The Tales of Virago-- A Beautiful Mess

     To the girl who wishes she had an eating disorder:  Oh, words. There are so many things I would like to tell you in this moment, but all too quickly the time passes. My heart shatters in watching your eyes grow dark in the pain, as I watch you belittle yourself, and absorb the pointed and loaded remarks of society. I am sorry that society has made you feel so inadequate that you have the overwhelming urge to turn against yourself in your quest to find peace and self satisfaction. The satisfaction that society will never give you, and I guarantee you will never get.      I am sorry that society has told you your worth in life is based off your size, or how many calories you can deprive yourself, rather than the overflowing compassion that flows from your soul, or the beauty of your free and passionate fiery spirit. I am sorry that society has become the fragile layers of ice upon which we traverse, when they offer no support, and we s...

I am tired of the rain pouring down,   Being enough to soak me, but not enough to let me drown. I am tired of mistreatment, deceit, and self denigrating lies Chains of banter that haunt the spirit, Gradually eating me alive. You are the disease upon which I tremble, You are the root of the wicked lies. The empire of the eternal winter, The spiral around my demise. And I wish that I could vanish, And I wish that the girl who walked with a cohesive mask wasn’t a disgusting lie.   But the real girl inside is the one who is cold and numb With a bitter chill that lies in her eyes Broken glass in its crystallized sting   She walks across the beauty of its tingling pain Her limbs take on hues of purple, becoming colder by the day, The lines blur together, as she is spinning in the pouring rain. The sun shines, brightly, But she forgets the warmth that exists She spins through life in what people say beautifully But she knows that...

    She numbed her Monday morning melancholy under the pound of her feet hitting the ground in a storm of pain and the rhythm of twenty one pilots pulsing through her veins with the words blasting in her ears; simultaneously soothing and reminding her of the harsh realities of a world in which she must never re-enter, when the truth of the matter is she never even left.     She is treading with care. Not because she is cautious, but because it is all she is able to handle right now. And that's ok.      She walked through the hallway, and when asked how she was- she said she was simply "doing." Not that she was great, or well. And I am proud of this girl. Not for the mess she is, or the girl she is under the surface- because if you knew the monster that lives inside you would hate her the way I do too... but because she is beginning to realize that her brokenness is okay to recognize. She doesn't have to try and wear a mask anymore. The char...

     The cold air enters me, and breathes a life into me that is a toxic energy all of its' own. Powering through the coffee laden days of practice, papers, piano, and voice, there has been no room left to eat.      The feeling of climbing the stairs, and the colors escaping my body, and the prayers being let up that it willed me to stay in the moment, to stay awake. To be strong, and grounded. To be a good body, and to keep running, and the pleas and the bets that I would follow my meal plan better or that the next day would be different. Just like always. The slip of a meal, or the accidental underestimate of true portioning. The deep loneliness within that became repressed, and manifested through an icy gaze, and cold bitter lack of intake.      It's terrifying going to every doctor's appointment  with the fear of being pulled from school once again. The fear of relapse. The realization that it is too late- or that I am n...