Sophomore year. I've won a scholarship and am completely nuts. I'm at the office, editing for a wire service, racing through the pages, assigning, working, I'm finally a success, I'm taking five classes and getting all A's, now I can be up all night again, this starvation is better than speed, I'm nearly dead and don't believe it for a minute, I'm on my sixth pot of coffee, my fingers are blue, my hair is falling out, I'm winning awards, people stare at me with disgust, I couldn't care less, I sit at my desk all night, how many nights now? The nights become days become nights and I am working, working, working, starving myself to death.
I am nineteen years old. I am lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to a tangle of IVs. My heart monitor barely moves. I weigh fifty-two pounds. I am almost perfect. I lift my arms and admire them, bones covered in gray, dry skin. My fingers run their course over my body: the thin ridge of my collarbone, neck and chest sunken far beneath; the hollow of my cheeks, the way I can run my fingertips along the teeth underneath; the cavern in the center of my body, the way the cage of my ribs curves around the hollow, and my hipbones jut up, the way I can feel my internal organs through the skin. I wrap a fist around each thighbone. My thighs are no longer round. They are just right. They don't exist. I've done it. I've erased myself. I've won.
I pass out.
The first clear thought in years: I refuse to die.