I Can Count Her Ribs
I Can Count Her Ribs fiction stories
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Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
I can count her ribs. They stick out, protruding as I see her touch them when I walk past her open door. (Inspired by today's prompt: obsession. A story about bulimia/anorexia from a mother's viewpoint.)

I Can Count Her Ribs

I can count her ribs. They stick out, protruding as I see her touch them when I walk past her open door. She turns to the side and breathes in.

The mirror is her enemy, highlighting all her 'flaws' and 'imperfections'. I can tell she's not happy with what she sees, as she sighs. She sinks to the floor and I slip away after seeing her in a moment of weakness, tears pricking at my own eyes.

My daughter was the dream child growing up. She was beautiful to me. When she smiled, it was like she had the whole sun shining behind her. She was popular but not ignorant.

She treated everyone well. Except herself it seems. A mother would always love her child no matter what.

But as she got older, I saw her eyes no longer had the same light in them. Wherever she went, she saw 'perfect people'. They were pretty, she said. They were beautiful and skinny.

She thought she was too big. Her curves and robust frame was displeasing to her. I told her time and time again- everyone is different. She wouldn't listen- the magazine models were her idols. So she hurt herself.

Two fingers in the mouth and all the food's gone. Bulimia. She was diagnosed and sent to every therapy place I could send her to. It didn't work.

Her obsession was her image and it turned deadly. She grew more ill and thinner. Anorexia. It was put on her as a label she felt she couldn't peel off.

She got better once. The therapy worked and I had my daughter back. Not that I don't have her now, don't think bad of me. The therapy worked a while ago- she grew stronger and happier.

Until that blasted day when she weighed herself. She had put on some weight, she wasn't a skeleton anymore. We were all happy as we gathered round her and gave compliments.

But to her, she was ugly. The extra pounds weighed her down as guilt surfaced. She relapsed and that's how I see her now, still stuck in front of a mirror.

She lost her soul the first time she bent over that toilet as a release, and let it all come back up. I still love her and I always will. I just don't want to lose her.

I can count her ribs.

I can count her ribs. One, two, three, four...

... I don't know anyone who has suffered from both anorexia and bulimia, but it is becoming a common topic in which books are based on. Mainly targeted to the younger adult/teen age group. This is my version of the topic, which I did from the viewpoint of a mother.

Thanks for reading. :D That's Iqra... OUT.

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