by Claudia Wysocky

I beheld a stranger in the cracked mirror that once doubled as my best friend and worst enemy. Thin, sunken cheeks stared back at me, hollowed out by anorexia’s relentless grip. My ribs jutted out like a macabre xylophone, each bone a discordant note in the song of my life. I hated who I’d become, yet I couldn’t let her go. Anorexia had me in her clutches, and she wasn’t about to let me go without a fight.

The first time I ever starved myself, I was 15. It was the fall of my sophomore year, and puberty had painted my body with a cruel brush. My once-slim frame had rounded, and the boys’ once-admiring glances had turned to leers. One day, my English teacher pulled me aside after class and slipped a dieting pamphlet into my notebook. “For your good,” she said, her eyes filled with concern. But her words lingered like a poisonous seed, taking root in my vulnerable mind.

At first, I just cut out desserts, then carbs, and then entire meals. I became an expert at hiding my secret behind nonchalant excuses: “Oh, I’m not hungry,” or “I already ate.” My parents didn’t suspect a thing; they were too preoccupied with their battles as immigrants trying to make it in a foreign land. And so I slipped further down the rabbit hole of starvation, drawn to its false promises of control and beauty.

My poetry and photography became my only solace, the only places where I could express the maelstrom of emotions raging inside me. I found solace in the dark and emaciated portraits of models like myself, girls who looked like modern-day saints, their gaunt frames adorned with halos of bones. They were my unhealthy inspiration, and I yearned to be just like them. In my mind, their skeletal frames represented the epitome of beauty and control.

The more I starved myself, the more I withdrew into my world. My grades plummeted, and my once-vibrant social life shriveled up like a raisin in the desert sun. Family dinners turned into silent battles, with each morsel of food a battleground upon which my parents waged war against my emaciated willpower. “You’re wasting away,” my mother sobbed one night, her accent thick with fear. But I couldn’t hear her over the deafening voice of anorexia in my head, which told me that no matter how much I starved myself, it would never be enough.

I continued to slip further away from reality until that fateful day when my camera and pen, once my loyal companions, turned their backs on me. My photographs were lifeless, devoid of the emotion and depth I’d once poured into them. My poems echoed with the hollow laughter of a girl I no longer recognized. In a desperate attempt to recapture the girl I’d once been, I reread my old work, hoping to find a glimmer of the passionate young woman who once breathed life into the world around her. Instead, all I found were the ramblings of a girl consumed by self-hatred and anorexia’s lies.

It was then that I decided to let go—to let go of the false image I’d been chasing and embrace the woman my parents had raised me to be. A woman who was smart, talented, and beautiful, despite what the mirror told her. But it wasn’t so easy, and still isn’t easy to this day. The journey back to myself was long and arduous, paved with setbacks and relapses. But with the support of my loving father, understanding counselor, and a nutritionist who understood my cultural background, I took baby steps towards recovery.

“Klaudia, moja droga,” my father would say as he embraced me one evening after yet another therapy session. “You are so much more than what you see in that glass. Your beauty radiates from within, from your kind heart and creative soul.” His words were like balm to my fractured spirit, reminding me that outer beauty was only skin deep. But I felt nothing, because what was I supposed to feel if he never said that to me? All he did was yell . . . criticize me more, saying that I was the reason why we had it so tough. I couldn’t take it anymore. After arguing with my father for hours on end, he left me and isolated himself. He was overwhelmed and probably needed a breather. I sought solace in my old habits, lunging for the wafers in our cupboard. My hand trembled as I devoured the whole pack while staring at myself in the mirror. Anorexia’s grip tightened its hold on me, luring me back into its cold embrace.

Weeks passed by like a blur of sleepless nights and bingeing followed by purging. The vicious cycle continued until one day, while rummaging through our family photo albums, I stumbled upon a picture of me at my Confirmation: plump cheeks, bright eyes, and a smile that could light up the world. My mother had taken that photo just moments before we left Poland. The contrast between the radiant girl in the picture and the hollow-eyed stranger staring back at me now was jarring. I realize . . . was this even worth it?