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Sia Jane Jan 2014
Diagnosis: Anorexia Nervosa
Status: Recovered.

So my point in writing... am I doing this for myself? Maybe... or to inspire others? Maybe...
Or to simply just show and say, that I am through this. Through what? Through all that growth that you encounter when you truly engage yourself in recovery.
This does not mean I will not grow further, learn more. Develop and engage. It doesn’t mean I have been able to shut the door once and for all on my mental health struggles (I was trying to be as politically correct towards myself using that term).
It means, I trust, I believe, and not naively, that I have done the hard work.
I have stepped outside of the mirror.
I no longer believe I can only live half way, a half life, between sickness and wellness.
It means, I know, I will never, get sick again.
Many may laugh, or shake their heads at that. And yet, what I am writing here is filled with so much faith and trust, that I can be sure of myself. Even if no one else in the world believes it, I do. And I know it, because I have made a choice.
There were some backwards and forwards, to relapses and re-growths, but each and every fall, I chose to learn. I chose to take to therapy. I chose.
I choose life.  And so that means, the commitment to life, to myself, that I will always take the route that leads to more life, or to more hope...


And so getting well. What happened there? Well, after years of self abuse, of anger turned inwards, after trying to destroy myself in every single way possible... I wondered, inquisitively, what would happen if I used all I had learnt in hospital, all the positive energy directed at me, the words my therapist would say to me... I wondered, what if?
That if, turned out to be the most amazing curiosity. It is why I am safe, well, “recovered.” I don’t use the term recovered lightly. I recognise that my whole life will mean being mindful, it will mean self awareness, it will mean vulnerability. But what I am certain of, is that each year that passes, I grow and gain strength in ways I never realised I could.
I use “recovered” because I don’t believe I am “in recovery.” I have done the recovery. I have done the putting food in my mouth, consulting a nutritionist, the ridiculous amount of weight gain that allowed me to be healthy. I am done with the depression, the endless anxiety, the self harm.
I say “recovered” because as Marya Hornbacher writes: “I mean flat-out eat-normally stay-healthy get-comfortable-with-your-body-and-actually-like-it recovery.”
Few believe it exists. In fact, I was told my numerous doctors I would never recover. I would always be chronic. Sick. In need of hospital.
It exists. I know that. Because it exists for me.
Recovering has meant finding a voice, and using it. It means putting food in my mouth, it means seeing friends, engaging in life, seeking out healthy ways of coping when I feel overwhelmed, scared, anxious...


I live.

© Sia Jane
I wrote this 4 years ago, for EDAW (Eating Disorder Awareness Week) It is heavily edited, in that I have chopped two pieces which felt the most important from the rest of the story. Other than that it remains untouched. I hope this can help carry us into February and continue to raise awareness.
Ember Evanescent Dec 2014
Psychological issues?

Sure.

I've got plenty.

I don't know exactly when it started
But some time ages ago
During elementary school
I just felt so worthless
Like I was numb
I wanted to feel
But I didn't know how
And it wasn't a sharp pain
I would welcome a sharp pain
It was dull ache that wouldn't leave me
I froze in my own icy thoughts
Maybe it was the loneliness
Or all the things those girls said to me
Maybe it was the insults or the whispers
Or maybe it was just my twisted mind
But whatever the cause
I tried to **** myself
When I was just a little 11 year old girl
When some girls were still playing with Barbies in secret
I was secretly playing with knives and ropes
I would take that blade
And scratch a cut into my wooden headboard
One slit in the wood for every moment that I wanted to die
Because I was too young back then to even think of my wrist
That came later
A few years later
And still
There are days where I just feel so horrible and sad and broken
For absolutely zero reason
It doesn't make sense
Nothing bad is even happening
But I feel shattered
I spent a year feeling so. hollow.
So f!cking hollow
I felt like I couldn't breathe
Like I wasn't alive
I spent entire days
Not speaking
I still miss the cuts sometimes, honestly
I like my scars
Which sounds terrible
But I trace them with my fingernails absentmindedly some days
During the darker nights
It comforts me
Because even though I’m not going to cut myself ever again
I can jolt myself into remembering the pain
And it is a form of relief in itself
I don’t know
Not something I can explain
Is that depression?
Probably not though, I feel bad suggesting it in front of people who actually for sure have depression when I haven't been analyzed
But still, it's not impossible I guess

