Too bad lips don’t come with a padlock in reality..

The comments never help. Despite on which side of the spectrum they are, the words only make the Voice that much more eager to drain me of absolutely everything. No matter what, they never sway the Voice. First, there is the famous, “Oh my, Candace, dear, you look like a science display. Your collar and chest bones look like they about to burst through your skin,” which only leads me(or excuse me, “the Voice”) to point out mentally that perhaps it looks that way, but the extra bit of skin not touching the bone in my upper arm is still there and my stomach isn’t as flat as usual. The next few days are always then comprised of my agonizing over myself in the mirror, taking a various assortment of drugs that promise to “get rid of the bloat caused by digestion issues”, making sure to stick well below my allotted calories for the day, and then feeling so guilty and selfish that I only fall deeper into the pit. On the other extreme, there is the rather lovely “Girl, what I would do for a body like that! And that gorgeous red, ringlet hair! Have you ever considered modeling? You are perfectly petite, I bet every guy is lining up at your door,” while I make a haggard dash to the store while in my sweats and too-big jacket selecting a piece of fruit that I will never eat, and my jacket sneaks up and reveals the carving of my ribs beneath my tank top to the ignorant onlooker. Immediately, I will then be thrust into a whirlwind of thoughts:

“She must think I’m fat. She’s probably just trying to sound nice since I caught her staring. My hair is all frizzy; haven’t washed it in two days. No guys at my door, I’m probably not thin enough. If I look like this, how do I expect I’m ever going to get married? I don’t even really want to get married. I hate people. But I cannot disappoint my parents. Pop wanted to have the first dance. OH MY GOD, what if the calories in this fruit are being absorbed through my skin.”

This is the first thought I am presented with this morning. That, and how utterly gross I feel. Today, I set myself the goal of looking in the mirror at my body-no makeup, clothes, etc.-and seeing what is REALLY there, the sick girl in the pictures. Inevitably, it was a succession of back and forth comments:

“Wow, I never knew you had that many bones in your chest..”

“Geez, look at your stomach. It may be flat but it could certainly be smaller. We can make it better. We can make you happy.”

I remember the exact moment that my “healthy diet” turned into my own personal famine. I was reading my favorite series of the time, “A Great and Terrible Beauty.” The books are set back in the late 17^th/18^th century which, of course, is notorious for the prodigious deal of emphasis in regards to females and their bodies. I have always been fascinated with this time period, so naturally a riveting tale of gorgeous young women donning elegant lace gowns and the all-famous corsets would be my focal point of sheer interest. Anyhow, there was a line in the book that, to some extent, talked about what the “perfect, most acceptable, and lady-like” waist size would be. “Eighteen inches.” Two words were all it took for the Voice to finally have full control. I recall it as if it was yesterday; dropping the book on my bed, running to find my tape measure inside my sewing kit, and searching for hours upon hours for the perfect exercise plan (additional to my current regimen) to accompany my new “diet.” That was my goal and by no means would I ever be good enough until I got there. Well, Candace, you got there—but it was never good enough.

Perhaps if I hated to read, I would not be dead right now. Thank you educational system, magazines, school projects, America’s Next Top Model, my past, genetics, and various other things along with my obsessive/perfectionist self. Thanks a lot.

~ by candyshele1204 on March 25, 2012.