“Are you getting help?” the emergency room physician asked, his voice stern yet his eyes soft with pity. I wondered if he had a daughter.
“Yes,” I lied, averting his concerned gaze. My shame was compounded by awareness of my naked body, visibly starving through the slits of the humiliating blue hospital gown. “I’m seeing a therapist.”
Hours earlier, I’d bussed myself to the hospital after throwing up blood and feeling scared my eating disorder was going to kill me. I’d sat in the waiting room alone, too ashamed to tell my boyfriend at the time why I couldn’t meet up with him that night. I have too much homework, I’d told him (READ MORE).