I was the personification of ugly, with my double chin, glasses, and acne infected face. The rolls on my side, protruding belly, and thighs that never separated no matter how far I spread my legs, slowly ate away at my confidence until I was left with no perceivable positive qualities. Those who smiled at me were silently laughing or sighing with pity. At fourteen years old I sold my soul to materialism, vanity, and anorexia. These were the only gods with enough benevolence and power to transform my obesely deformed body. They were not gentle gods. I learned how to starve, how to ignore that instinctual pain one feels when your stomach is empty and pleading for food. I learned how to grimace through the pain in my arms and legs, aching from the lack of nutrition and witnessed my hair slowly losing its shine. I became a shell of a person but all that mattered to me was that that shell was beautiful. Seeing my own bones was like seeing a glimmer of a happier future in which I was valued and wanted. I needed to be wanted, not rejected, and I slowly began to shed the fatty obstacle that had kept this from me my entire life. I slept all day, lacking the calories to be awake for more than twelve hours. As I became physically lighter, I became emotionally heavier. I was overcome by obsession and depression, believing that a smaller me would lead to larger opportunities for happiness. I was willing to shrink until I disappeared, as long as that brought me closer to my nirvana.
They say that when one dies they become twenty-one grams lighter, that is, 0.05 pounds. This is supposed to be an indication of the absence of the soul. I am sure my soul has already left, unable to live in a cold and abused body. Standing on the scale now I can see that my soul weighed forty pounds.
