Etched Into My Skin
Anxiety and my body
The dark-haired girl and I are in the gym locker-room. We do not speak to each other; we do not look at each other. There is no need to.
We are disgusted with each other.
The schedule stays the same every week. We arrive at the gym at the same time every Monday. No memory is needed; no calendar is used. Repetition, control, and self-hate were etched into our skins since the day we were born.
Arrive at 9, dress in 10, slam ourselves to exhaustion by 11.
She always leaves the locker-room first. I hate her for that. She can tie her dark hair into a knot faster than I can. I am always fumbling with my backpack, unsure of what I am doing, an obvious novice at best.
Her backpack slides easily into the 1’ by 2’ locker.
We have different tastes, if you can call it that. Her’s is the cardio room. Anxiety and obsession clang against each other as she bashes her black Nike’s against the breaking treadmill. The maintenance crews don’t come anymore.
She runs in even strides, body tight with perfectionism, belly under control. Secret sideways mirror glances.
Sweat pours from her anxious forehead. The droplets stain the wheezing machine. Speed 8.5 — never less, never more. Clang.
I am much less obvious than her. I go to the pool. I writhe in chlorinated water. This morning I screamed into the water, but then I stopped, because I thought the lifeguard heard me.
After our respective workouts, the dark-haired girl and I retreat back into the locker-room. I change into my clothes. She pauses.
The scale.
The numbers don’t mean anything, I scream at her. Our bodies are ours — body positivity, body love. I slam my fists into the lockers. We are beautiful just as we are. I smear shampoo across the mirrors. I can’t help that I grew up watching my mom starve herself. I tear my towel and throw the threads everywhere. These ideas aren’t mine — society implanted them. I take my comb and snap it in half. I don’t want to control myself like this anymore. I take myself and slam into the wall.
“Why won’t you look at me?” I shriek.
She doesn’t answer.
