I’m 16 years old and it’s lunchtime. I’m sitting at the kitchen table with my dad next to me. Another meal, another mountain to climb. The clock on the wall shows that 10 minutes have passed. Twenty. Thirty. And I still haven’t touched my food.
I bend my head down and cry. My salty tears are seasoning the pasta. I cry because I’m too scared to pick up the fork and eat. I’m crying because the voice in my head is screaming at me, telling me what a complete failure I am, and how the only way I can redeem myself is to not eat.