I spent 5 years
From grade 5 through to grade 9
Which is pretty **** young
Feeling fat
Hating my body
Hating myself
I can see my ribs but I still feel fat
It’s okay I can fix that
Eating a little less
Skip a meal
Just skip lunch
Just eat a tiny breakfast, no lunch
No breakfast, no lunch but it’s okay because I have a good dinner
I think I’m losing weight
Is it bad that I’m in grade 5 and thinking like this?
This is great
I think it’s working
I’m in grade 6 now
Maybe I won’t be worthless if I become skinny
I can still see my ribs
I could from the beginning
But I still feel fat
Okay, less dinner now
Hide it well
Let’s switch
No lunch, a little dinner and a bit of breakfast
Just enough to stay alive
Although how much to I really want to stay alive?
Fat.
Look at my legs
Look at their legs
My thighs God I hate my thighs
Eat less
Eat less and less
Until I’m basically surviving on snacks and just the beginnings of each meal
Just enough to take a few bites before they leave the room for a minute
Just long enough for me to throw away my food
But I don’t think I’m losing weight
I will never be enough
7th grade
Just a little less
Don’t tell any of them
Losing pounds
Check my reflection
I still feel fat
I try to be less so I can feel like I’m more
But does the number on the scale even matter anymore?
I’m promising and promising I ate before I came
But these pretty little lies are driving even me insane
And they can’t see through my smile they can’t figure it out
I’m slowly killing myself
From the inside out
Pretty soon, “I don’t feel well” is my favorite phrase and an everyday thing
A justification for my small portions that I don’t finish
It’s true though
I don’t feel well
I feel worthless.
It continues into 8th and 9th grade
Worse and worse
Looking up the calories of different food
Surviving on water and tea
Just enough food to stay alive
Though I really don’t care that much about my own survival, really
Is that anorexia nervosa?
I doubt it
But it’s a possibility I guess

I look in the mirror
And I feel so f!cking ugly
I literally cannot find ONE thing I like about myself
I cannot leave the house without makeup
Because I am SO ashamed of my own face
I genuinely feel bad for the people who have to see my face
I cry sometimes, because I look in the mirror and see my own worthless hideousness
I remember that sleepover I was invited to with the popular girls and I wondered why
When I got locked in a closet, got soap sprayed in my mouth and locked outside in the freezing cold snow without pants on when I was just trying to change into my night clothes
That’s when I knew I had been invited just so they could torment me
I don’t like being the entertainment for the party
I tried to just go to sleep because if I called home I would look like a coward
And my mother who NEVER let me go to sleepovers would get to say “I told you so”
And when they thought I was asleep
But I wasn’t
I listened to them talk for a full hour
My eyes on the clock
My ears on their conversation
“Is she asleep”?
I didn’t know they were talking about me until I heard them mention my name
When they talked for a full f!cking hour
In detail
About why I was ugly
On what levels I was ugly
The degree of my ugliness
I didn’t cry
I didn’t sit up and tell them I could hear them
It would be too humiliating
I listened
And I know they are right
But now it’s getting bad
My face doesn’t even look human to me anymore
It looks like some sort of beastly troll’s face
It looks f!cking hideous
My mother is worried about me
Because I can’t even look myself in the mirror when I have no makeup on
Because I Freak. Out when it is suggested that I might have to be in public without hiding my ugly face in makeup
It literally affects my ability to function properly in everyday life.
The thing is, those girls said it
And they ALL agreed
So if I REALLY had dysmorphia
Then it would all be in my mind
And if they all agreed I was hideous
Then I must be
So how can it be imagined?
I don’t know
Anyway
My point is
I suppose
MAYBE
It is possible
I have dysmorphia

