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The willowy witch I wanted to be
Phoebe was the "fat one."
And Bridget Jones was overweight at 135.
Long and lanky, waify, sickly — that was the style when I was a child.
Cocaine. Coffee. Edgy. Messy, but bone-skinny so the judges approve.
The messages: subliminal.
My mind: vulnerable — susceptible.
"YOU ... are America's Next Top Model."
There before it could be stopped — obsession, dark desperation.
A dormant virus activated, silent and sly.
No help. Simply spirals.
No slowing. Only repeating cycles.
Ignore. Eat more. Remorse. Repeat.
Surrounded and spinning. Drowning in defeat.
"Don't look in the mirror."
"Banish that willowy witch."
"You look weak. Do you have a fever?"
"Nothing a diet can't fix."
