It's April 22, 2020, and I've officially lost it. I've scrolled through my IG feed more times than I'll admit. I've watched (what feels like) all of Netflix. I've done every single workout video on YouTube. I've walked around my entire neighborhood 500 times. And color coated my already perfectly organized closet. I got back from a run about an hour ago. I showered, dried myself off —put on yet another pair of comfy cute pj's and sat on my bed. I sat and I stared. I stared at the wall like what now? Seriously. What now? Unfortunately, I don't know. I don't know when this shit is going to end. And I certainly don't know what life will look like once it does. What I do know, however, is how I'm feeling at this particular moment. Because I've been self-quarantining for over 30 fucking days. So yeah, I also know I'm going crazy AF, which is why I thought you might be too. Because this whole COVID-19 social distancing six feet apart thing isn't easy. It's necessary, yet, boring and tedious and is affecting us in more ways than we may have originally thought when this whole thing started. Same shit, different day. Stay home, they say. And yes. Stay the fuck home. Because I'd rather be bored, safe, and healthy than laying in a hospital bed attached to a fucking ventilator. But still, it sucks. Here are three reasons why.
I was sick of waking up in a panic. Except now, it wasn't just in the mornings or at night —it was all. damn. day. 48 hours after my doctor increased my daily dose of an anti-depressant, Wellbutrin, it seemed that this overwhelming sense of impending doom consumed me. In a previous post, I discussed, my experience with some pretty scary anti-depressant side effects. I thought, isn't this shit supposed to make me feel better? And that's just it —it was making me worse. So I did what any millennial in this type of situation would do —I researched those effects. Per my Google search, I better call the psychiatrist prescribing me these meds. He was nice, supportive and sorry I had such a bad encounter. After the conversation, I learned the side effects were, in fact, outweighing any positive leeway Wellbutrin could do for my depression. I was a little bummed. TBH, I still am. Because I thought the increase was really going to help. But no. No way, Jose. So I went back to my original dose and, "We’ll go from there," he said. A part of me felt like I was taking a few steps in the wrong direction. But I’m trying to remember that sometimes, going back is exactly what we need to move forward. So I did just that. But then, other weird things started to happen. And I call the doc again. At this point, he agreed, the side effects I was now experiencing were not your standard dry mouth. He wanted to see how I'd feel if I stopped the meds completely. Because what I haven't mentioned are two new symptoms —a few somethings my doctor said were indications of a bigger issue. Because now, I was having difficulty swallowing and breathing, which was scary AF. I mean, that shit was serious enough to warrant a discontinuation. So that's exactly what I did. And here's why. Here's what happened next.
Holy shit. Last night was one of the worst nights of my life. Let me tell you why. It all started after upping my daily dose of an antidepressant I've been taking for a few years. Because last week, I met with a physiatrist to work through some of my mental health issues. Like a lot of people with depression, I take two different antidepressants. Specifically, 150 XL milligrams of Wellbutrin (the starting dose) and 50 milligrams of Generic Zoloft. More recently though, I've been feeling like they're not working as well as they should. That right there is why I made that appointment to see if adjusting any of these meds would do the trick. My main complaints were lack of focus, fatigue and an overall feeling of sadness. Perhaps I have a reason but sometimes I don't. That doesn't change how I've been feeling though. Because besides having depression, I also deal with anxiety, OCD, PTSD, and a bunch of other shit. It's like I'm uninspired to motivate myself to do the things I want to do; used to do —would like to do. TBH, I've been doing the same shit over and over again expecting different results. And because I know that's the definition of insanity, I decided it was time to do something about it. So after telling that physiatrist, he said we'd start by increasing my Wellbutrin from 150 XL to 300. And go from there. He did preface that if I became extremely anxious from the increase, to let him know right away. I didn't think anything of it. But I was in for a rude awakening. Because two days later, at around 4:00 pm, I started freaking the fuck out. It felt like I was about to have a heart attack or a seizure. I couldn't shake this feeling of impending doom. Maybe because I was experiencing heart palpitations, body spasms, brain spasms, dizziness, racing thoughts, hyperactivity and some other really intense shit. There was a point where I didn't think I'd make it. And it starts a little something like this.
