I felt like I had grown a million years since I had dumped Zeb. No matter what I did though, his words stuck. Every time I looked into a mirror his words rang through my head. Whore. Slut. Fat. Ugly. Worthless. Useless.
My sister was a vanity queen. She kept mirrors all over the house. So you can only imagine how many times a day I thought those things about myself. They affected my mood on so many levels. I felt hollow and sick all the time.
Ugly only meant I needed more makeup. I wore thicker eyeliner to attract more attention to my eyes than the rest of my face. I wore thicker bangs over one half. Less ugly that people would have to see that way.
I worked harder and longer doing chores and homework to prove to everyone I wasn't useless. I did every favor asked of me. I was strictly obedient to both parents and siblings.
I had taken up guitar previously when I was fourteen. I started playing it more and took singing lessons. I started writing my own songs. I worked long hours to perfect them. I took up dancing and acting. All this to prove I wasn't worthless.
I started eating a lot healthier. I gave up fast food and soda, and anything greasy. I only ate lean meats if any meat at all. I started counting calories, making sure I ate the minimal required each day. I took up an intense workout routine.
I felt better with my new look, talents, and diet. It felt good to be praised for all my hard work. But still, even with a diet, I felt overweight. I felt disgusting and chunky. After a few months of dieting and exercising, I checked the scale at the gym. Instead of losing any weight, I had only managed to gain another ten pounds. I was at an even 200. I felt sick.
I started spiraling downhill. Zeb's words came back stronger than before. I tried talking to my mother about the things Zeb had said to me. I told her how he had made me feel and how it still affected me. I thought she could help me. Maybe make me feel better about myself. Instead, she told me she agreed with him. I began carving the words into my arms and legs with razors that I had stolen from my fathers workbench. I carved them over and over again every day. I was determined the scars would never fade.
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