Even though my alcoholism was a big problem, my anorexia was also getting out of hand. I went through an intensive program at an outpatient clinic and graduated from the program weighing a healthy 116 pounds. Everything was going great. I got a job and fell in love. Suddenly, I didn’t have a care in the world. My boyfriend thought I was beautiful just the way I was. I let myself go and didn’t care that I was gaining weight, again.
One day, I went out to lunch with my boss. We went to a small Italian eatery near the office. The waiter didn’t speak much English, and when he looked at me—maybe because I was slouching or something—he said, “You...preg-nant?” as he made the motion of a pregnant woman rubbing her outstretched stomach. I stumbled out, “No,” while my boss began laughing. I shrugged it off and laughed with him, but as soon as I got home that night, I decided to go on a diet.
What started out as a diet turned into a progressive death sentence.
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