ABSTRACT
I shut the door and slid the lock into place, oblivious to the metamorphosis that had just occurred. I looked cautiously at the white porcelain toilet with its silver handle and pushed the sleeves of my brown and cream striped shirt up to my elbows. Lifting the seat, I took a deep breath. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and slid my right index finger down my throat. [. . .]
The door creaked. I froze, terrified that I would be caught. [. . .] My heart pounded as I listened to the intruder enter the stall next to mine. I listened, petrified, as she flushed the toilet and unlocked the door. I heard the water in the sink begin to run, the hand dryer start, and finally the creak of the door signaling her exit. I turned around and thrust my finger back into my epiglottis. [. . .]
I felt clean. Empty. I had regained control. [. . .] That Friday night, I crossed a line. My New Year’s Resolution ceased to be
a diet and became a disease. It progressed rapidly. I cut my caloric intake to a maximum of 1,000 calories a day, and vomited more with each passing week. Soon, I was vomiting daily, usually after dinner. I felt weak and was plagued by headaches. I didn’t care. I was losing weight.
