My disorder, my demon.

I knew I was slowly killing myself. The mirror displayed me in a darkness that not even my soul could brighten. A skewed perception of myself was my reality. I thought I was worth nothing and my body image was everything. The deeper I stared into the mirror the harder my heart fought to punch my reflection. Tears of unsatisfaction evolved into a drive that not even my ambition could control. Hunger triggered the pain in my heart, but some how I felt at ease. The emptiness I felt was the welcoming of a home I thought I belonged in. Hunger left, and my body felt like it won the battle of world war III. But then my curiosity and malnourished heart stared at the devil I called food, then I caved. Like the world crumbled underneath me, control became a foreign concept. The taste of euphoria traveled down the emptiness of my stomach. Taste diminished and my reality became focused again. The anxiety overcame me like a wave that downed me. The pride of feeling empty turned into disgust and pure shame. Hoping the end of that toothbrush would bring me a taste of freedom. And I surely stepped away from that bathroom with nothing but relief and pride. But as the solitude creped upon the quietness of my room I was consumed by a wave of guilt. A sense of guilt I had become married to. Because nothing further defined me, nothing deeper controlled me, I was this disorder. Eating was pure anxiety, hunger was a trigger, and food held the steering wheel of my life. I was not me, and all along I thought this was my destiny. I thought I would never become beautiful. I thought all I needed was a quiet bathroom and secrets to make me become desirable. Excuses that left me disconnected from everything I loved drove me away from myself, away from everything I once knew. My mind was nothing but this disorder. Fainting, hunger, the illusion of control I thought I had, it consumed me like precious heroine. Here I was, not myself, a vessel of pain and anxiety that hid behind demons, only to be screaming for freedom. Everyday I avoided mirrors, but one day I looked at myself with pain filled eyes and a drunken sense of perspective. It became clear that this was not me, this was not my death. No one was going to help a soul that camouflaged demons in secretive smiles. It was dependent on me, I had to change. Because this disorder was not me, it was not my beauty, it will never define me. The endless binges, purges, tears, and running away once were my freedom. But the minutes I stepped away from those false desires, I realized freedom was granted. I am free. I am not a prisoner of a false sense of beauty masked in insecurities. I am enough. I am beautiful.