ABSTRACT
When I became acutely ill with anorexia nervosa at the age of 20, I couldn't understand why my friends and family were worried. I felt fine. More than that, I felt good. Sure, I was freezing, even in the muggy summer heat and had a nasty habit of blacking out almost every time I stood up. The hair on my head was falling out in chunks, and simultaneously sprouting over my face and stomach. Yet I could exercise for hours a day. I was acing my advanced science courses at college. And I looked in the mirror and saw a normal-looking person. In fact, I could stand to lose ten more pounds. Looking back, I realize my health and future were in serious jeopardy. If my parents hadn't insisted I receive inpatient treatment, I probably would have died. Yet upon discharge from the hospital or residential treatment programme, my parents were invariably advised to stand back – I needed to exert control over my food and my life, and they would hinder my recovery.
