She lay inside the depths of my mind’s labyrinth. Her words were viscously manipulative under the coat of fake tenderness. Such sweet bribery, she pitied the layer of skin on my bones, seeing them as the culprit as each inch was equivalent to burden. She would speak distastefully of my food consumption but soothingly whenever I would burn the calories, urging me to step on to the scale and see the 56 go down to a 48. Just a bit more. I listened, running laps around the oval until my legs could not take it more but she continued beckoning me forward, slithering through the tunnels of the labyrinth with a warning: If you don’t lose another two kilograms, you won’t be perfect. So, I did. Now, cut down on those sugars, girl. You’re already gaining more with all those carbs. I listened yet again, throwing out the lunch my father would carefully and lovingly put for me. “I skipped breakfast as well, and flushed the remainder of my dinner down the toilet,” I would declare. Good. 45. Just a bit more. The cycle continued: the repetitive process of restricting my food intake and, then, exercising to the point my muscles were numb. Just a bit more. Just a bit more. She would leave, eventually, though, but it was a struggle to let go.