I remember how it started, when we tied our arms together with searing hot chains. I was upset because of a binge and you asked me how I was doing. Initially, I gave the canned response that normally just floats out of every one of us - Fine. But then, I took it back. You know what? No. I'm not fucking fine. I just binged and I couldn't get rid of it and I'm fucking fat. The real details of the conversation are fuzzy, but I remember you saying, I'm not the best one to talk about this, all right? And it clicked for me. All the evidence was there, splayed out in front of me, and I never really connected the dots.
You gave me laxatives. I taught you the wonders of purging. We shrank, binged, grew, purged, cut, cried, screamed, froze, chipped away at our sanity bit by bit. Curled into ourselves and our microcosm of melancholy. We were simultaneously hungry for sustenance and emptiness. You were always stronger than me. You ran longer, cut deeper, restricted more, shrank further. I'd be a liar if I said I didn't harbor any jealousy for you. It's a sick sort of jealous admiration. Then when you flipped 180 degrees and started getting better... It was the same thing. I was buried up to my chest and you were freeing yourself. I remember seeing you for the first time since you had really started to recover, when things were beginning to look brighter. You were always beautiful in a sadbrokengirl sort of way, but this was just... Radiance. I hadn't seen a smile like that on you before in quite some time.
Sad and sick as it is to say, I miss when we would huddle together in your room and confess. But I like the healthy you much more. You never deserved that madness and hurt. I hope you stay happy. I love you.
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