𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 was raised from the ground up knowing nothing but comparison and perfection.
She compared herself to her successful parents, supermodel sister, and glamorous friends. Instead of love, she harbored a raging jealousy for nea...
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S i m o n e
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An intrusive headache greeted me the second I stepped out of the shower.
I caved this morning and tried pilates as Ella-Rose advised, signing up for my gyms private sessions. I'd certainly underestimated how hard it would be, and how tired I'd feel after.
Sitting on my bed, too cold to leave my robe but too tired to change into something warmer, I looked at the time on my phone. 10:48. Only 1 hour and 2 minutes till I could have my first meal.
Intermediate fasting started as an experiment, mimicking my sister to see if I could morph my body into hers by copying her habits. It started off easy, but the longer I've been doing it, the more painful it is to make it to the 12 o'clock mark. I usually would take another nap after my morning workout or just mindlessly scroll through my phone, praying the emptiness inside of me away long enough to make it to my first meal.
This time, accompanying the hunger was a headache. I wanted to rip my body apart, anger bubbling inside of me. Why is it that I have to work so dreadfully for a body others are given?
Laying back on my bed, sinking into the mattress and alarming amount of pillows, my eyes drifted to where the painting was hung on my wall.
Father wasn't even mad at the price I spent to get it, I suppose he's used to my spending by now. All he did was shake his head and tell me to think wisely next time. Next time.
It hadn't fully dawned on me yet, that I genuinely had just spent 10 million dollars on a medium-sized painting that I didn't know the name or artist of. A part of me purposely avoided learning that information.
Maybe if I never knew who the artist was, I could pretend it was someone of the equivalent to Van Gogh and I'd feel better about paying so much. So instead I just stared reminding myself that ignorance was bliss.
Or I was until my bedroom door swung open, hitting the door stopped on the wall, and bounced nearly closed again.
"What's this nonsense about a painting?" Mother criticized, aggravated. "Your Father has been spouting about it all day."
