Sleeping Beauty.

I remember back when the eating disorders were a big problem (well they still are, but when others still knew about them.) I remember people always talking, talking, talking to me and none of it ever, ever,ever sinking in. Always it was about the same thing "Joy, please eat." "Joy, please don't throw up your food" "Joy, please jump through a million flaming hoops and dance with a clapping seal."

I hated talking to anyone back then. I hated the looks of pity they gave my parents, because they had such a difficult child. I hated when they asked me how I was doing when they knew perfectly freaking well how I was doing. I hated when the doctors asked me questions......

"Why do you think that Joy?"

"Why do you not love your parents?" (for the record I did/do love my parent's, I just didn't love how they couldn't understand me.)

"Why, why why?"

All the time they asked me their questions. I finally got so good at knowing what they wanted to hear that it became sort of an automatic thing..... Everything I said to them was always a lie and we all knew it. But I did whatever it took to make them feel like I was getting better.

What they didn't know couldn't hurt them right? Well if that's true then its probably good that they didn't know anything, because it would have killed them.

They didn't know that every night I dreamed of what it would be like to slice open my Joy -skin bag and step out and finally fly

They didn't know that I looked in the mirror and still hated what I saw, even at 85 lbs at 5' 10".

They didn't know that I took too many pills, slept through too many classes, and was still too tired.

They didn't know anything, so nothing could hurt them.

The girls at my school claimed to hate me because I was fat, but even when I was a tiny, breakable doll it seemed to make them hate me more.

I remember all their words, like spitfire, being hurled at me. I didn't know what I could have possibly done to make them hate me this much. Maybe it was because I was different? Maybe it was because I was new? Maybe it was what everyone else told me and they hated me because I was prettier then them?

Whatever it was, all I knew is that it made me want to die. Whoever made up that saying "sticks and stones could break my bones, but words could never hurt me" well they were wrong. Words could hurt me, words could hurt me more then anything. Words could cut deeply when they wanted to. Words could dig their barbs deep into your skin and stab straight into your soul.

Anyways, after all the counseling and the magic pills and the wonderful, wonderful magical incantations, I was finally deemed healthy and sane enough to go out into the world and lead a normal life.
BIG mistake. As soon as I got out, I went straight back to my old ways. And sure, I kept up the facade telling my parents I wasn't hungry or that my stomach hurt or that I caught a flu bug, that's why I had thrown up.
It was all a lie though. I hated doing this to them, I hated making them cry or making them worry, but at the same time, I loved it. I loved the fear behind their eyes, I loved the whispering to the doctors. The sound of "Are you sure? Are you sure she's ok?"

I hated myself though, I wanted to lock myself in a glassbox, like Sleeping Beauty and sleep for a thousand years until all the people who knew were the key was hidden would be dead and I would finally be able to get some sleep.

"Sticks and stones could break her bones, but words could make her starve herself to death"