Once upon a time, I decided to die. Slowly but steadily and without realizing it, as the years passed, I was digging my grave, shoveling a little bit of soil every day, emptying a little bit of life every day. And everyone lived happily ever after, and we lived even better. Almost. I lived; despite my undeniable efforts to the contrary. But not well. And certainly not better.
"How did you get anorexia?" they sometimes ask me. My mind goes numb for a few seconds. How did I get anorexia nervosa? I didn't get it. In my mind, the word "got" implies that something happened to me by chance, involuntarily, without seeking it or consenting to it. But nothing accidental happened to me, I didn't get sick by mistake. I didn't get anorexia. I chose it.
This is my story. The story of a completely ordinary girl, like so many others, who sank into quicksand without knowing where to grab to get out and save herself. The story of a young woman who was doomed to live in a prison of mirrors, in lies and pain, in self-exile. Eternally frozen, eternally hungry. Completely alone. I myself condemned myself to life imprisonment. I decided that my life had no value and no meaning. I attempted to kill Anastasia. I hated her and wanted her to die at all costs. But suddenly something strange happened, something unexpected. Just before I succeeded, I changed my mind.