On My Sister's Eating Disorder

I remember my sister growing up. Amy wore the same outfit as many subsequent days she could before my parents coerced her into showering. That outfit was all things fluorescent and tie-dye. She had fire red hair and thick, plastic rimmed glasses, and a natural, constant smile. My parents say I was the serious of the two, always analyzing my surroundings; my sister was the loudmouth with an innocent giggle and a slew of practical jokes. Society has pointed fingers and, with considerable naivety, equates a certain type of person apt to eating disorders - whatever you believe that type to be, my sister is not. And still, at sixteen, she suffered all the same.

Today Amy is my reason for all I do. She is why I get out of bed, why I write, why I try and do the best I can that day, because over the years something peculiar happened: Amy became the person I aspire to be. She is 22 this month, three years my junior, and I am so happy to say that.

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