A few months ago I met with a genetic counselor for the second time. For those who don't know, I'm BRCA2 positive, which means based on family history and this gene mutation I have, I will likely get breast and/or ovarian cancer by the age of 60. Damn. That's a lot to take in. That's a lot to process. Because when I originally found out, I was 22. I remember saying I'll worry about this when I'm 30. It's weird because back then, 30 seemed so far away. Like I'd never actually get there. Well, now I am and it's real. I think that's the hardest part to deal with. Because sooner rather than later, I have to do to something about it. It's like, do I undergo preventative surgery and remove my breasts and ovaries —the things that make me feel like a woman. Or, do I risk it and wait? I've always said I'd have the surgeries. It's just time crept up and now it's here. I have some big decisions to make and I don't feel ready. Are we ever though? Here is what I want you to know.
They say no one ever quite forgets their first love. Maybe because long after it ends, our first love holds some type of power over us. A haunting, bittersweet grip on our psyches, pulling us back to what was —what could never be again. But why? Why should this one lodge in our brains be any different than the others? Even when the others were longer, better, more right? Probably because nothing is quite as intense as our first. For me, it was Friday, October 20, 2006. I was 17 years-old about to meet mine. Close to everyone I knew had a boyfriend. Except for me. I always felt like a permanent third wheel. But all of that was about to change. At the time, my high school best friend, Hannah was dating this guy, Lee. Technically, he was a freshman at some local community college. Formally, a high school senior, Lee was always a year ahead. But now that his grade was out, mine was officially in. I couldn't believe it was finally my last year at Cherry Hill East. It's like, I knew we'd eventually get here. But it always felt so far away. I didn't think the time would actually come. It's weird thinking about that now. And rather hard to explain. I'm sure you know what I mean. Anyway, Lee and I were friends. All of us were. My group —about eight gal pals and I used to hang out together on random drunken-fun school nights —basically, all of my junior year. Weekends too, of course. Lee had been trying to set me up with one of his friends. But so far, none were up to par. I wouldn’t call myself picky. It's just, back then, I was still a virgin —something most girls weren't. It was senior year, after all. And a lot of people I knew had lost it years ago. I guess I've always been a late bloomer. Because I had just started getting boobs —something I longed for as long as I can remember. Now, I was not by any means a prude. But as non-traditional as I've always been, I kind of wanted my first time to be with someone special. And it seemed like that someone was also very far away. There was this one guy. But he was only nice to me behind closed doors. I knew my first could not be with him. He was from the other side of town. An innate bad boy. A player for sure. But for some reason, he seemed to like me. Because we had been on and off for the past three years. And since you know I was still a virgin, you also know we clearly never slept together. That made me think he liked me for me. But you'll later learn, it wasn't so black and white. Nothing ever is. And at the time, I hadn't heard from Troy (his name) in a few weeks. And so, Lee promised he'd find me, someone, better. Thus far, he wasn't having much luck. He kept saying I was too pretty for most of the guys he knew. But he wasn't about to give up and I was more determined than ever. So one night, a week before Halloween, Hannah and I are at Lee's parent's house. That's when this guy, Lee's friend Zander comes by. Apparently, this kid had his license taken away (too many DUI's). Lee also said he had to get a new cell phone —basically every other week because he'd get rage drunk and throw it against a wall. So yeah, keep that in mind. Because Lee didn't think I'd want another bad boy. Except at the time, I didn't know what I wanted. I remember saying, "I'll know when I know." And this is how it goes.
