Insecurities.

Everyone has them. Everyone looks in the mirror and wishes they saw something different. Wishes they could look like someone else.

Hair too greasy, skin too pale, nose too big, eyes too close, stomach too fat, chest too small, lips too disproportionate, thighs too jiggly, arms too twig-like. Insecurities hang over our heads all throughout the day like a giant boulder. The more we see, and the more we wish it wasn't there, the heavier the rock gets.

Until finally you can't take it anymore and the weight falls. Only it doesn't crush you, oh no, that would be too painless. You'd die. That's it. No suffering, no pain, no misery.

Instead, it engulfs you in a sea of tears, tasting like blood and sadness and self-loathing. Electric shocks force themselves through your body until you're numb and you can't remember a single goddamn reason why you still want to be here.

You cry and sob and wail and after a while, you're done. You collect yourself and return to society like nothing has happened, and you wait in nerve wracking anticipation as the next boulder begins to form.

But that's it. It's the same cycle over and over again. Get up, critique yourself, blow it off, go through the day, break down, self loathe, calm down, wipe the tears, get over it, and keep going until the next day. You expect it at this point; expect the pain, the "unhealthy" thoughts, and the sour aftertaste. You expect it so much it hurts a little less each time.

That's all you have to go through. That's it. That little twenty five minute slot of pure depression and anxiety is all you have to get through before you see the other side and are back to your normal life.

Those twenty five minutes girls like me would kill for.

Although, whoever said those people like me weren't sick?

See, while you have to go through the momentary self-loathing before you wake up, we go through the same thing, only it's not temporary and we don't wake up. It's our reality. It's what we go through every second of the day.

Doctors being the obnoxious know it alls that they are, have diagnosed it. Body dysmorphic disorder. To anyone else it wouldn't mean anything. But to us, it just pisses us off. What do doctors know? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

Body Dysmorphic Disorder- a type of chronic mental illness in which you can't stop thinking about a flaw with your appearance — a flaw that is either minor or imagined. But to you, your appearance seems so shameful that you don't want to be seen by anyone. Body dysmorphic disorder has sometimes been called "imagined ugliness."

Imagined ugliness my ass. That's obsessing over a pimple or thinking your ears aren't even.

But people like me; people like me have real issues. People like me look in the mirror and see nothing but fat. People like me listen to everyone say how much weight they lost and see nothing but more fat. People like me sit down to eat and instead of seeing food, see fat and calories stacked up nice and neatly, ready to add more fat to your already fat body.

You could be a twig. Your ribs could be sticking out. You could have lost half your muscles and look like a skeleton with skin on it, and you'd still see nothing but fat. Because it's not pretending there's something wrong with you, or pretending you have a problem.

You do have a problem.

And the sick thing, the so supremely sick thing you're so ashamed of because if anyone ever found out they'd think you were a basket case and want you sent into an asylum and have a straight wrapped around as soon as they could, you have a problem but you don't wanna fix it.

You don't wanna fix it.

And yet, whoever said you weren't sick?

You could go to rehab. You could go in for treatment. You could go to support groups. But you don't. Why?

Because in treatment they're not going to force food down your throat against your will, no they're going to send you to dozens of therapists and psychiatrists to fix your mental unbalances. Fix you so you're not so unstable. Fix you so you don't see fat. Fix you so you want to eat.

But you even if you want to eat, you'll still know food has calories.

Food has fat.

Food makes you fat.

So although you know you have a problem and could potentially have it end up killing you, you don't care. You're not going in for treatment because you don't want to eat. You just wanna be skinny.

That's all you've ever really wanted.

Now, you're not stupid, you've heard the stories. You know it could kill you and you know how easily you can get addicted.

But honestly, do you think we give a shit? Yes, we could die. But we'd rather die than stay fat.

We tell people we're suicidal, that we've thought about killing ourselves. Do you think threatening us about dying is gonna make us stop? We don't just say it for attention.

In a way, we're almost hoping it will kill us. Because right now, we're living in hell. Pure hell. Having to walk around day after day, looking at the other girls and then looking at ourselves and feeling so ugly and disgusting, is like doing laps in a lake of fire.

We'd rather die than suffer through hell another day, because nothing could possibly be more painful than what we're going through right now.

We see the headlines, the news reports, the magazine articles. We know how easy it is to get addicted. How something as small as a diet can lead to excessive exercising, obsessive weighing ourselves, and endless calorie counting.

Isn't it just the slightest bit sick that we like those things? We like running and sweating and the intense burning in our abs after eating because we know we burned it off. We like going to the scale every twenty minutes to see our progress to see if we need to stop eating for the rest of the day or need to go run off the pound we gained. We like counting and adding the number of calories we eat each day so we know how long we need to work out to burn it off later.

These things are sick. The reasons we do the things we do are sick. Our whole life, and everything we do, every single thought that goes through our head, is sick.

But who ever said we weren't sick?

You starve. It's what you do. You binge. It's how you cope. You don't eat anything all day, and you're determined to keep it that way, because hungry equals skinny.

