Don't You Ever Ever Feel Like You're Less Than Fucking Perfect

87. 87 is dangerland. 87 is parties and laughs and hugs and kisses. 87 is too real it scares me. Yet, 87 is what it is. And it doesn't seem to go away. 87 is beauty. 87 is strength. 87 is weakness. 87 is freedom. 87 is respect. 87 is everything there is. Is 87 happiness? I hear voices in my head. "It is not worth it." They say. I hear others. "It's what you want." Is it? Is it really? Because it comes a point where I really don't know. It is just the space between my bones and my skin. I'm wrapped up in a porcelain frame. 87 is dangerous. It doesn't seem to go up but it goes down. 87 is good. Not perfect, but good. I raised a glass of shallow water. I drank it. I felt how the water slowly fell of my jaw. It feels watery and flavourless. Water has been my companion for ten months now. Ten months and I've managed to survive. I must be really lucky. Or really unlucky.

I got outside my door. The living room is empty. The kitchen is empty. Jelly's room is empty. There's no one home. So I lock myself in the bathroom. Like I have done many times before. I stare at myself in the mirror and I do the unthinkable. I lift up my shirt and take off my pants. I had to buy new ones so they would fit. The others, they don't understand, hell, I don't think I understand. I leaned towards the mirror and I look, like really look. I look at my face, at my chest, at my stomach, at my thighs, at everything that forms me. And I wonder, do I like it? I love my face. It's the face of an angel. The face a million girls would die for. I stare at my chest. It's not flat, but I could do better. You can see my ribs sticking out and bones marked were my breasts should be. I dare to go lower. My stomach is shrinking on itself, ready to make my throw up if I let it. I never imagined myself like this, then again, I never did I not imagined myself like this either. I finally look down, to all that there is and all that's been holding me up. I look for something to lean on, but all I see are two sticks holding me. Two long and skinny sticks that feel like they might give up any second. It's as if though I'm a ghost. It feels like I'm floating. Am I?

I stare down at the toilet. I feel like I'm about to lose it. I sit down. I can't. It's not right. It never has been. I lean on the wall and slowly let myself fall. I sit. I pressed my legs against my chest. I need to tell someone. I really do. It's eating me. How do you want to die? From the outside-in or from the inside-out? But no one will understand. No one can really feel what I'm feeling. No one can know what I'm really thinking. No one will understand no matter how hard they try. So who to tell? I tried before, I told Dimitri, but he didn't get it. He didn't understand. He didn't tell me exactly what I wanted to hear. What is it that I want to hear? Soda laid out all kinds of sentences. Sentences and words. They don't mean much. Do they mean anything at all? I start breathing heavily. My heart is pounding fast. I can feel each heart beat pressing up against my chest. One breath at a time. I sniff quietly.

The first time they found out... Dimmy told me to talk about. "Kitty, you don't have to hold it together every minute of every day." Hmm. Yeah, I do. I really do. Because if I don't, I lose control, and for a girl me, a girl that has to put up with this shit every minute of every day, losing control leads to dangerland. I feel like crying again. Lately, that seems to be the only thing I ever do. Cry and cry and cry some more. What happened to me? I've cried more this past year than I had in the past six or so years. I really just needed to talk to someone. So I grabbed my phone and searched through the contact list. Only one person knows how I'm feeling. I called Sandy. "Hey." I said as she picked up. "What wrong?" She asked. I can't even begin to wonder how my voice sounded that she of all peopled noticed. "I need to talk to you." I said. When I hung up, I stood up and I put my clothes and as I did my mind kept wondering.

I am that girl. The girl that people watch go by. The girl that the boys just stare at the pretty face because there's nothing more to stare at. The girl that the other girls talk to. "Tell us your secret." They say. Hmm. As if this was something to be excited about. A couple of days ago a little girl came to me. A freshman. Boy are they naive. She asked me how do I do it? How did I get so skinny? Because she'd been trying. And she couldn't get herself to be pretty. Did she really think I did this on purpose? Did she really think I wanted it? I've always loved myself. I've always loved the way I look. It all stared July. 110, tall and perfect. Then I made the mistake or running away. And that month, I lost ten. And then, it just didn't seem to stop. I had made my body used to it, so that it would ask for less and less. Then a 100 turned into 90 and 90 turned into the magical number 87. Dangerland. Ten months, over the course of ten months I lost 23. Great. So when I looked at the little girl and I saw her a flash of guilt rushed through my skin. She was startled by my figured. Impressed with my body and style. Her eyes were glowing as she waited for me to answer her, as if I was her fairy godmother and I could give her everything she ever wanted. So I answered. "Piece of advice kid, you're beautiful. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And you, you don't want this." And I turned around and left. Truth is, that little girl hadn't been the first, and unfortunately not the last either. Do they think I really wanted this? Do they want it so badly? Fine, they can take it, 'cause I'm so done with it. So sick of it.

So when I heard about Sandy, about the official diagnosis and the fact that she was locked up I thought I knew what to do. I drove there and when I rushed to her room, I packed her things and told her we where making a run for it. Just a small one. Driving had always calmed me. Sometimes when I was really upset about something I would take the truck for a drive in the middle of the night. Just around the north side. "Where are we going?" I did not think this through. I shrugged without looking at Sandy. "Where do you want to?" She shrugged too so I just kept on going. I didn't realize we had left Tulsa until we saw small villages around us. I didn't want to go back so I just kept driving. The clock marked 11:34 and I could hardly see straight. "I think we should go back." I nodded. Unfortunately I thought so too. But when I turned around there was a nasty sound coming from the engine. Ugh. That didn't sound good. I was pushing hard on the accelerator but I was only barely moving. So I pulled up to the side and inside the forest. I guess we shall call it a night and set up camp or something.

It's not a good thing when your car brakes down in the middle of fucking no where. "We can't just stay here! What are we gonna do?" Sandy asked. "Well, it's not like there's some kind of hotel nearby. We stay here until I fix this." "Yeah? And how are you gonna fix it?" "It can't be that hard to fix a car. Soda does it." Suddenly I wish I had listened to my brother when he tried and failed to explain me mechanics. So after an hour of calming hormonal Sandy -.- and setting up our little improvised camp, I took a look at the engine. So I pulled some stuff here and cleaned some stuff there and yeah. "How is it?" Sandy asked. "I got no effing clue." "What?" She asked. "You've been doing this for over half an hour." "Yeah well, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing." I snapped, leaning against the hood with my greasy hands over my head. "Sometimes I don't know what the fuck I'm doing." Sandy took a deep breath and closed the hood of the car. She took my arm and dragged me to sit by the fire she had set up. "I really think you should talk about it. About whatever that's bothering you."