Your new Size 4 clothes arrived today.
I wanted to scream when I saw them. They're Lilliputian clothes. They are ugly (except they're not really - they're nice clothes - fashionable and cute and sexy. Just tiny.) I hate you being a Size 4. It's wrong. I can feel my face creasing with nearly-crying when I think of that number. It had better go no bloody lower, is all I have to say. Don't you dare let it go lower. Please, precious girl. The thought frightens me so much and strips my life of ease and peace. Where has my life gone?
New clothes for when you have to face everyone when term starts in a couple of weeks. I know how worried you are about going to college. It's all so new and unknown. So much of your life has been a learning curve lately and I want this upcoming one to be a good one, a positive, exciting step. How awful for you to have to take on all that PLUS looking all newly-emaciated. ("Newly" to the crowd at school, anyway. I can barely remember your Size 10 body.) All your clothes look silly on you - even the Size 8 ones. They waft around your thighs and sag at your fleshless bottom. I hate to see it. And yet I am bombarded with the vision so much. We are together all day - you'd think it would have stopped hitting me afresh so often. And yet every time I look at you, my guts lurch and my head swims a little. Ten times a day, I bite back the words: "For god's sake - look how bloody THIN you are! Please STOP THIS!" It's tiring. My eyes are creased with new lines and circled with soft darkness. I can't find it in myself to care too much about this, though.
So, miniature shorts that accentuate your elfin legs. But they fit. At last. Oh, if only it wasn't a 4 I had to face. I'm scared. Always so scared.
2 comments:
What a horrid thing to be confronted with - all so wrong. Feeling for you so much.
Looking ahead, and holding onto the vision of her getting better, I can just imagine the celebration on the day they're too small. When you can shove the despised things in a carrier bag and fling them over the counter of a charity shop, never to be seen again. Hopefully barely worn. Or if it were me, I'd be rather less rational and want to take a pair of scissors and gleefully shred them, or throw the fuckers on a bonfire.
And in the meantime until that day, sending love. I'll write something to Grace about college for you to show her if you think it's appropriate.
xxx
Please do write to her.
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