Writing and Healing Feature

By Amanda Little  

A polaroid of my sister and me shoulder to shoulder one summer evening in the fading sunlight, as we sit on a hill. My pale yellow pleated skirt brings out the buttercups in the grass beside us.  

A polaroid of my boyfriend and me holding a pink heart-shaped helium balloon, his hand around my waist. The balloon brings out the blush on our cheeks. 

A picture of an old group of friends sitting in a field on the day we first met, arms interlaced over and under one another. We snuggle together as if we have known each other for years. 

A photo of me on the beach looking at my feet in the shallows, my blonde hair bleached almost white from the bold rays of the sun as it splays about in the salty wind. 

These are my first impressions while looking back on some of my favorite photographs.  

But I can never stop the inevitable second thoughts that follow, as the pictures slowly take form into tests, and my happiness depends on if I pass.  

The night my sister and I sat on the hill to watch the sunset, I had run over six miles that day and skipped dinner to look thin in that pale yellow skirt.  

Before the picture was taken of my boyfriend and me on Valentine’s Day, I had made sure to suck in a breath so that my waist would take up less room in his hand.   

The day I had met a new group of friends, I remember the skin under my fingernails being blue because I was so cold on that warm late April afternoon.  

That day on the beach, as I walked in the shallows, I wasn’t looking at my feet but at the gap in between my thighs, making sure it was large enough for me to be wearing my bathing suit. 

I have over 7,000 pictures on my camera roll.  

Along with them come over 7,000 thoughts that my eating disorder has latched onto like a parasite. 

Looking at each picture I can name what I ate that day, if I ate that day, and how happy I was depending on it. 

With each year that passes as my camera roll grows, my infected thoughts do the same.  

I’m always hoping that I will see the smiles instead of the size of my waist or the gap between my thighs. 

I am still hoping for my photographs to return to what they once were to me before: not a test, but a cherished place in time. 

By Alicia Reese 

It’s late, about 9 o’clock in the evening. I’m in my apartment, sitting on my soft plush bed, waiting for him to arrive. The lights are dim, but the wax burner that sits on my desk sets the mood with warm tones of light. It smells like a bakery filled with coffee cakes and other small pastries with a hint of coffee. All of a sudden, I hear a light tap. Dragging my feet, I walk toward the door, unlock the brass deadbolt, and turn the knob.  

“Hey!” he says. 

His eyes are chocolate brown, and his skin is tan as if he’d sat in the sun all day, with a smile so white that it’s blinding. He is tall and his muscles are large, making me feel intimidated, but I shouldn’t be. I’ve known him for such a long time, my childhood friend. 

We walk to my living room and get as comfortable as we can on the hard floral-print couch. The room lights up as I turn on Netflix, selecting “50 First Dates,” and press play. Twenty minutes is all it takes. I feel his hand on my thigh. I ignore it. A few more minutes go by. I feel his hand moving up my leg, then wrapping around my waist. His hands are clammy. I begin to feel uneasy. 

“I’ll be right back.”  

In the bathroom, I lock the door, open the toilet lid, and vomit. My stomach is empty, and acid grazes the back of my throat. I am uncomfortable. He is making me uncomfortable. My mom always warns me about being alone with a guy. She always tells me that I need to be careful and make sure I am safe because anyone can hurt me. These thoughts are running through my mind while I lean into the toilet. 

I get up off the cold hard floor and flush. Looking at myself in the mirror, I pull myself together and say, “You’ll be okay.”  

“Hey, sorry I just needed to use the bathroom,” I explain when I return to the living room. 

“Nah, it’s all good.” 

I sit back down on the hard couch, and he places his muscular hand around my neck to kiss me. I do not pull away because my throat is in his hands. I go limp as he takes off my clothes. 

“What are you doing?” I cry out. 

“You don’t actually want to watch this movie, do you?” he says. 

“I mean, yeah. I find it interesting,” I reply softly. 

He continues to take off my clothes as if my words don’t mean a thing to him.  His body weight is on me. I stare off into the distance at the beautiful floral painting on my wall, feeling just as lifeless. His lips are soft, but they pierce me like needles. I try pushing him away but it’s too late. Tears run down my cheeks as I grip the couch with all the strength I have left. He finishes and looks at me questioningly.  

“Get out,” I say. 

“What?” 

I scream, “Get out!” 

He scrambles to put on his clothes, and leaves slowly. I lie, staring at the ceiling, scared to move. I begin to shake and cry out. 

I do not know what to do, so I lie there for thirty minutes until I drag myself to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I think I could have prevented this before it started. I should have told him to leave the first time I felt uncomfortable. I should have defended myself. I look at my puffy eyes and my red cheeks. 

I do not know the girl in the mirror. She is a stranger, someone who was weak and defenseless. I wipe my tears and shuffle toward the shower, turn on the hot water and let the steam accumulate in the air.  

I sit down in the tub. I wrap my arms around my legs and press my knees to my chest. The hot water washes over me. 

Thirty minutes go by. My skin is blistering hot and as red as a bottle of siracha. I pull myself out of the tub and wrap myself in my robe. I lie awake until the sun rises. 

As the new day begins, I stare out the window, letting the sun blind me. I know what happened was not my fault. I don’t blame myself for what happened, but I do blame myself for not standing up for myself. 

I go back inside where warmth seeps into my skin and flows through my body like a surge. 

And gaze into the fireplace where embers glow.