I Was Anorexic. For a Day.

My teenagedom was a whirlwind of trying things and subsequently failing at them. There was that one piano lesson, my Kardashian phase, and the time I convinced myself that I had celiac disease.

I was dying my hair a different shade of blonde every month, wearing a different Hollister & co. perfume every day, and falling in love with a new pop-punk band biweekly. These were my discovery years.

One day, fed up with my body; hating being one WHOLE size larger than society’s standard of perfectly fine, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I decided that my options were:

  1. I could start going to the gym or

  2. I could start going anorexic.

I didn’t have time to go to the gym—no I was far too busy watching reruns of Sex and The City for that kind of commitment. Naturally, the most logical choice was option 2. I knew about anorexia, and I knew that it killed people, but if Tumblr quotes taught me anything it was that I WAS INVINCIBLE. Anorexia had nothing on me.

The plan was to just carry it out for a couple of weeks until I lost 5 pounds or so. Then, boys would like me, I'd be a queen, and maybe I’d get over 21 likes on my profile pictures.

DAY 1: I wear makeup to school, and a teal cropped top. (I can wear crop tops now because I’m thin, because I’m anorexic.) I eat an orange for breakfast. It isn’t even a good orange—it’s the kind that comes shrink-wrapped on a Styrofoam tray in the back of the produce section at Market Basket. It tastes like toothpaste. I go to school and eat nothing, pulling the tragic “I left my lunch in the car” line. Swoon. Then my mom picks me up, and I go to work the closing shift at the grocery store.

Now, before I continue, I must say that DAY 1 of Anorexia also happens to be the day that I went to my first ever high-school party. If you haven’t gathered this so far from my description of High School Molly: SHE WAS NOT COOL. Therefore, when Heather from Work invites me to go to a party with her and her senior boyfriend after our shift, I say yes faster than you can say “get me a muffin, I’m starving.”

I walk into Heather from Work’s, boyfriend’s, friend’s, parent’s dingy blue split-level like I own the world. Here I am, 16 years old, wearing a teal cropped top, malnourished, and proud.

I walk in; size up the glory of a handful of quasi-nerds pretending that they were old enough to under-age drink.

Stephanie, another girl from work pours me a vodka and coke. I down it.

I nod my head to the cool rap music thats playing (Flo Rida, maybe?) , flirt with two chubby twins who I find out I have a mutual friend with, then apparently take my pants off, apparently try to make-out with 4 people, apparently cry in the corner when I can’t find my flip-phone, and apparently throw up seven times, all over my tiny teal cropped top.

Then I wake up in the hospital, covered in vomit, smelling like a wet dog, and perched next to me, sits my mother, steam pouring from her orifices.

DAY 2: Too hungover to move. I ask my mom to bring me breakfast and bed. Instead, she buys me McDonald’s on her way back from therapy. I eat every bite of my happy meal, deciding that anorexia just isn’t conducive to my party-girl lifestyle.