It’s nights like these when you feel utterly and completely vulnerable to the world.
You’ve just had your makeup done, and you feel sexy with red lips and smoky eyes for the first time in a long time. You’re on the way to get your hair done, with dancing queen on full volume in your car. All you can do is sing, and laugh and be vain, only because nothing else seems to matter in that moment. For once, you feel pretty. You get your hair done into volumized curls and receive compliments from strangers. You get back in your car and you play Mamma mia because hell, why not. You let yourself feel good, after feeling bad for so so long.
You get home and put on your dress. Your heart sinks a little. Its too tight around your waist, even though you’ve eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon. You run to the bathroom and try to make yourself throw up. It’s pointless, and the dry heaving makes your eyes water. All you can do is hold back the tears and pinch yourself to stay calm. Things start to get worse.
You arrive at the pre ball and everyone looks gorgeous. Your date isn’t there yet and you know he won’t be bringing you a corsage either. He says its just because he thinks they’re pointless, but you think that it’s a sign of you not being good enough. You smile when you see him anyway though, and feel awkward and fat and gross in your dress and bite your lip to hold back the urge to scream. Soon, you taste blood, but who can see when you have red lips.
An hour passes. People mingle, share good food and take photos. You’ve put a brave face on, have a few shots and act enthusiastic as photos are taken. When no one looks though, you head to the bathroom and pinch the fat around your thighs. You contemplate what you could do with the razor you spot in the shower.
But you don’t. And you won’t. Not again, not after you told yourself that you were good again and that you were fine with yourself. You are fine. You are fine. You are fine.
Your friends grab your hands as you leave the bathroom, pour out their problems, trip over themselves in their dresses, and attempt to take photos. You listen, you comfort them and you act like you know that they’ll be okay. You’re a hypocrite. You’re not even okay yet.
When the bus arrives to take you to the ball, you have a good time for a few minutes. It’s buzzing with energy as everyone laughs and anticipates the night ahead. Smiling feels okay and you can talk to people around you without feeling as if you don’t belong. You know that you really don’t belong.
This night is supposed to be your night. Nine months since the suicide attempt, four months since the eating issues and 17 years of hope to finally be pretty.
The ball goes by in a blur, you embarrass yourself in front of people, ditch your date and comfort crying friends. All the while feeling like you’re about to throw up your intestines. It’s horrible. It’s torture. It’s not what you expected.
But maybe you did. You know yourself. You know that things will never be right in your head. You tell yourself that wanting to die is okay and that being skinny is all that matters. You love your friends, but they can’t help you. You’re vulnerable from the tiniest things. You’re alone, and you’re pointless and you’re you. And thats the problem.