But
Depression
Anorexia Nervosa
Dysmorphia

Those possible diseases of the mind
I
Have multiple
Psychological issues

BUT OCD IS NOT F!CKING ONE OF THEM

How dare he suggest such a thing
Just because I
“Always seem to be working towards something”
Excuse me for not getting drunk and high and naked
Putting off work
Not caring about anything
It’s not OCD though
It’s just called going somewhere in life
Because I may as well
Since in my mind
I’m hopelessly lost
Sorry this is so long. Don't feel any obligation to actually read the whole thing it's more for me to get out some bad emotions.
Brad Lambert Oct 2013
(I)

Whose coat is this? Sure as hell isn't my coat. I ain't got no coat with this parka ****, it's *******. I ain't no furry flamin' ******. I ain't no ****** chochy Molly-May-Ze-**** chokin' down chickens and nasalin' a'sniffin' snortin' nasty-*** choch; that ain't me. That ain't me. Look at this coat– I'm like an Eskimo *****. I'm like a butch-**** bull-**** crotch-lappin' a'swimmin' laps in that guy's swimmin' pool. Who's that guy? Who owns that guy? 'Ey, anyone here the owner of this guy– guy ain't got no owner? Whose coat is this? It's nice, real nice. Bet she said, "Does it come from France? Where do I buy one?" I want to buy one, I think I need to buy **** more. I sure as hell need to buy one of these. "And I need one these too and one of them too and I need a petticoat and a tipper-tapper and a whimpratic garfielder and one of them new bartlemores, I need more of them bartlemores. I need more, more, more, more, more, more..." That ain't enough. ****'s from France. ****'s from Paris, that's romantic. You think I'm romantic? I eat hearts for dinner, I chew down nails like nuts for my midnight snack. I smoke cigarettes and spit on concrete slabs, you think that's ****? I'll show you ****. I'll show you Paris, New York City, Rome, romance you in Rome. I'll get real ******' Roman. I'll take you to the desert and make love to you. That's how a free man does a woman, and I'm a real free man. Who's ownin' this guy? It ain't you, it ain't me. I don't own you, you don't own me. I'm a free man:

I said,
"Fire and wood, fire and wood, fire and wood. It is late, it is late, it is far, far too late."

I set
fire to wood, fire to wood; feel that fire fired fresh from that firewood.

I dug the pit,
he gathered the wood,
she started the fire.

She really does make that fire start.

O' how she makes that fire burn,
O' how the wood's wrapped in white hots,
O' how they smoke their smokestacked pipes,
O' tobacco teeming teenagers, tormented by and through youth,
O' adolescence, trending topics, and forget-me-not flowers,
O' old age, Floridan coffins, and coughing  cancers,
O' writers in the mountains writing to be,
O' painters and **** bodies in studies by the sea,
O' thinkers in their mindset, mindsetting the table for dinner,
O' tables set to bursting,
O' wallets so thick,
O' community,
O' society, our social games,
O' hope,
O' peace,
O' that I may be at peace,
O' that I may be content and pray only for peace,
O' how about them true believers,
O' how about that love at first sight,
O' sandstone. My sandstone. That guy sittin' on sandstone.

That's my guy. That's my guy. I own this ****.

Is a man breathing on a mirror the sum of his breaths?
Breaths foggin' a'mistin' my view,
my view of a body and that face,
you're a body.
You're a workin' day's bell,
you're my chill in an Icelandic draft,
you're my spare in a Middle Eastern draft,
you're my pawn in chest-to-chest chess.

You've got this. You've got this. You own this ****.

And it is ****, too. I'd be set, real ******' set, with someone like you. I'll make you a woman, check this parka ****. Coat's mine. I'm a classy igloo runner, runnin' a'ragin' a'czebelskiin' meriteratin', I'll be reiteratin' your points. Check the time, it's late! It's late! ***** was in the grassy knoll turnin' trap tunes on her turntable. Would you listen to that? She sounds late to me, does she sound late to you? I like the music; I like the music. What happened to Woodstock? Where's my watergate, Nixon? Where's my generation, Ginsberg? Where's the meaning? This music's too loud! We're so profound! O' profundity!

