There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.
Do I want to die from the inside out or the outside in?
I breathe in slowly. Food is life. I exhale, take another breath. Food is life. And that's the problem. When you're alive, people can hurt you. It's easier to crawl into a bone cage or a snowdrift of confusion. It's easier to lock everybody out. But it's a lie.
He doesn't see my breasts or my waist or my hips. He only sees the nightmare.
The stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking didn't make her skinny, it made her cry.
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