They were the girls that were born a little bit different from everyone else, who were treated a little bit differently than everyone else, who needed a little more help than everyone else.

 

Her name was Depression but everyone called her Attention.  Everyone knew her real name, but most refused to care.  Attention is how they saw her, attention is what they called her.  Depression lived on a tightrope, being force fed pills to keep her from falling off into deeper despair.  Only a treacherous thread held her above insanity, yet she couldn’t seem find her way off of it.  Her dear parents would rather pretend she was on a platform than a string, not wanting to admit to giving birth to what they considered a failure.  But she did fall, and she didn’t think she could go any lower.

 

Their names were Anorexia and Bulimia, the Nervosa twins, but they called themselves Fat and Ugly.  When they were young, the twins were inseparable, until Anorexia began skipping meals.  She was a dancer, a perfectionist, and the self-esteem she lacked whispered seductively into her ear “It’s just one meal, no harm that.”  Then one meal became two, and two became four, and a vicious cycle had begun.  But there was no denying the weight she lost.  There was also no denying the pain she felt and the confidence she didn’t have.

 

Bulimia considered herself a failure.  She felt as though her life belonged to everyone else, that they controlled her and everything she did, that she was nothing compared to her sister.  Next to Anorexia she felt grotesque, imperfect.  That was when she began eating to only excrete it into her white, porcelain throne listening to the twisted word’s of her own lack of self-esteem, “You want to be perfect like your sister, don’t you?”  So Bulimia continued, desperately holding on to the one thing about her life she could control.  Both girls drew away from those around them and each other, living in denial and each day believing more and more that they really were just fat and ugly.

 

Her name was Bipolar, but everyone called her Moody. Not one person knew her name, not even she. She lived her life on a roller coaster, sometimes high with bright eyes and wide smiles. Unmatched optimism rushed through her veins. She thought less and did more. But these moments of mania always preceded the drop. At these lows she felt worthless, useless, horrified to be alive. She couldn’t eat or sleep, anxious and angry about small and big things. After all this she was forced back up into the mania then right back down again. The changes were erratic, sometimes by the hour, the week, or somewhere in between. And Bipolar didn’t know why this was happening, why she was forced on this roller coaster and couldn’t get off. If only one person had been able to tell her, “You’re name is Bipolar.” things might have changed.

 

Her name was Obsessive Compulsive, but they called her Crazy.  She lived by a set of standards, everything had to be just right, everything had to a certain way.  Fear is what drove her, fear that if one thing wasn't just right her whole world would fall apart.  She lived a slave to these necessities, each day their hold growing stronger and stronger.  Obsessive Compulsive knew that letting these desires win only made their grasp more powerful, but she just couldn’t stop.  They told her to “just get over it” , to “just stop.” They acted like she chose to live with these intruding thoughts.  

 

 

They were the girls that fell.  They could feel the pain and anguish that suffocated them and fogged their views of the world.  The world was bleak to their eyes.  They were as low as they thought possible when the parasite struck.

 

Suicide was like a black widow.  Elegant and beautiful, yet deadly.  It crept in quietly, ever so gracefully brushing past each girl, but leaving its mark.  In suicide, they saw relief, a way out.  It’s gentle touch and whispering words of eternal comfort enticed them.  Its venomous lies and poisonous promises were injected into their minds and twisted their thoughts.  Without warning, their moment of comfort became excruciatingly painful, and before they knew it, they had hit rock bottom.

 

Depression gave into suicide, but as she was attempting the act her dear parents walked in.  She was then sent away, “to get help” her parents claimed.  “Because we don’t want to deal with you” is what they didn’t claim.  While the new medications and the added therapist did help, she never felt completely cured.  While she couldn’t say she was better she couldn't say she was worse.

 

Anorexia didn’t make it to suicide.  Before she had the chance to go through with it she fell ill from her failure to eat.  By the time the feeding tube reached her stomach, it was too late.  She fell asleep to the soothing words of her own self Esteem, “At least you died thin.”

 

After witnessing the death of her sister, Bulimia managed to turn her life around.  Of course, it wasn’t easy, and she was never perfect about it, but she managed.  Each time she relapsed she had to fight off the taunting of her self-esteem, but each time it’s words grew quieter, until they disappeared altogether.

 

Bipolar finished the act, clean cut.  With a gun to her head and a bullet through her brain.  No one ever knew her name.

 

Obsessive Compulsive fought tooth and nail, refusing to let suicide beat her the way her compulsions did.  With her new found strength, the support of her loved ones, and new medication she fought.  She fought and won, beating both suicide and the compulsions and vowing to never give up, to never give in.  

 

They were the girls.  This was their story.