Dear Food. For years I restricted you and then binged on you —part of me struggling to give myself enough of you and the other, demanding I get rid of you. I know so much more now than I did when my eating disorder (ED) first started. But it still creeps up. Who am I kidding though? Myself probably. Because I spend the majority of my day either feeling fat or obsessing about how much I weigh; trying to keep my P.T.S.D. induced flashbacks at bay. Whether I'm body checking, on the scale or trying not to open the flood gates, sometimes I eat even when I'm not hungry. I say flood gates because once I start, I find that it's hard to stop. So if I don't start, I don't have to worry about not stopping. A lot of people say, one bite won't hurt. But for me it does. Because I can't just eat one. Because I need the whole thing. I like foods that take a while to eat. Because I love eating. At the same time, I hate how this shit makes me feel. And yes, I know we need food to survive. But when I'm eating and eating and eating, I don't want to stop. And when I don't stop, afterward, I'm full. Really full. Too full. I have to lay down. That's usually when the food shame begins. Because my brain starts talking shit about how gross I am. Why did you eat that, Macey? The thing is, I know about trauma, dissociation, and how bingeing can’t be “fixed” with restriction. I know all this crap is interconnected. But I do it anyway. The worst part is —when I restrict and then finally eat, I tend to go overboard. Binge. Because I basically starved myself all day. So when I eventually allow myself to eat, I'm so excited that I can't stop. I need everything. So I eat everything. And then I feel bad. Shame. So I tell myself I won't eat a lot tomorrow, which usually turns to nothing. Restricting and then binging. It's the same thing all over again. And this is how it goes.
Opioid withdrawal is perhaps the hardest part of addiction recovery. It consumes you. Both physically and mentally. In fact, I'm not sure which one is worse. I do, however, know that you’re sick. Really sick and in pain. A lot of pain. Your joints ache. Hell, everything aches. All you want to do is sleep. So you lie down, but you can't get comfortable. Restless. So you get up, but you're too weak to do anything. So you get back in bed. And it's the same thing all over again. Here's what you need to know.
Achievement. Busyness. Perfection. That's what high-functioning anxiety looks like. That's what I look like. Because I'm trying to hide the crazy inside. But when it creeps to the surface, it transforms into nervous habits. Nail biting. Foot tapping. Hair flipping. I'm trying to soothe myself from myself. And I hope no one notices. But if you look close enough, you can see it. You can see it through unanswered text messages. Flakiness. Nervous laughter. The panic that flashes through my eyes when a plan changes. When anything changes. Because I hate change. I think it goes back to childhood. Because when something changed back then, my entire life went up in smoke. Because change to me, at the time, meant divorce, foreclosure, and loneliness. I suppose I fear that's what will happen when or if things change. So I pretend I'm OK. I pretend so no one realizes I am, in fact, a fraud —at least that's what it feels like a lot of the time. Because high-functioning anxiety tastes like a snake slithering up my back, clamping its jaws shut where my shoulders meet my neck. It's the punch-in-the-gut stomach aches —like my body is confusing answering an email or picking up the phone with being attacked by a lion. Because I'm a bad friend. I'm a bad person. I'm not good enough. Why couldn't I finish that thing I was supposed to finish? Better yet, why couldn't I start? Because if you don't start then you don't have to think about stopping. About failing. Because I'm afraid to fail. And I know you can't get something wrong if you don't do that something, right? Because the imposter inside tells me what's the point anyway? All the while, I appear perfectly calm. Because high functioning anxiety is like an attack hidden by smiles, concealed by a mask of the girl I wish I really was. And yeah, it's not all day every day but it does, in fact, creep up. And when it creeps up, it’s always me wanting to stay busy but also avoiding. Avoiding to the point that sometimes important things don’t always get done. Because that part of me would rather let things pile up than admit I'm overwhelmed. Because I have to be everything for everyone, right? Wrong...
