After writing a novel that explored disordered eating, I needed to confirm the private truth I thought I’d discovered. Then I spoke to someone whose truth was far different from my own.
Money was tight, so I started taking on more questionable modeling gigs. I had to eat.
When a marriage ends, it doesn’t always imply a deficiency. At least, not a personal one.
Whatever happens over the next four years, remember that you didn’t bring this abuse upon yourself. You don’t deserve it. If your needs aren’t being met, it’s not because you have too many needs.
I grew to love candies whose tactile experience was on par with their sweetness—in texture, but especially in residual effect: the burn of Fireballs, the pucker of Warheads, the numb of licorice.
My desire to live without violence aligned nicely with my desire to be thin—at least on the outside.
I’m giving myself a pass to eat what I want—my husband has cancer, after all. I find that it helps to keep a taste in my mouth.
Starvation became a stand-in for the pain of loneliness; a way to account for it, and also to punish myself for being unlovable.
A man’s appetite can be hearty, but a woman with an appetite—for food, for sex, for simple attention—is always voracious: she always overreaches, because it is not supposed to exist.
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