Tell me something I didn't know, I'm craving' the new.
Give me the new while I spit on the old,
while I spit on this fine art finely art'd by and for fine artists–
******' fine artists. ******* fine artists.

(You can realize radical-realist realism but you can't be real with me?)

O' fine art!
What fine art!
Which fine artists are dead?



(II)

Looks like they're dead.

Looks like them ******* choked out all them ghettos, choked out all them rednecks, chokin' a'stranglin' by-God-oh-God straddlin' the breeders. I sure did like them babes– babes with their laughin' a'lackin' o' cynicism. They don't know the word "****."

I sure am forgetful–
I forgot that smoke doesn't dissipate,
I forgot how to smell autumn leaves,
I forgot to check the heart against the fingertips,
I forgot why my fingertips went numb,
I forgot to cue in the meaning when the sentence was complete,
I forget to complete my sentences,
I forget who you were wanting when you said, "I want you."

I got as much depth as an in-depth discussion, high hats and electropercussion have got me going. I'm goin' downtown, uptown bourgeois tricked me out, johns and yellow Hummers laid me down and cussed me out. That's not a discussion. That's not my scent scenting my towel, this breath reeks of wintry air– my fingertips went numb.

"I want you."

"Oh would you look at that moon?
Take a look at that moon.
Look at that moon with the ******' mountains.
I love that moon.
That's my moon."

I love darin' a'dusty dareelin' derailin' your dreams, whose dreams are these? They ain't my dreams– ain't no dream derailin' a'nileerad radiatiatin' some hint of joy or Jamison Scotch Liqueur. Drink that ****. That's my ****, I own that ****.
I'm sittin' on this stoop like I own this ****, like this **** owns me; I owed me. I don't own me, you owe me:

Pay up man, feet off the stoop.
Pay up man, be real with me.
Pay up man, you ever thought of a man as a man?
Pay up man, give it in.
Pay up man, give in.
Pay up man, I need you to do me a solid. Do me solid from crown-to-toe, we're toe-to-toe let's do-si-do bro-to-** I'm ready go, **, jo, ko, lo, get low… Now I'm ramblin'. You say, "Ramble in to the stoop and tell me a story."

What's a stoop– who's a stoop? That **** ain't stoop– you ain't stoop. You're stupid. You're a joke, check out the joke. Hey ladies, you seen this joke– joke ain't been seen by them ladies? I'm a joke. We ain't laughin' with you, they're laughin' at you.

O' hilarity!
Such hilarity!
What hilarious histories have passed?



(III)*

"I said I loved him once. I only loved him once."
(
And how long once has been...)

I sure did like them hand-holdins,
them star-gazin' moments,
them moon phasin' nighttime nuances,
them fingertip feelin' a'findin',
them sessions o'meshin' limber legs unto steadfast *****,
heads cocked like guns toward the sky,
beyond the horizon
but well
below the belt.

Them star-gazing moments seeing stars seemin' small, I love how they gleam- gleamin' a'glarin' comparin' shine to shine, shimmerin' a glimmer shone stumblin' her way home from the bar. She's drunk. She's brilliant, brilliance of whit and wantin' a'wanderlustin' gypsy nomads- that ***** gyp'd me, no mad man would take a cerebral slam to the face lest them moving pictures are involved. Read a ******' book, it'll last longer. Kiss me on the collar bones, clavicles shone shining with slick saliva pining for my affections. You're clammerin' to feel me, clammin' up (Just feel me.) I want to run my hands through long hair and peg the nausea nervosa to the wall. The writing's on the wall:

The sun bent over so the moon could rise, chanting,
"Goodbye and good riddance,
I never wanted to shine down
on them seas o' tranquilities anyhow."*

O' what a day. What a day.

