Eight years.

December 26, 2002. Eight years ago this Sunday. That was the closest I've ever been to dying.

It had been three straight days of non-stop chaos. Bingeing, purging, taking laxatives, diet pills, ipecac syrup. Going to work at the ski resort and forgetting why I was there. Spending hours in the bathroom. I was unhinged. I was malnourished and very, very disturbed. I had lost touch with reality. All that existed in my universe at that time was food and self-destruction. Merry Christmas.

The 26th. 72 hours into the bender. Therapist appointment. Had to climb stairs. Couldn't do it. Couldn't see the stairs, they seemed to be moving an awful lot. Therapist hoisted me up to her office. Couldn't talk. So dehydrated, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Therapist panicked.

Back to the hospital. For a long time. Tubes. Pills. White coats. No therapy, too disoriented to carry on a conversation. No visitors. Will she make it? It doesn't look good. Lots of damage, maybe too much.

Wait, this isn't what I wanted. Didn't really want to die. How did this happen? I just wanted to be thin. I just wanted to be happy. I just wanted to be good at something. To matter. Hard to matter when you're dead.

Girl got better, somehow. Body got stronger, mind got stronger. Did that really happen? Yes it did, eight years ago.