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Now, at 103 pounds, I cruised the mall for sexy halter tops, high heels, skinny jeans. To my delight, I heard some of the older girls at school whispering, "What's her secret? If my gut stretched beyond the limits of my thumb and forefinger, I'd punish myself. A born perfectionist and people-pleaser, I was determined to become as skinny and perfect as could be.Away from my mother, who had tenderly raised me on fattening foods like lemon meringue pie, cheese toast, buttered grits, bacon, country-style steak covered in gravy, and cream chipped beef slathered over slices of bread, I no longer felt I had to please her by appreciating the food she had so carefully prepared. Boys smiled at me; grown men gawked from their cars. Soon after, my stomach stopped responding to two pills a day. Lunches with friends in the cafeteria morphed into isolated events in my room.It got to a point where I could hardly concentrate on anything but eating—or not eating.I often felt light-headed, dizzy, and daydreamy; visions of floated through my head during history class. No one dared to disapprove or tell the former fat girl that she'd gone too far.I'm sure my teachers were suspicious, but nobody ever called my parents or mentioned my frequent bathroom breaks to the dean.Instead, as the weeks went by and the pounds slipped off, everyone complimented me.

I assumed the water was too hot, so I turned the temperature down."You need to learn to hold your liquor," my friends said.My stomach rumbled all the time, so my pals told me to chew peppermint candies." That's when I decided I wanted to be popular and happy and ...which, in girl terms, meant skinny. But when I enrolled in this school at age 15, my thinking began to change. My muscles burned, my stomach cramped, and what felt like half my weight in water ran down the toilet. With their help, I began waging war against the fat.

Tenth grade was a whole new world, full of late-night gab sessions with my roommate and new best friend. One day, after listening to me whine about my weight for the hundredth time, my roommate suggested a solution: a little pink pill—a laxative. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I was astonished. For a second, the fat girl inside me felt almost...pretty. Yes, I had to run to the toilet constantly, necessitating all kinds of fibs to get out of class.I tightened my self-control, acing tests and joining clubs. I met a handsome 21-year-old boyfriend through my aunt, and I invited him to my junior prom. Sure, my friends were on laxatives, too, but I had taken my quest to a much deeper extreme.