Great article to end NEDA 2015
The night before I turned 27, I decided it was time to enter therapy and figure out why I wasn’t Mrs. Ryan Gosling already. Or, you know, happy. I was soon forced to confront a secret so shameful, I had never even admitted it to myself.
I always felt sorry for girls with eating disorders, but I never considered myself one of them. After all, I wasn’t going to be bulimic forever. As soon as my YouTube videos went viral or my boyfriend got sober, I wouldn’t need to throw up anymore. I was a feminist, dammit—I couldn’t keep puking. But I couldn’t stop, either.
Growing up, I was never chubby, but I definitely inherited my dad’s sturdy dark features—looking more like an adorable Guatemalan boy than mommy’s little princess. Meanwhile, my mom’s relationship with food fascinated me: She could eat whatever she wanted and never gain a pound. She’s one…
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