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// Stop Hating Yourself 
// Story: Reality is the Hardest Calorie to Swallow 
// by Flutterpriest 
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I'm really tired of cutting my hooves on shards of broken mirror.

After washing my hooves, I stare at an empty spot on my wall where my mirror used to be. On the counter, a crumpled up note that says you're beautiful the way you are.

"Why can't I just get it together?" I speak to the wall.

I know I'm not speaking to the wall.

I'm speaking to the mirror that isn't there. To myself. Not to myself, but to that voice that believes it's me.

'You've done it before. What's wrong with doing it again.' I think. I don't think. I know. I don't know. I am told.

I tell myself that it's easy. I hate the way I look? Change it. One step at a time. One less thing eaten. One less calorie. It would be easy if I just stopped eating.

Or maybe it's not about the eating. Maybe it's about how it comes out. It's all science. Multivitamins. Shakes. Exercise. Sleep. 

That gurgle in my stomach? That's boredom. That's my reaction to stress. That's my reaction to me, talking to myself.

Here I am. Talking to myself again.

I look at the wall, expecting to see me.

I see nothing. I see my wall. I see my mental image. Me, my folds, and I.

I see something less than a pony. Something that doesn't deserve the nice things they have.

"No," I say.

I sigh and walk out of my bathroom and into my living room. There was a bag on my entry table. My shopping. I pull out of them two things. A scale. A mirror, which has a hazy film on it. I pick both things up with my mouth and move into the bathroom. I set the scale down and hang the mirror on the nail that was there from the last one.

That night, last night, was the tipping point. It's time for change. I can't hate myself anymore. I won't let myself do it.

I check the mirror for looking 'about right.' It's tilted. But it's hung. That's what matters for now. It's not about the perfect choices. It's about making the right steps forward. Not being perfect off the bat. That's why it's a process.

I set the scale down and pause. It's large, covering nearly the entirety of my bathroom floor. I close my eyes, knowing what I have to do.

On second thought, isn't there work I need to catch up on? There's more head shots to edit.

In fact, isn't that the most important thing? My cutie mark is me. Me the way I am. My fat is who I am. This is who I'm supposed to be. This is who I deserve to be.

I sit down, staring at the scale.

This is who I'm destined to be. This is who I deserve to be. I make laughs at my own expense. I make people feel comfortable in their own skin with my own confidence. My faux confidence. The mask sure is convincing, isn't it? Wear a Rarity dress on a runway, and suddenly I'm an inspiration to plus-sizes everywhere. Heck, that one blue mare that runs the pastry shop in Ponyville still sends me letters.

What kind of pony would I be to let them down.

I raise to my hooves. 

There's some pizza in the fridge. This can all wait another day. Besides, dieting is so hard.

Then a muffled voice, from the mirror. A shiver runs down your spine. I pause, recognizing those sounds. I look to the mirror, recognizing the pony in the muffled plastic over the mirror. It's me.

I grab the edge of the plastic and begin to peel. The mirror begins to reflect back, and I see myself.

"That's it. Just give up. What's the point?" I say to myself.

"I knew I would hate buying another mirror," I say to the mirror.

"But face it, you need me."

"For what?" I ask.

"You wouldn't get anything done if you didn't hate yourself."

I remain silent, glaring at my own reflection. I know it's not real. It's never real. I blink, and it's myself again. I wave a hoof. It waves back. I shake my head.

"You know, it would be easier if you just stopped eating," the mirror says. 

"I've been down that road. I'm not doing it again," I growl to myself. I look to the scale.

"What's the point?" the mirror whispers. "It's not like anyone really cares."

"I do," I say. "I'm tired of feeling like crap. I'm tired of always being tired. I'm tired of not being able to do things I like. I'm tired. I'm just so tired."

"Then take a nap," the reflection says to me. "Better yet, you know what would really give you a jolt? A Hoofin Dew. You got stuff to do. What's the point in stressing out over what you eat. Aren't you stressed enough?"

"Fuck you," I say, and step on the scale.

I close my eyes. I can feel the wheel spin underneath my hooves. Then bounces backward. Then forward again. Then, it settles.

