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3 a.m.

It is 3am.
I am sick.
I have just been on another massive binge. My third of the day in fact. This time, however, I cannot throw up. The sound would echo like a siren through the silent house. It would wake my mother.
My stomach is bursting with sickness and I have to hold it in and bear its swelling in order to keep my secret.
I have a knife here, on my pillow. I scraped off my dried blood from it about an hour ago and held its newly sharpened blade up to the light. It was beautiful. I stuck it into my thigh, but it hurt too much. I just want the marks. And now, suddenly, I am tired.
When I was a teenager it was a way of life; it was the way I lived my life. Depression, anxiety, anorexia - they were all just words used to label other people - ill people. I didn't know anything about them. Now, I am them. These words have become labels for me; my new name. I am now a mental illness. I am bulimia. I am ill.
I am a liar. I tell people I am fine. I joke about my illness. "Yeah, you know me, I'm just a silly girl, living the crazy."
Everyday I pledge: I will never binge again.
I will stop.
I will be perfect.
I will be the daughter my mother wants.
I will be thin.
I will be beautiful.
I WILL BE PERFECT.
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