Thin by Grace Bowman

her heart as it speeds and jumps and bangs inside her, reminding her of her own flesh.
    Sometimes she forgets temporarily where she is and what day it is, and she finds, in that moment – that half-second – a relief from certainty, a real breath and a sense of weightlessness. But then the voice makes its formal entrance, like clockwork. Always a dual dialogue – never any silence:
    So today you are not going to have any breakfast. A banana maybe? But no, after everything you greedily consumed yesterday, it makes you feel sick. Can’t you feel your legs weighing you down? Do some exercise – you can have a banana if you do some exercise.
    She tries to stay in bed as long as possible, away from confronting the kitchen and the thought of breakfast, because the later she has breakfast, then the later she has lunch and then dinner, until it is so late that she won’t want to eat.
    She is reassured only when others eat; she likes to feed them – watching them place every crumb in their mouths, filling with fear if their plates aren’t empty. She wants them to be weighed down, heavy and full, then she can be lighter and she can float above them. She can’t understand the inertia that grips most people, allowing them to lounge about, uncontrolled, eating all day, every day.
    Grace shakes. She gets out of bed. Taking her pyjama top off over her head she examines her body. She can see no difference; it is always the same. She puts on her cycling shorts, T-shirt and trainers, and begins her usual aerobics routine: legs, arms, stomach – a bit of everything, just torefresh her, give her a bit of energy, wake her up. Sometimes her pelvic bone rubs against the top of her thigh; that hurts a bit, but is to be expected. Sometimes the bottom of her back aches, right on the coccyx, as she lies on the floor, pushing it against the hard floor, but it has to be done; this way she will be allowed to feel worthy, worthy enough to eat. She treats herself today: only two sets of sit-ups. She is getting a blinding headache, half the room is black and blurred, a sharp piercing fuzz of the morning. She leaves the bedroom armed with her now cold hot-water bottle. Almost blinded by the pain, she can’t tell anyone. There will be no sympathy – only another reason to make her eat.
    Nineteen: She gets up to a tempered birthday celebration. She unwraps her presents as she shudders in front of the blazing hot fire. She looks at the faces of her family. She has failed them. She convulses with tears. She can only repeat, ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’
    As they pass her the presents she struggles to gather the strength to open them. Why would anyone want to give gifts to her? She is damaging them, she is the guilty one, she deserves nothing. No-thing for her, inside or out.
    They try to comfort her, throwing her a gesture, a smile or a hug, but she resents their intervention into her own mess. Their faces are stunned with pain and exasperation. The tears are welling up as she tries to breathe. She takes in air but has no room to hold it inside her. They sit and watch her, unable to move or speak, constrained by their own embarrassment and forcibly detached from her anguish. Suddenly, their strong and beautiful child, friend and sister no longer exists, all that remains is a fragile shell, held together only by her own determination. They begin to shout and scream at her because it seems to be the only thing that allows them to vent their helpless frustration, but she pushesthem away, as she has always done, intent on succeeding in whatever she is trying to do, although she isn’t sure what that is.
    After they leave the house (for school, for work, for normal life) she fights her way through an exercise video, gasping for air as she moves up and down through her press-ups. She takes a hot bath – the hotter the better – it makes her feel as though she is cleansing out her insides. The steam and the tears redden her body. She stands up and