(2013) Heights Vol. 61, Seniors Folio

tell yourself coffee has high levels of acid which means coffee is bad for your health. Coffee will have you rushing to the toilet, half-regretting the fact that you had next to nothing else to eat. Coffee will leave you with a bad taste in your mouth and a petrifying lack of remorse for consciously choosing to have it that way, so you have none of it. You tell yourself you don’t make room for the things that make you feel bad about yourself.

You are 107 on a good day. And by good day, I mean, ideally. iv.

My best friend has a habit of squishing my arms when he sees me, making sure to emphasize the loose skin from my once toned triceps, calling me fat. It’s his show of affection—almost a greeting.

Every so often, exasperated, I tell him that if I ever get an eating disorder, it’s his fault. We’ve rehearsed this exchange a million times, perfected it. I complain. He laughs and tells me it’s impossible. I love food too much. I tell myself he’s right.

When he’s around for our twice-a-month catch-up sleepovers, he brings cake and ice cream and peanut butter kisses. He pays for our meals. He says it’s because he has a new job, that it’s his way of giving back for having housed him for almost our entire college life.

One night, while examining himself in front of my mirror, he asks if we have a scale. I took out the batteries, I tell him. He doesn’t ask why.

There was a time where that glass, digital weighing scale was my first thought of the day. The first thing I did in the morning was stand on it, mentally taking note of my “starting value.” If I were home and proximity allowed it, I’d run back to my room just to check if I’d gained anything after every meal, stripping down to bare essentials and sucking my stomach in every time I had to.

The weighing scale, now stashed away with the rest of my unused things, used to sit comfortably in front of my mirror before I decided to remove the batteries, before I decided to put it away.

Every time I had to check my reflection, it was impossible not to heights Seniors Folio 2014 · 23