“You have an eating disorder.” I was 13 years old, sitting in a therapist’s office, when I was confronted with the reality of my illness.
I had suspected I had a problem, but I refused to label it. I refused to give it power. I thought I would never have to face reality if I didn’t give it any attention.
I was wrong. So very wrong. My eating disorder began after a single comment was made to me on a walk with my mother. My body was changing quickly as a healthy pre-teen, and I was, for the most part, unaware and unconcerned.
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