And skinny equals pretty.

But by six o'clock your stomach is growling and you can literally feel it eating itself alive. Your insides are fighting a cruel battle, one where both sides are destined to lose. So you give up.

Your animalistic instincts take over and next thing you know you're elbow deep in chocolate and chips and ice cream and sugar and fat and calories and you don't care because it tastes oh so good and the burning in your stomach is no longer eating you alive.

You feel at peace, you're not in pain, and the burning is gone.

Twenty minutes later, not so much.

Guilt sets in. Guilt and regret. Why did you do that? Why couldn't be strong? Why are you so weak? Why are you so fat? Fat. That one world is like a magical spell. Once it's said or thought, it's all a blur from there.

You're running till your lungs threaten to burst. You're doing crunches until your abs burn like there's no tomorrow. You're sweating and you feel like you can drown in it.

You're in severe pain, but you have only yourself to blame.

Why did you have to eat?

Who cares if you ate? Throw it up and it will all go away.

That one little voice in the back of your head pounds those words into your memory over and over; pushing you into something you're not ready for.

Should I throw up? I mean it'll help you become skinny, which is all you really have to live for, but do you really want to start a habit like that?

I can handle anorexia, but bulimia? That's never ending.

But you're fat. And you don't want to be fat. So you say screw it and after some difficulty and attempts, you are throwing up your lunch in a shitty girl's bathroom.

You get up, you fix your hair, and you pretend nothing happened. But it's hard, because you feel so much better. You feel skinnier, prettier.

And that's a good feeling.

It does become a habit and you ignore your friend's constant begging to get help, because you don't want help. You just want to stay pretty.

And you do.

It burns, there is no denying that. The ache and burn in the back of your throat is almost unbearable, but you like.

You always have been a bit masochistic.

You start cutting. Because hey, if you're going to destroy yourself you might as well do it thoroughly. You cut and the scars bore themselves into your skin like permanent reminders of your useless attempts at beauty.

You start smoking, aren't cigarettes supposed to make you skinny? You heard it somewhere. Health class, your mother, Cosmo? Hell you don't know, but it's worth a try right?

Your hair smells like smoke, and your teeth are yellow, but wasn't the vomit going to do that anyway?

You decide to add to the burning in your throat, because c'mon it's just not as much fun if you aren't suffering. The vodka and tequila sting, but it's okay. Because now you can eat and drink anything you fucking want, because all you gotta do is throw it up and the calories are gone.

You're falling apart. It's not hard to see, there is no point in arguing, because even you see it. You skin is pale, the circles under your eyes continuously get bigger, and your ribs stick out like a boner on a horny teenage boy during his first grope fest.

But you don't care. Because for once in your life there is no fat on your body. You feel like stopping, because you are skinny now. But yet, there are times where you still see fat and you stalk off to the bathroom.

Plus, just like everyone said, you're addicted. But you like it, so it's almost okay.

Almost.

You don't wanna die, because that was never the goal (sorta), plus who can envy your skinny body if you're dead?

But you don't wanna stop either. You'd miss the burning deep in the back of your throat. You'd miss the pretty skinniness your abdomen possesses. And you'd definitely miss being able to eat without feeling guilty and knowing you can just throw it up later.

But you won't stop. Because you can't. Even if you wanted to. Which you don't. And not because you're addicted, oh no, you're much too selfish for that.

You won't stop because you like it, and you're going to stay skinny if it kills you.

You like it too much to stop.

Even as you're lying in a hospital bed, practically dying. You can't really see anything, the whole room has become a blur. You can't make out distinctive noises, but you hear crying. Sobs, actually. Crying and screaming.

In a way, you kinda always knew you'd end up here. And you know you should probably be trying to breathe or restart your unmoving heart.

But you don't even bother, because seriously, who the hell cares anymore?

The noise continues. Constant wails and a beeping. A constant obnoxiously high pitched beeping. Then a huge electric shock courses through your body, jolting you from the cot underneath you. You fall back down and experience the same shocks again and again.

Then the beeping is gone. Well, almost. It turned into one long sound.

A flat line.

You see Beck, Andre, and Robbie all trying to hide their tears. Cat, Trina, and your parents are full out sobbing, and you could swear you see Jade wipe a tear.

And suddenly you're looking down on the world and your family is crying and the doctors are recording the time of death, but you can't help but smile.

Cat found you in the bathroom, lying unconscious in a pool of your own blood and vomit.

As disgusting as it might sound, you were always sick, what did they expect?

Because yes, you might have died.

But you died skinny.

And that's all that matters.

Whoever said you weren't sick?

Looks like Jade was right all along.

You are stupid.

But you're skinny, so it's okay.

You're crying family say otherwise.

But what do they know?

They were trying to make you fat.

Anyone like that is no friend of yours.

Besides, hungry equals skinny.

And skinny equals pretty.

And pretty equals happy.

A/N: Something dark I just in my free time I thought I'd post.

Please review!

-LoveLikeYou'reNotBroken