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Anonymous, age 18
"my life in a manila folder, scripted for diagnosis. they quote me, writing down my pain of logic, treating it as a side affect. i am scheduled a next appointment - policy. i am considered by statistics, their only determination to cure me. as i am introduced to my aid, they mark my progress with another prescription. i am given a new prospective to life, with vague conception beyond these sterile walls: they are creating my recovery out of medical terms i am bound to understand someday, yet i am reminded 'this is the easiest part.' as i stumble into yet another step towards..... i wonder where it all ends."
"one hand on your protruding hip bone, one finger down your throat, breathing deeply in denial, convincing smile, hiding the frantic rush of control. running on empty desperately after a shallow sense of value to fill you up; wasting away in a media driven prospective, giving you little room to see. you feel the gentle break of identity as you fit into the style, conforming to the paper doll appeal. barely there, striving for a reflection you will never reach; dying to impress the goddess of thin. they glimpse across your presence, not knowing the girl blinded by the sight, believing the lies telling her she is not enough. and the memory of beauty is all that remains as you lose yourself. 'beauty, redefine me.....' was the beginning of disaster, Beautiful. they forget to tell you the truth."