And the wind ruffles leaves and it ruffles feathers on birds eating worms in brown soil.

What a day. What a day.

And the men under the bridge gather in traitorous conversation of governments overthrown and border dissolution and poetry with meters bent out of tune.

What a day. What a day.

And the billboards are dry for all the consumers to consume, use, and review.

What a day. What a day.

And hearts break messiest when you're not looking.

What a day. What a day.

And the ego and the id and the redwood trees are talking. They're sitting **** in the marshes, bathing in the bogwater while fondling foreign fine wines and whisperin' a'veerin' conversations towards topics kept well out of hand, out of the game, nontobe racin' in races, rampant radical racists betting bets on bent, bald Bolshevik racists wagging Marxist manifestos in the bourgeois' faces, yes. Make it be. Nontobe sanity as the captain creases his pleats, pleasin' her creases and the dewdrops of sweat trailing down the small of her back– down the ridge of her spine forming solitary springs of saline saltwater in the small of her back. Aye-aye, guy's pleasin' a'makin' choices a'steerin'– government's a'veerin' a hard left into the ice.

'Berg! 'Berg!
Danger in the icy 'berg!
None too soon a 'berg!
Bound to bump a 'berg!
O' inevitably unnerving 'berg!
Authoritative 'berg!
Totalitarian 'berg!
Surveillance of *** and the sexes 'berg!
O' fatalist fetishist 'berg!
Benevolent big brother 'berg!
Homosocial socialization 'berg!
Romanticized Roman 'berg!
O' virginal mother 'berg!
City on a hill on a 'berg!
Subtly socialist 'berg!
Nongovernmental 'berg!
O' illustrious libertine 'berg!
Freedom of the people 'berg!
Water privatization 'berg!
Alcohol idolization 'berg!
O' corrupt and courageous 'berg!
Church and a stately 'berg!
Pray to your ceiling fan 'berg!
Biblically borne 'berg!
O' godly and gorgeous 'berg!
Ferocious freedom fighters launching lackluster demonstrations far too post-demonstration feeling liberty and love, la vie en rouge, revolving revolutionist ranting on revolution tangible as
an ice cold 'berg.

'Berg! 'Berg!
O' the 'berg, the ****** iceberg–
You'll be the death of me.
Ellie Shelley Oct 2014
Believe me its easier this way
Useless, thats what I am
Lies pour out of my mouth
I’m sorry you got dragged into this
My knuckles are red and scared for a reason
I love you
And I’m sorry

Bet you
Everyone
Loves seeing me
Like this
Am I right?
Theia Gwen Jan 2014
There were once two sisters, two girls
With perfect bodies and beautiful curls 
Ana & Mia, anyone who was anyone knew their names
I wanted people to start noticing me and stop thinking I was plain 
I was told they would help me that was a guarantee
I was told they could work wonders on me
My friends told me they were deadly, told me to stay away
But they promised me beauty at such a small fee to pay
After a while I knew I wouldn't make it without them guiding my way 
I ignored everyone telling me I was just easy prey 
 
Ana & Mia 
The deadliest pair alive
Commited more crimes than Bonnie & Clyde 
More decietful than the Mendez brothers
A casualty rate like no other
They prey on girls with low self esteem 
Just one chat with them and you'll fall apart at the seams 
 
This is the story of how I fell into their trap 
I don't think I'll ever go back 
 
This is how the two of them became my masters 
I was just a plaything for the Nervosa sisters
nicoarty  Oct 2015
Nervosa.
nicoarty Oct 2015
You’re too nervous around me
He said
Though it shouldn’t matter much really
Just a personality trait
And true at that
Maybe it was just fate
But honestly
What did he expect?
Ignored me half the time
Distanced himself
Made me feel unwanted
   -Unloved
It shouldn’t really matter, truly
Silly child-like beliefs
In love
But it was just that,
It was heaven
Till paranoia crept in
Like the monster from under my bed
Depression seeped in with nightmares
With every blank glance and words unsaid

