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Lauryn Galt

Ysgol y Grango, Wrexham

She was my best friend. Beautiful in many ways but ugly in many more. She only wore size 6 and below because that was all that was acceptable, in her eyes. She yearned for everyone’s approval but wasn’t satisfied when she got it. She was insatiable. She needed to exercise every day or else food was off the table, literally. She would frown at me if I even thought about eating – but oh how desperately I wanted to. Food begged me to eat it; my tongue begged to taste it; my aching stomach begged for its nutrients; my enervated body begged for its energy. But no. I refused. Pleasing her was the only solution, and so pleasing her was what I did. I did everything she wanted: I dieted, I worked out, I cut out carbs – hell, I even cut out socialising because she told me I was too disgusting to leave the house. She made me see every curve of my body as a vexation I had to destroy. She made me feel worthless.

But she also made me feel special. Every pound shed was like a gold medal on my chest. Every inch off the waist was like achieving first place in a race. The race to being beautiful. But little did I know that race would never be won. I would never even finish that race.

But what if I had never started it in the first place? What if I hadn’t compared myself to the size 0 celebrities we idolise? What if I hadn’t listened to the eleven-year-olds at the bus stop calling me fat? What if I hadn’t decided that the only way to be happy was to be skinny

What if I had never met her? I never meant to meet her; it was purely accidental. I promised myself I had control but she slowly took over. I didn’t mind at first. Sometimes I still don’t mind. I don’t know where I would be without her.

I’m nothing without her.

Anorexia is my best friend. And even though she killed me, I honestly really love her.