Another fucking blog

I was 13 years old and my bra was stuffed with cotton.
I weighed as little as a normal eight year old but I still belived I was fat.
The school nurse called my mother every week to say that something had to be done, that I was sick and needed help, that she had to know if I at least ate at home.
Of course she does, mum said.
She's eating like a horse.
And there's nothing wrong with her. At all.
She is not sick.
She is perfect.

After a while, the nurse stopped calling.
Me and mum was very relieved.
And I was fine.
Just fine.
Still am.