It's me and you, babe.

No one ever loves me for very long.

I used to be able to eat whatever I wanted without worrying about it. Cake? Yes, please. Nothing made me gain, I stayed 120 for a long time. And I was okay with that. At 120, people didn't call me fat or thin, so I never really noticed. Everything was fine.

I don't know what changed. I don't know if it was watching glamourous celebrities on TV, or studying pictures in the magazines, or if there was even anything that triggered it. But at some point a year or so ago, I'm not sure exactly, 120 seemed like a really big number. Then again, I've never been good at math, so maybe 120 is really, really small.

At first, I was too scared to do anything about it but complain and wish I had the strength to force that number down. I kept telling myself that I could get it down by working out, or eating right. But I loved food, and I've always despised doing anything physical. I'd eat something, and run to the scale, and then eat more, and cry about it. I just couldn't give up the food.

I remember that not long after I realized how much of a cow I was, my family decided to take a vacation. We went down to Branson, MO, and thankfully we didn't have much money to eat out, except for once or twice. There was a sign at one of the places we ate at that said, "Vacation Calories don't count". My family embraced that concept, eating like they'd never seen food before. I sat back and let them eat, figuring they were eating more than enough for all of us. The whole vacation, they mostly ate sandwiches and things we'd brought from home. I don't particularly like sandwiches, so I ate crackers. With every ice cream I rejected, something inside of me would congratulate me. When we got back from Branson, the scale told me I was 115.

I guess that's when I really decided to do something. "115 may be better than 120, but 110 would be even better," I told myself.

I'd go a week or so with little food, then eat for a few weeks, then remember that I'm too fat and go a week without. I just couldn't seem to get lower than 115. Until recently, last month, I finally got to 110. I can't explain how amazing it felt. 110, no way! But it didn't last long. I started eating again, Ana's voice faded for a bit. I got too happy, because I'd gotten a boyfriend who made me happy, and I stopped listening to Ana. Now, I'm all the way back to 120.

But Ana is back. I realized that I'd strayed from the path to perfection, Ana's perfectly paved path. I want to see bones. Bones are beautiful, I want to be beautiful. They're strong, they're signs of perfection. Some day, I will look at the scale and it will be 110 again, and after that it will go down every time. I don't want it any other way.

I'm still with R, the boyfriend, but that's more reason to be thinner. I don't want him to have to be with an ugly, fat, disgusting creature. He deserves the best. I will be better for him.

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Bring it on. Ana and I, we can take it.