The first thing woman did wrong was eat.
Back in the beginning of time, before there was mating or power suits or iPhones, there were Adam and Eve and everything was lovely until Eve took a bite of that fucking apple. Then everything went to shit.

Maybe it was the fact I had a friend who was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, the king of all feminine neuroses, that made me really think about my relationship with food. Sarah had a lot of problems, not all of them psychological, that made her decidedly more broken than the rest of us, things doctors couldn't diagnose. She was a tiny person, in stature and in weight, and she spoke about her anorexia with a frank tone, an obvious defiance against her condition.

After passing over my most turbulent struggle with my condition, I did this as well. I couldn't be a REAL anorexic bulimic if I talked about it openly, then it was just a thing of the past. The not so distant past. If I said "recovered anorexic bulimic", I had overcome it and it couldn't touch me. It's creeping, spindly tentacles couldn't grab my ankles during lunch with my father and my half brother or push the food around my plate on dinner dates. This was about as effective as telling my mother my room was clean and then shoving all my things under the bed.

If I can't see it, it's not there, right?