Page 112 of Beneath the Hood

I don’t even know what it is I’m inhaling. But it doesn’t matter.

Everything fogs over, and on autopilot I continue to eat, Jackson’s accusations and the internet’s cutting words ringing through my ears and fueling my need, every memory another bite that slides down my throat.

She’s pregnant.

Photoshop does everything for this girl.

You have been looking a little... puffy.

You need help.

I let out a scream, my hands slamming down on the marble, smashing the food underneath my fingertips, my chest stretching so thin it feels like it will shatter into a thousand pieces.

“Blakely, are you...What thehell?Are you okay?” My father’s voice cuts through the air and everything in me freezes. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be out of town.

Turning around, my breath lodged in my throat, I lock on to his shocked face, his eyes wide as they scan the demolished packaged items and the ripped-up plastic strewn all over the kitchen.

“Blakely.”

His eyes lock onto mine, and for some reason, his gaze starts to calm the inferno and I slowly come back to myself. But as I do, reality hits. I turn and look at what I’ve done. My eyes scan over the destruction. “Oh my god,” I breathe.

The second I speak, my stomach churns, my hands coming up to cover my mouth.

“Blakely,” he repeats. “What is this?”

“I think I... I’m going to be...”

My heart slams against my chest so hard it cracks with each beat. I push past him, rushing up the stairs, flying past the pictures of my mother and straight-lining to my bathroom.

I barely have time to get my fingers down my throat before everything surges up, my body rejecting the food on its own. And with every heave of my stomach, control creeps back into my grasp, my fingers tightening around its reins.

When it’s over—the acidic remnants of bile burning my esophagus—a sense of peace cascades down my body.

Because at least now, in this moment, I don’t feel like I’m breaking.

50

Blakely

Waking up the next morning, my body feels empty, drained of every single molecule, leaving behind a hollow shell. But as I head down to the gym for my fasted cardio, the numb gives way to a thick, dark substance that weighs me down until my legs feel sluggish, and it feels a lot like shame.

I threw up last night. Imademyself puke. Lost control, ate thousands of calories, and then purged. Like a...

Shaking my head, I don’t even finish the thought.

You need help.

The morning sun shines light on things that were shrouded in shadows the night before. Jackson was only trying to tell me what, deep down, I already know about myself.

I have issues with food. And with exercise.

With control.

Anything that isn’t under my thumb at all times, if I’m honest.

It’s been there for as long as I can remember, but as I’ve become more popular in the spotlight, it’s gotten worse. Other people’s judgments and opinions are so far out of my reach, that I grasp onto the things I can—dependent on the feeling of perfection.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Repressions often grow wild when they’re unchecked in the dark. But I never thought I’d get to the point I did last night. And I won’t ever let myself get there again. I don’t think I need outside help, not convinced it’s as serious as Jackson believes, but I’m anxious to see him. To tell him that I get what he was saying, and I’m sorry for my overreaction.

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