The bug inside my head

We all get sick at some point. We either had a fever, a cold, or something more serious. In my case, it was always like this as far back as I can remember. High fever, the occasional virus, a cold, stomach problems, etc. Nothing that rest, tea, and medicine can't solve. Until I got sick with something specific. This illness started discreetly and slowly; I got sicker and sicker until it took over me. This illness has something different from the ones I've had before, since first it makes my head sick—yes, my head as if it were a little bug that starts to take control of my head and then my body. This bug is very intelligent; it makes you sick at the most vulnerable moment and with the most insecurities. This bug takes its time to persuade me; it talks to me, but as if it were talking to me through my thoughts, as if it were sending them through a little tube inside my head that goes straight to my thoughts. This disease is very destructive because somehow this little bug convinces you and manipulates you by telling you what is best, what you have to do, and what is right. Within my desperation, my hatred, and my insecurities, I believe it and leave it; I pay attention to it, and I even agree with what it suggests (forces me). You don't know the happiness, the joy I felt at the moment when "My bug's best friend" showed me that I had lost a kilo. "It means that it works, that I'm right," I tell myself. Are you right? Are you right? No, it's impossible; you have nothing. Since you got in there, you get lost, you get confused, and you feel that you are at your best, that you finally control yourself, but it's the opposite; you lose control in front of this little bug. I remember so many atrocities that you made me do and so much harm that you did to me that you led me to other problems. I remember how you hated what gave me life, what kept me energized and healthy. How you made me look in the mirror and make me see something totally different even though I could already feel my ribs; I could even count them, but you were never satisfied. I never reach to your expectecions bug. “Who’s going to love you like that? Today don’t even think about going over 500 calories, and find a way to burn 1000; that way you’ll be prettier and... thinner,” you would tell me. I remember having counted wrong once; I went wrong; I remember the terror you made me suffer; I started exercising immediately; I had to lose weight to make up for my crime. Months went by; my mother noticed I was thinner shortly after starting school; they bombarded me with questions, but I knew how to lie. My boat always came back full, and my mother soon after took me to my doctor. She was a doctor who was like an aunt,oneof my mothers best friends. I remember weighing myself beforehand to make sure I was okay—that I was thin and light enough. I remember when I first got in and she hugged me; her face was sad. She looked at me as if I had done something horrible, and she was right; even so, they weighed me, and I remember her words, “No, you can’t weigh this.” My recovery was horrible at first. I had to do things that were forbidden by my little bug. I had to eat. It was a roller coaster of twists, turns, and ups. It was so overwhelming that I kept trying to negotiate with the doctor. And I weighed every food I devised; I counted every calorie each day and added it up for a weekly total. Little bug, you play harder and worse in my recovery, this is going to save me. It was a lot; I couldn’t handle you telling me one thing and my parents telling me another. At the same time, I had to fake a smile at school because telling this wasn’t an option. I cut myself off; I would like to say it was once, but it was more. “I won’t stop until I see blood,” I thought. Luckily, my scars were gone. It burned; it burned a lot, but it made me forget for the moment; my head finally went to something else, to the burning. I hate you so much, little bug; how could you do this to me? I was 11 years old, i remeberd how much my back hurts when i sat in a chair beacuse of the bone of my spine hitting the hard chair, or when it was hard to breath when i came up stairs. little bug, all because of your obsession with me whit my body , with your obsesion to lose weight to be healthy or what you call healthy that is to be more and more thinner until i cant anymore and die . What a liar you are. Anorexia, they told me your name was Little Bug. I want to tell you that I'm okay now, that I finally got rid of control, that I'm finally cured, because I make my own decisions because I have control now of myself as it should be... and one more thing, don't come back; never come back because nobody misses you here. I'm happy, and listen to me well. I can eat beacuse i want to live.