This is weird. I never thought I'd be saying this. I never thought I'd have to write this. But here I am. Because being a twenty-something has been a part of me and my identity for so long. I swear it feels like I'm saying goodbye to an old friend I’ll never see again. I can't help but be a little sad. Way too nostalgic. And definitely grateful for all of my experiences. Because I'm a totally different person at 29 than I was at 20. I guess you could say, "That's growing up." Because I'm more me than I've ever been. I like to think of myself as vulnerable, open and real. I think I've accepted most of my imperfections. Because today, I wear that shit with pride. I used to try to hide it —making it seem like I was this happy girl all the fucking time. And let me tell you, it was exhausting. So yeah, because of that and everything I went through, I'm free. But it's still weird. Because it seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at the same time. In a way, it's like another me (even though it's not). I bet for most that's probably true. For me, I've spent the last 10 years trying to figure out —not only what I like and what I don't like, but also, who I really am as a person and what life means to me. It was hard. It still is. I had some pretty dark and shitty days —most I’d like to forget. It's just, I can't deny that I learned a lot. Because all that is somehow apart of the puzzle that has created who I am today. And the girl I am isn't who I thought I'd be. But I think that's a good thing. Still, I find it extraordinarily challenging to welcome my 30's —partly because I look like I'm 22. And yeah, that's awesome (don't get me wrong), but it comes at a price of never quite believing I am the age I am. Because I'm usually treated like I'm so much younger. That said, it’s hard to accept that I'm leaving a particular decade —when the majority of people I encounter, think of me as just entering the age I was 10 years ago. Damn. That hurts to say out loud. So as I think back to how things used to be, I can't help but reminisce about twenty-something me. This is what you need to know.
I'm sure at this point in your life, you've been sick at least once. When that happens, normally you have two choices. You either go to the doctor for some type of antibiotic or you sleep it off until you feel better. But what if you never got better? What if that cold or flu never went away? What if those temporary aches and pains and feelings of fatigue were permanent? What if it got worse? Like when the winter blues turn into a full-blown state of depression and you can't find a way to see light at the end of the proverbial tunnel? What then? Seriously. Imagine the anxiety of knowing what you have was constant. Imagine what it would be like if that doctor of yours said there was no cure, and that it would, in fact, be a part of your life forever? Now, envision trying to explain all of this to your friends, family, and co-workers. How do you describe this shit in a way they'd understand? Because you look perfectly fine —on the outside that is. How would you cope with having a chronic, invisible illness? Would you be deemed lazy or even crazy? Would you be treated differently? Would you be excluded from activities or on the contrary be so tired that you continuously say no to those friendly invitations? At that point, would it start hindering your relationships, both personal and professional? The short answer, yes. Absofuckinglutely. Because when you break a bone, your physical disability is apparent to the world. Friends, family, and coworkers can see the cast on your arm and know without a doubt that you're sick. “Get some rest,” they’d say in a concerned voice. “You don’t look well.” But that’s the odd thing about not feeling well —you don’t always look the part. So yeah, I'm not the girl I used to be and here are four reasons why.
I’ve been sitting here. Trying. Trying to figure out how to start this thing. But I’m at a loss. Because every time I try to write something, I get stuck. And then I have to stop. It's like even though I’ve moved past all of this —because I really am over it, I have to admit that sometimes it still kind of hurts. It's a strange hurt. Because even moments that were really fucking funny, it's like somewhere else inside, I don't feel like laughing. Because when I do start to write, everything —funny and not so funny, comes flooding back. As I shut the laptop. I can’t. That's when I ask myself, "What am I trying to say?" Truth is, I don't know. So I stay stuck in this strange flush of nostalgic imagery and as a slight tear streams down my face, I picture the girl I used to be. I remember how it started and I remember how it ended. I wish I could say that I don't know how things got so messed up. But I do. Because I just spent the last three years in and out of treatment. I had been home for less than a month and already, I was getting high again. I was hoping to find a way to stop before I got caught. So yeah, there were a lot of things this girl was wishing for. Mostly, that Aiden wouldn't be the bad influence everyone said he'd be. But I was wrong about that. I was wrong about a lot of things. Because two addicts in early recovery trying to make a relationship work can be a beautiful thing. It's like, he knows what I'm going through, how I'm feeling, and why. But it can also be so fucking detrimental for everyone's recovery. Because if one of you wants to get high, chances are, the other one will too. That's literally what happened to me. Because I wanted to get high a little more than I wanted to stay clean. And Aiden. I also wanted him who definitely wanted to get high. And that right there is how shit got so twisted. Because someone needs to be the good guy. The strong one. The one who says, "No. We're not doing that. And if you are, then I'm not doing you. Bye." But misery still loves company. And neither of us were strong enough in our recovery to be strong like that for each other. So yeah, we ended up bringing ourselves down together. And this is how it happened.
