A Skeleton in my Closet by Rebecca Sy

 

Can you see the suffering and anguish that consumes me in this photo? No, you can’t. 

Everyone has skeletons in their closet and this is my skeleton story. 

On the surface, I seemed normal. At least, that’s what I wanted to be. I posed as if I was living the ideal dream. I’m smiling, but deep down, I hated every inch of myself. Although my body looks slim and fit, in reality, it was malnourished and very underweight. The sun glowed on my skin, and yet, I still felt cold and empty. I had painted the picture on Instagram of a flawless girl, with a perfect life. I yearned to be that girl; the one whose beauty everyone admired and wanted to be around. I knew I wasn’t, and yet it seemed like everyone else was. No matter how many times I ran, skipped dinner, criticized myself, and morphed every part of my life, it was never enough. I constantly set this invisible bar, higher and higher, until it was no longer reachable. 

When this photo was taken, I was with my family for a “fun” vacation in a rental house on Lake Rousseau. At least that’s what my parents initially had said, however, they lied. This wasn’t a vacation. I remember the frustration of finding out that this was their way of deceiving me into leaving home and the comfort of my isolation. I was being monitored like a criminal, constantly watched and prevented from obsessive running. To date, I had lost 20lbs. I knew this was excessive, but I still ignored it and wore a fake smile. However, at every opportune moment, I was on social media staring at beach bodies and then looking at mine. Scrolling frantically through photos, my chest ached and the more I scrolled, the more hideous I felt. 

Prior to taking this photo, I had become possessed by an inner voice. Every day, I would run until my legs would collapse. I began to eat smaller portions and repetitively stepped on the scale. Calories, kilometers, and weight were all I cared about. I tried to control this demonic voice but instead, it controlled me. 

You are not good enough - try harder. 

I was being consumed by a power I didn’t know how to fight. As the voice grew louder, my life, as well as my body, were spiraling out of control. My hair began to thin and food no longer was a necessity. In addition, I found myself in never-ending battles with my family. I couldn’t even laugh along with their jokes. My body had morphed into a walking skeleton and everything became a blur. Every time I stared at my reflection, a stranger was staring back. 

As the months went by, the rest of the world drifted farther away from me. I was imprisoned in an invisible shell, and no matter how hard others would try, they could never reach me. The constant scrutinizing of my imperfections was eating me alive. Every day, I would cry for hours, sometimes until 3 AM. I slept past noon, hoping to escape my reality. Despite this, my fake smile still remained. I wondered if people could see through this horrible facade. 

Could they see the same broken look in my eyes that I saw every time I stared at the mirror? 

I never said a word; slowly I was fading away. 

My inner demons were on a rampage. I remember at Lake Rousseau constantly yelling at my mom until my vocal cords ripped. 

I wish you were gone! 

My inner voice hated her, but I hated myself even more. Tantrums replaced sanity. Screams tore the walls apart, while my legs pounded furiously on the wood floor. Our trip was an endless war. The rental house was a battlefield and I became the one lone soldier who was deemed the enemy. My battle scars will never fade away. 

Did anyone really care about me?

Every night, I had hoped that I would sleep and never wake up. 

My family and friends would probably forget I even existed. 

After coming back from the trip, my parents had reached their breaking point and before I knew it, I was being dragged to the hospital. I remember lying motionless on the cold, foam bed. My eyes moved heavily to watch the heart monitor. Every breath became more labored than the last. 

Beep.

Beep. 

Would it ever stop?

I wanted it to stop. My vision became hazy and white. My mother’s body seemed to sag as she sat in the corner of the room watching me. Her eyes red and puffy, with dark circles lying underneath. The makeup was gone from her face and her knuckles were bone white, clenching a crumpled tissue. The sight of her broken soul started to lift this dark curse and bring me back to reality. 

This isn’t the real me. When did I stop caring? Was enduring so much torture to achieve perfection worth it? 

My family and friends didn’t deserve to suffer, nor did I. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but through counseling, I realized it didn’t matter. That’s when I made a promise to myself: I would cease my pursuit of perfection and change my life for the better.

I remember the moment when I was finally free. The world around me, once lifeless and full of despair, became surrounded by love and warmth from my family and friends. Time stood still, as the invisible shell around me had finally lifted and the veil of darkness had vanished.

This photo reminds me of the time when perfection controlled my life. The imposter of happiness, who stole away my true character and confidence. A murderer, who killed me from the inside and destroyed my connection with loved ones. A liar, who tricked me into believing that I was ugly and worthless. After enduring years of hatred and torture, I finally know that I am beautiful and worthy.

No one can tell me otherwise.