I did not choose those ways. I chose an eating disorder. I do not have all the answers. In fact, I have precious few. I will pose more questions in this book than I can respond to. I can offer little more than my perspective, my experience of having an eating disorder. It is not an unusual experience. I was sicker than some, not as sick as others. My eating disorder has neither exotic origins nor a religious-conversion conclusion.
I am not a curiosity, nor is my life particularly curious. That's what bothers me—that my life is so common. That should not be the case. I would not wish my journey through a shimmery, fun house mirror-covered hell on anyone. I would not wish the bitter aftermath—that stage we can never foresee when we're sick, the damaged body, the constant temptation, the realizations of how we have failed to become ourselves, how afraid we were and are, and how we must start over from scratch, no matter how great that fear—on anyone.
You may change your behavior, change your beliefs about yourself and your body, give up that particular way of coping in the world. You may learn, as I have, that you would rather be a human than a human's thin shell.
You may get well. But you never forget. I would do anything to keep people from going where I went. Writing this book was the only thing I could think of. So I get to be the stereotype: female, white, young, middle-class. I can't tell the story for all of us. I wrote this because I object to the homogenizing, the inaccurate trend in the majority of eating disorders literature that tends to generalize from the part to the whole, from a person to a group.
I am not a doctor or a professor or an expert or a pundit. I'm a writer. I have no college degree and I never graduated from high school. I do research. I read. I talk to people. I look around. I think. My only qualification, in the end, is this: I live it. If I bore you, that is that. If I am clumsy, that may indicate partly the difficulty of my subject, and the seriousness with which I am trying to take what hold I can of it; more certainly, it will indicate my youth, my lack of mastery of my so-called art or craft, my lack perhaps of talent.
You know very well you're not real. The next minute I was walking, in a surreal haze I would later compare to the hum induced by speed, out of the kitchen, down the stairs, into the bathroom, shutting the door, putting the toilet seat up, pulling my braids back with one hand, sticking my first two fingers down my throat, and throwing up until I spat blood.
Flushing the toilet, washing my hands and face, smoothing my hair, walking back up the stairs of the sunny, empty house, sitting down in front of the television, picking up my bag of Fritos, scratching the dog with my foot. How did your eating disorder start? I shrug. Hell if I know, I say. I just wanted to see what would happen. Curiosity, of course, killed the cat. It wouldn't hit me, what I'd done, until the next day in school. I would realize that, having done it once, I'd have to keep doing it.
If we are going to make this an issue about free expression, it should be about all the political expression lost to the free software movement. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow. Out of this stony rubbish? DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url. If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed.
Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to non fiction, autobiography lovers. Your Rating:.
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