I tried being there, I tried pulling away
I tried what I could bear
Day after day
Watching my own tragedy
Break at the seems
The cracks poured in and drowned my depths
       -Shattered beyond belief
Because of my
inability to work socially
Too awkward to talk
Too shy
Terrified of saying the wrong things
So alone in my own mind
Is there anything I can say?
Anyway that it’s untrue
My anxiety came off as nerves
Mostly around you
Cause with you it mattered most
Someone for whom I cared
But you’re right it’s my fault
I couldn’t love enough to stop being scared

So I’ll watch from the backseat
As the movies go on
The confidant chick gets the guy
Or he fixes the insecure one
But nothing goes wrong here
Not like it does in reality
Guess I’m just trying to justify his excuse and its finality
Too nervous around me
Oh, really.
But the truths I could already see
I knew, how I knew, and knew all along
He’d never truly wanted me

So I laugh at the comments I bit back
Bleeding lips from words too tongue
In cheek I thank you;
     Graceful bow
For helping me along
For ripping away the stem of nervosa
You’d brought flowing with you since the first day
For the harsh remarks
-a slap to even those who’re stark
And the steel that I grew as I say

It was you
You who didn’t care enough to help
Who could not see the panic and fear I battled to try and stabilize myself
For you
To make us happy
Yes I had problems of my own
But I was there for you
And what did you do?
Nothing but leave me alone
Saying the cause was all me
My anxiety
My nervosa had won?
You know how insulting that can become?

I staved off the dragon in the mirror
To keep safe the tower climbing prince
But in truth I know now
Princes don’t exist
I was really my own companion
Fighting my own weakness’
With my own strengths
And now I know my own reason
Has to forever be only myself.
Rachel Oct 2015
Love is a disease
It is a crime
It drives people insane
And may lead to death if you have it and if you don't
A partial death that will change everything
Some can escaped but some cannot
Those who escape are reborn to be a better person
But those who cannot are still stock in the past grieving
Love is always accompanied with pain
It requires suffering and sacrifices
But even though love is inconsistent
I still prefer not to be cured
Because we will never be truly happy if were not unhappy sometimes.
I live next door,
To a ballerina,
I hear music all day,
And see lights on all night,

It doesn’t bother me,
For we are good friends,
I knew her forever,
Even as a child,

Sometimes I see her,
From my bedroom window,
Dancing like her life depends on it,
Only, it really does,

She moves,
With such grace,
Delicately on her toes,
As if it was easy,

She glances out her window,
Sees me staring,
Flashes a smile,
As if everything was okay,

But I too knew her too well,
To fall for that lie,
I looked at her long and hard,
And now I see why,

Beads of sweat,
Fell down her forehead,
Her legs shook,
As she did a developpe,

Her face was pained,
Strong hint of confusion,
Yet she smiled away,
As if she wasn’t hurting,

She was beautiful,
She could pass as a goddess,
But if you looked closely,
You could see she wasn’t flawless,

Her ever-so-fake smile,
Is what gave her away,
And the shine in her eyes,
Was simply the tears kept inside

Just when I thought,
It was a trick of the light,
She tripped and fell down,
Into a puddle of her own tears,

I didn’t know,
What to do,
Should I climb out my window?
Or leave her in pain?

One thought was dominant,
And it was neither of either,
I screamed just enough,
For her to hear,

She looked up,
And cried once again,
I asked her what was wrong,
Was everything okay?

She said it wasn’t,
As she walked towards her window,
And then did I see her body,
As thin as a straw,

She told me her story,
Everyone was screaming at her,
They said she was pathetic,
Useless in so many ways,

She said she agreed,
They were telling the truth,
She was too fat to be beautiful,
Too fat to dance,

That’s when it hit me,
It explained so much,
She had a disorder,
Anorexia nervosa,

I told her the truth,
While her body shook,
I shook my head and said,
“It’s going to be okay,
My little ballerina”

She smiled, and left.
Read My Feelings Jul 2014
Call it Ed one more time
I told you I hate that
This malady is not an entity that merits a name
It is me and the **** I’ve absorbed
It is you and sometimes it is Dad
It is distortions and perversions
It is lies and exaggerations
It is hell but it is not a place
and it sure as **** is not a person
8/06/13
mûre  Aug 2012
Recovery Nervosa
mûre Aug 2012
August was a turtleneck that didn't fit.
Arrested at the crown of the head,
overheated gasp.

