I\'m in a white room with four walls.
Each wall towering over me, leading up to the ceiling, which is also white. Looking down I see the floor, I tower over the floor. I remember looking down at the floor in the waiting room. It seems like just yesterday I came here. I whined that I was fine, but the sadness in my eyes could tell you otherwise. My parents brought me here after years of mental, emotional, and physical abuse. Only a few times it was physical. My dad was a 41 year old unemployed diabetic and my mom a 46 year old house cleaner with a jerk as a dad. He left when she was 12 and her first husband died in \\\'87, a year before I was born. So obviously I was a surprise. Little did my mother know that I would develop a disorder so addictive that she would find me on the bathroom floor, unconscious. Leading me here to the white room. They use white to steer me away from color. They think red will remind me of my obsession. It makes me laugh because my obsession is always on the front of my mind. I take myself back to the nights spent wiping the blood away from my skin. The nights I spent crying black tears until early in the morning. I can\\\\\\\'t believe they think this will help! Help my ASS! I\\\\\\\'ll take you back, back to the beginning, back to were curiosity turned deadly and I turned insane. Some would call me a normal child, the cute little girl. But growing up as the cute little girl required perfection. Something I failed to believe I contained. Thin, intelligent, witty, beautiful...all these things I worked hard for. Teen years hit and I\'m the perfect daughter. At home, I do chores and homework. At school I strive to do the best, better than everyone else. Top of the class and Honor Society, clubs out the ass, colleges love extracurriculars. But I got into partying I don\'t really know how. I got into drinking and smoking all the pot. I still strived to do my best, but my best seemed to fall short. I began to gain weight, something I couldn\'t stand. A fat dumb loser was what I began to see in the mirror. I looked to pinge and purge, and eventually gave up on food. It was nothing but a fat giver, something I refused to take. My parents began fighting, cursing, yelling, the whole enchilada. Then once the abuse hit, it was all downhill. My father was sick and irritable all the time, I just got in his way not purposely of course. He gave me a slap, a punch a few times a week. I couldn\'t stand the pain although theres more to come.
