When I was a freshman, I was so sick. I was so, so sick. And no one knew. Without my family, I was not only free from their watchful gaze but also from their anxious, worried faces that encouraged me to eat for their sake.
By the time I arrived at the hospital, I had already blown through two doctors. I had learned to placate these individuals, feeding them the answers they wanted to hear and convincing them of my psychological progress.
The truth is that we still know very little about eating disorders, and much of what we say we "know" is actually conventional wisdom adopted as fact by desperate parents, sufferers and uneducated bystanders.
15-year-olds aren't supposed to have strokes. At least that's what I thought. I try not to think about it too much. Even now, I only have bits and pieces; shards of memories that somehow remained intact even through the trauma my brain endured that day