Don't you think- she thought,
I see the irony in everything I do?

Pressing ruthlessly against the yield of flesh,
probing against the pale underbelly, measuring
the distance between skin and bone.
is it better now? Is it better?

Imperceptible white ribbons at
the curve of the thigh, a bow tie atop
the gift of a new healthy body
swollen against the wrap.

I hate... I hate myself. Feels all wrong-

She eats her dinner and
the food digests in her brain.

Healthy, now? Is this-

Healing?
B P  Nov 2015
Anorexia Nervosa
B P Nov 2015
How could she do that to herself.
her collarbones almost popping out of her skin
because she is a skeleton already
her ribcage a tally of the meals she has skipped
one, two, three, four, too many to count
her hipbones protrude like shards of glass
shattered like her self esteem
thighs that no longer touch
calves miles apart
gaps on her body
gaps between meals

her head is a mixed up land
with broken mirrors all around
her friend ana reflected in the shards
she is so familiar with these eating habits they have a name
ana ana ana ana ana
runs through her brain
the calorie counter in her head runs
is an apple worth it anymore?
skip dinner
wake up thinner
pretty girls do not eat.

her body is brittle
she looks like she could break with a touch
but she is already broken inside
the fight is over
she knows it too
she is fading away.

how could i do this to myself.
trigger warning.
Julia  Jun 2014
Nervosa
Julia Jun 2014
Walls close in
Watching.
Thoughts devour
Hyperventilating.

No way out
Keep breathing.
No explanation
Crying.

Blackness engulfs
Shaking.
Gasping for air
Trying.
This poem was written to try and explain how I feel during an anxiety or panic attack.
I live next door,
To a ballerina,
I hear music all day,
And see lights on all night,

It doesn’t bother me,
For we are good friends,
I knew her forever,
Even as a child,

Sometimes I see her,
From my bedroom window,
Dancing like her life depends on it,
Only, it really does,

She moves,
With such grace,
Delicately on her toes,
As if it was easy,

She glances out her window,
Sees me staring,
Flashes a smile,
As if everything was okay,

But I too knew her too well,
To fall for that lie,
I looked at her long and hard,
And now I see why,

Beads of sweat,
Fell down her forehead,
Her legs shook,
As she did a developpe,

Her face was pained,
Strong hint of confusion,
Yet she smiled away,
As if she wasn’t hurting,

She was beautiful,
She could pass as a goddess,
But if you looked closely,
You could see she wasn’t flawless,

Her ever-so-fake smile,
Is what gave her away,
And the shine in her eyes,
Was simply the tears kept inside

Just when I thought,
It was a trick of the light,
She tripped and fell down,
Into a puddle of her own tears,

I didn’t know,
What to do,
Should I climb out my window?
Or leave her in pain?

One thought was dominant,
And it was neither of either,
I screamed just enough,
For her to hear,

She looked up,
And cried once again,
I asked her what was wrong,
Was everything okay?

She said it wasn’t,
As she walked towards her window,
And then did I see her body,
As thin as a straw,

She told me her story,
Everyone was screaming at her,
They said she was pathetic,
Useless in so many ways,

She said she agreed,
They were telling the truth,
She was too fat to be beautiful,
Too fat to dance,

That’s when it hit me,
It explained so much,
She had a disorder,
Anorexia nervosa,

I told her the truth,
While her body shook,
I shook my head and said,
“It’s going to be okay,
My little ballerina”

She smiled, and left.
I do ballet,
I write ballet.

— The End —