up. My roommate just went to bed but I can still hear her tv. The warm water burns. I wish I had rubbing alcohol. That would clean it better and hurt more.
Once the blood is gone, I take my cloth back to my room, lock the door again. I sit. The cuts burn, but my head is clear. Calm washes over me. I could go to bed. But I need to study.
I could go to the grocery store tomorrow, get more food to binge on. Since I am basically out. But I just want to hurt myself, it doesn't matter if I do it with food or with a blade. I know which one will make me fat. Maybe everything wouldn't be better if I was skinny. But it would definitely be worse if I was fat.
I plan on telling the doctor everything next week. I'm not scared of his reaction, that he won't believe me, that I'm not sick enough for help. (I'm not, as far as eating disorder diagnoses go). I'm scared he won't be able to help. That I'm not strong enough to help myself.
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