When I was a little girl, it was immediately conveyed to me that nothing was more important than appearance. You can never be too rich or too thin. That quote was drilled into me from day one. It wasn’t unusual for me at age 5 to tell my mother, today I will starve myself. I was told to go ahead. My father called me fat, and had nicknames made up for me. I was always the fatter one. I should mention here that I have a twin sister, and I think it’s a miracle that she somehow avoided developing anorexia. No one deserves this. I partially blame my parents for my developing this. They all do, don’t they? Well, they certainly had an influence, to say the least. And of course, part of it must be my own fault, free will. Around age 10, when we got home from a vacation at the beach, my dad commented on my weight loss. He said I looked a lot better, I was so fat before. “Good job!” I started bawling. “Well you were fat. Don’t cry about it. You’re not as fat now!” Yet the nicknames continued - fatty, fat-ass, mully, tubby, meaty.

Then I found out we were moving to a new house. Thank God, an opportunity for a fresh start. Now I could do it, now I could lose weight. The first day at the new house, I weighed myself - 93 pounds at 52, f**king sick. I ate a little bit of popcorn and drank some soda then stepped on the scale, now it read 94 pounds. I had gained weight. “Mom, I’m going to throw up a little bit, just to lose weight.” She said okay, “Just don’t do it a lot.” I’m not going to get into detail, but obviously it became a habit. I was able to cut my food intake down to dinner alone, which would be purged. I would force myself to jog a 4-mile route three times daily, once in the morning, once before dinner, and once after. The weight began peeling off, it was amazing and the feeling of no food in my stomach all day was addicting. There was nothing like it. My parents knew something was up. At this point, I was diagnosed, seeing a therapist, all of that good stuff.