I can't open my eyes. 

I can't bring myself to see. I feel my muscles shake. I feel my world melting away as my composure melts. What have I done? Why am I doing this to myself?

It's okay. No matter what the damage is, I can handle this.

"You can't handle this."

"SHUT UP. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP."

I open my eyes.

I can't breathe. I see, but can't believe. I shake. Tears well in my eyes. I feel hot but so, so cold. I feel so alone.

"Told you."

I bite my lip.

"It's bad."

"Of course it's bad," the mirror says. "What did you expect?"

"I-I-" I stammer, trying to make reasons for where there are none.

"See, this is why you go to therapy. You can't handle the stuff normal ponies just -do-."

I sigh and close my eyes again. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not again.

"So, you've been to both ends of the spectrum now. Isn't it easier on this side of the fence?" that oh so sweet voice asks. "It's easier than starving yourself and not seeing progress. It's easier than constantly counting calories and feeling empty."

"It's not about what's easy, and you know that."

"Oh, sorry. Didn't the therapist say to deal with sources of unhealthy stress?"

"Yeah," I shout at my mirror, stepping off the scale. I raise a hoof to myself. "But I'm tired of laughing so hard that I can't think or lose my train of thought. I'm tired of random scary chest pains. I'm tired of always being hungry. I'm tired of always burping or having acid reflux so much that I eat antacids like candy. I made myself this way."

"Oh really?"

"Yes and you know it," I shout back.

"It's not your fault your friends ordered a pizza."

"It's my fault that I shoved so much of it into my mouth. I control my body. Not my hunger. Not-"

"Go on-" The mirror says to me.

I blink.

And I'm alone again.

"Now you listen to me, you bitch," I say to myself. The me that's gone. "If I have to wake up each morning just to prove you wrong, I will. I'm going to make it work this time. And maybe I won't go to all the extreme lengths I did last time. Maybe I can't lose that much weight again. But at least I can go to bed knowing I'm not going to have a heart attack. Maybe I can unclog my arteries enough to breathe again."

I walk away and move into kitchen.

"It's worthless to try!" the mirror calls back. "I give it a week. The pizza's on you when you give up."

I grate my teeth as I stomp my four hooves as I head into the kitchen, trying to drown out the noise. The silence.

I open the refrigerator. The best friend I probably have. It's a give and take relationship.

I'm tired of taking so much.

I rip out the stale, sharp cardboard box. I can feel the contents inside shift in my hooves. I can't even deny that I want it. It's not even good. Three days old. Bottom shelf toppings.

But it could taste so good. The endorphins. The rush. That taste. That shine. That melt.

Maybe one last hurrah.

I throw it on the ground and stomp on it. With each stomp more questions pop into my mind. Why am I like this? Why does this happen to me and nobody else? Why can't I just be normal? Was it how I was raised?

Maybe I can still save a slice or two.

I take the box, shove it in the trash can, pull the strings, and pull the bag out of the can.

I turn, with a smile and walk into the bathroom, where I'm waiting, hooves crossed, in the mirror.

"There. Suck on that."

"Sure, okay" I reply.

"I did a good thing. I made a success. I'm not going to eat those leftovers."

"Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself. You still have a phone. You make money. You can break. You will break."

I growl under my breath and sit down.

"Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you, will it?"

"Isn't that the point?" I say back.

"Fine," I say. "Then maybe this isn't something I can completely do by myself. If all you're going to do is berate me, and not celebrate in my wins with me, then I have no reason to listen to your insults for my failures."

"You realize how funny what you said is, right?" the mirror replies.

"You just watch," I say to the mirror. "I'm going to make it work this time. And I'm going to trip, and I'm going to fall. But this time I'm serious. And while you may have helped me before, you made me hate myself. You made me get to where I wanted to be through making myself miserable. Well, I'm done being sad. I'm going to do this right."

I walk out as the mirror laughs.

"Sure. We'll see."

I make another step, and I hear a loud crunch. A searing pain up my hooves. I look down at the small shard of broken mirror I missed and see the blood run down my hoof. 

I know everything is one step at a time, but I just wish each step was easier to take.