I wake up feeling like shit, what’s new. I drag myself out of bed to make breakfast or I don’t, whatever. I go into a lecture and stare at the ceiling for a little while. I have not had a shower. I buy a measly meal deal for lunch. I hardly do any prep for tomorrow. I go home. Maybe I have a drink with a friend. I think about all the people that probably hate me today. I repeat tomorrow. I am still sad, obviously.

Today, I wake up feeling fine. I drag myself out of bed for some nourishment, or my mum and body will kill me. I move my body because sadly exercise makes me feel good. I eat a wholesome lunch whilst indulging myself in some reading. I immerse myself in my studies. I listen to my cravings for dinner. I haven’t stopped thinking about the people that probably hate me today, but that’s okay. That’s on them. I feel much better, unfortunately.

My mother used to make me a nightly glass of hot chocolate to put me to sleep. At first, the ritual started as an attempt to get me to drink my milk. I would refuse to ever drink a glass of normal milk, but looking at me, you could tell I needed the calcium. By six years old, I had mastered the recipe- a teaspoon of hot chocolate, a hefty amount of milk, and she would top it off with water. One day, I came home from kindergarten crying. I could tell there were two teaspoons of chocolate powder in my drink that night. 

A few years later and I’m healthier than ever. I don’t really need the milk anymore, but I despise change. I come home from school crying almost every night. Two teaspoons of chocolate powder is almost standard. It is the only time of day I feel loved. 

As I matured, so did my taste. My teenage years began and my nightly drink of choice evolved to tea. Even when life didn’t, mum always got it right- one sugar, spot of milk, lots of warmth. 

I got to fifteen and I swapped my nightly drink for nightly drinks- cider, beer, pulls of vodka. Mum in bed, rightfully upset- but always a mug of tea to fall asleep to. 

At almost twenty, occasionally trading rich hot chocolate for glasses of wine and strong coffees at 3am, I can go without an evening drink made by mum- I’ve found my nightly hot chocolate in the warmth of shared moments and comfort from within.

It’s Thursday night and the room’s wavy because I’ve just had my sixth shot in a row bought for me. It feels like he looks at me like I’m the only girl in the whole room. Like I’m the most miraculous thing to ever enter his life. He leans in to kiss me and I feel cherished. Dancing. Carefree. I feel beautiful. Will you come home with me tonight? Butterflies. It feels like he’s just proposed. I nod and giggle like a little girl. True love.

He holds my hand as he walks me out of the nightclub. Fingers interlocked, I’m his now. People shove past but he won’t let go. He won’t let anything hurt me. On our walk home we’re giggling and chatting with boxes of takeaway chips like we’ve known each other our whole lives. Funny how conversation is so easy when you’re with someone that loves you so much.

Minute one. I get in his bed and hold eye contact. He gently caresses my face and starts undressing me. Nothing is in his eyes besides tenderness and adoration. He’s so in love with me. Minute two. He breaks eye contact to look at all of me. He wants to appreciate my beauty in full. What a gentleman. Minute three. His eyes are anywhere but my face. I notice he hasn’t said anything in a while. Minute four. He’s no longer smiling. He has a job to do and he’s doing it. Our relationship is now purely professional.

Minute five. Done. He turns over and abruptly falls asleep. I don’t feel loved. I no longer feel cherished. I don’t feel beautiful. My phone illuminates my face in the foreign pitch dark room before burying my face in the already damp pillow and crying myself to sleep, trying not to wake him. It was all a farce. A lie. Fuckable, not lovable. That’s all you’ll ever be.

I first cried about my body when I was seven years old. Every day after dance class, my mum would take me to a nearby bakery and buy me a cookie. On this Saturday, my ballet teacher decided that the most effective way to get my leg higher in an arabesque was to declare to my mother that I was “quite bottom heavy”. I refused my allotted cookie that day.

I continued my dance journey well after that. At nine, I would obsessively watch YouTube videos about dainty, skinny, professional ballerinas who would train 13 hours a day and live solely off of tuna and salad. In a heartbeat, I obliterated my cookie ritual. In fact, I gave up fizzy drinks, marshmallows, popcorn, and caramel. I sold my childhood to the possibility of a dancer’s body.

I’m ten and we’re having our first-ever talk about puberty. I’m semi-focused on the school nurse, who is rambling on about hormones and mood swings and crushes on boys. I quit dance three weeks ago and I’ve been easing my way back into the world of pizza and chips and smiling. I secretly snack on my leftover lunch and zone out, hyperfocused on the flashing blue and red lights of the adjacent projector. Side effects include weight gain… my head whips around and fixates on the nurse’s eyes. I didn’t eat dinner that night.

I’m thirteen and I decide to sign myself up for a jazz class again. I fall in love with the art all over again and throw myself into every opportunity involving dance. I try and ignore the constant gossip and competition thrown at me by the older girls in the studio, but I can’t help but marvel at their petiteness and delicate figures. The more involved I got, the more I strived to become them. The Tuesday before competition week, I fainted trying.

I turn eighteen in two months and I’m still an avid dancer. I enjoy tuna and salad but don’t survive off it. I gained weight over puberty, but I also developed so many amazing qualities and personality traits. I eat dinner every night because those qualities get suppressed when I’m hungry. And I still eat a weekly cookie.

I’m six. I’m allowed to go to my aunt’s house by myself for the third time ever. All I have to do is turn left and take the lift four floors down and she’ll be right there waiting. I step inside the lift- I see a man. I turn to press the button. He puts his hand on a place that mum had warned me about. I get out. I tell my aunt. She cries. You’ll be so pretty when you’re older.

I’m eight. I walk into my best friend’s house and find her mum crying on the sofa. I turn to my best friend. She looks down and tells me that her parents are getting a divorce. I don’t know what that means. Next day. School. She gets her lunch stolen and her hair pulled. She cries. If he teases you, that means he likes you.

I’m thirteen. He’s seventeen. That’s like, what, four years? Pfft, mum, that’s nothing, Dad is five years older than you and you’re fine. He’ll keep me safe. He’ll protect me. I’ll protect you.

Thirteen and a half. He didn’t protect me. I’m no longer allowed to see him. I walk into class with my head pointing towards my feet and my earphones as deep in my ears as they can go. I look up. Group of boys. Sexual assault joke. I better laugh. Don’t be a fucking snowflake.

Sixteen. I post a picture of myself on the internet. I smile. I feel good about it. I read a book. My phone beeps. I look at a comment. I cry.

Last week. I’m on the bus home when a man approaches me and sits right next to me. I scoot over. Several minutes into the ride he asks me if I would like to come home with him. I politely decline and glue my eyes to my phone until I can get off at the next stop. I open Instagram. But it’s not even all men.