The Girl With The Skeleton In Her Closet

Trigger warning: Eating disorders

Her skeleton in the closet wasn’t hidden to all, but it was to most. Her skeleton in the closet was, well, a skeleton.

Oh no, she wasn’t a murderer; I’m not going to lead you on and have you wonder how she got away with hiding a body in her closet, how she could shave stood the stench of decay. It was a different sort of skeleton in her closet.

It was her. Well, more so the ideal version of her in her mind, and only on some days. Even on the days when it was far from the ideal her in her mind, there was rarely a desire to get rid of the skeleton and clean up the cobwebs forming within it.

As time went on and she noticed the thoughts of the skeleton coming into her mind day in and day out, she grew frustrated. Every moment of every day the thoughts intruded on her relationships, hobbies, and moments of peace. The thoughts became behaviors. The thoughts became her enemies and her best friends. I just want it to be over, she thought. I need it to be over or else I’ll be over.

Slowly she forced herself to open the curtains in the room that held the closet, little by little letting some sunshine in. Squinting as if might be a bad decision, a terrible mistake she would regret. Although it was scary, in time, the whole room was enveloped in light.

Now, even though the room was bright, the closet door stayed shut tight for quite a while. Sometimes others would try to pry it open but the padlock she had placed wouldn’t budge. Just like Excalibur, one and only one could release it.

Some days the curtains would get closed part way again. She urged herself to resist the urge to shutter the windows and throw away the key for good. Then, as life blossomed around her and she found strength to keep the windows open, she decided to tackle the closet.

There were ups and downs and ins and outs and lefts and rights but she kept at it. Time passed slowly and then fast.

Finally, the door to the closet was wide open, the skeleton thrown away, and the dirt and dust bunnies swept into the bin. She had released this romanticized yet awful version of herself she so desired. She allowed herself to eat. She allowed herself to nourish her body. She allowed herself to rest. She allowed her body to soften, for the sharp edges of her bones be padded by flesh. She finally let the desire to be good at anorexia fade away.

Although she sometimes pictured that skeleton when she went to pick out a sundress or a pair of jeans, she promised herself not to dig it out of the dumpster and let it back in. She was free—not every moment, not every day, but free enough.