âScar storyâ
A couple years ago for a magazine class, we were told to write a âscar story.â Basically, write a short story on a scar you have - totally up to your interpretation. Hereâs my scar story on eating disorders:Â
When I was full, I felt sick.
Meals wouldnât go down. It felt as if every bit of food was permanently lodged in my stomach. Yesterdayâs breakfast and the week beforeâs dinner kept stacking up like a slumped pile of dirty laundry. I felt saliva saliva tracing the tower of breakfast, lunch and dinner with every gulp. Sleep, antacids, water â nothing helped. Nothing happened.
At 13, I gave in. My dad bought pizza for dinner. Even though I brushed, rinsed and gargled the texture of plastic, grainy pepperoni from my mouth, I woke up with the lingering taste of grease. I felt it on my hands, face, lips. I was going to brush my teeth again, but I held onto the bristles. No one was home, and my toothbrush was old, anyway.
I kneeled down, staring at the white tiles with cracked grout. Then I stared at the toilet water. It took almost a year, but I found a rhythm to it.
Heave, heave, retch.
My chest sunk. It was over.
There was something comforting about feeling your upper body thrust onto the porcelain rim. A concave chest accentuates your collarbone. It satiated my appetite more than any 1,200-calorie diet.
I never considered it bulimia. This was just my shortcut. I was always Nicolita, the niece with a pretty face and chubby cheeks; gordita; whale.
I no longer felt sick. Iâd rinse the toothbrush and tuck it underneath a stack of t-shirts in the far right corner of my drawer. If I felt the slightest bit full, heave, heave, retch.
At your lowest point, you realize the hold of mental illnesses. It grips onto your perception the way you grab onto the toothbrush bristles. Itâs a battle that tries to corrode you, but itâs a battle you fight for your body, your health, your happiness. Â
La imperfeccion es bella. Imperfection is beauty. Thatâs my tattoo. I didnât exactly follow after-care guidelines, so the black ink slightly scarred my left hip.
Anytime I feel the need to pinch and probe and poke, I run my fingers over the raised letters, spelling out that everythingâs okay.
