It all started because I had nowhere else to go. Well, technically I was still a resident at that Delray Beach halfway house I had been living at for the past few weeks. It's just, my tenant status was about to erupt. And my world was about to go up in smoke. As if it hadn't already. Because that's just it. It was all smoke and mirrors. You can only fake it 'till you make it for so long. And after failing a surprise drug test, instead of getting kicked out (which is normally how it goes down), the house manager said she saw something in me that she didn't see in anyone else. So she decided to put me on probation rather than kicking me to the curb. You'd think I would have been happy. I guess a part of me was. But for some reason, I was pissed. Truth is, I was in a full-blown relapse. Wanting —turned into doing and before I knew it, I was doing it every single day. It didn't help that my new boyfriend was a straight up junkie. Like between the two of us, we couldn't fucking stop. And then, the other night like a few days ago, when I couldn't fall asleep, instead of counting sheep, I spiraled. It felt like I was back there on that awful fucking night. Long story short, I found an article of this guy I used to know. And I say that with a mouth full of rage. Because this particular guy was just sentenced to 35 years in federal prison. What did he do? Well, he raped this 23-year-old girl. And he also raped me. It's not exactly what you're thinking. I'm sorry to say it's probably worse. So when I found out that he's been doing the same shit this entire time to even more vulnerable girls —well, it pissed me off even more. The worst part is, I've never really talked about this shit like ever. I don't even like to think about it. But seeing his photo and his victim's description of the attack, it made me even madder that I didn't speak up before. Because everything she said —like her description of the event, it gave me the fucking chills. Because it's quite literally what happened to me. Here's what you need to know.
It’s like I was trying to fill this impossible void. Because that’s just it. It’s impossible. But you try. You try like hell and as the intrusive thoughts grow louder, you find yourself submerged. Submerged in a sea of endless fucking shit. What the heck am I going to do now? And that's just it. I had no fucking idea. Because I was self-medicating instead of listening. I was doing a lot of things I shouldn't have. And it starts a little something like this.
It's 3 a.m. Everyone in the house is asleep. But I'm not. I want to be. But I can't. I can't because my mind won't shut the fuck up. No matter what I do, I'm constantly driving myself insane. As if the intrusive thoughts, constant checking, unswerving need for symmetry, order, and perfection aren't enough. Because nothing ever is. I mean, my lists have lists and then some. Because obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) isn’t just about washing your hands and checking locks —although that's definitely something I do; it's so much more than that. OCD is about constant urges and negative thoughts that even I don't really understand. All I know is that it's annoying AF. Because a majority of my mental energy is spent fighting off those negative thoughts —making it extremely difficult to focus on basic, everyday tasks. So yeah, just because you're a neat freak, doesn't mean you have OCD. For me, it’s like someone else has control of my brain. Like I'm being forced to do an endless number of completely random, pointless chores I don’t even want to do. Because what you don’t see are the thought processes behind the compulsive actions. Because people with OCD don’t organize shit because it brings us joy. We don’t clean because it’s one of our hobbies. Because sometimes, people with OCD don’t clean or organize at all. Because OCD can manifest itself in many different ways. So what's it really like living with OCD? Well, here are four things I deal with every single day.
I once heard someone say, don’t let people pull you into their storm. Pull them into your peace. I wish so very much that I could say that's what happened. But that's simply not the case. Because by now, Aiden and I are parked out front of our dealer's place. Something that slowly became our little ritual. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. We simply couldn't stop. Because we were just as much addicted to the process as we were to the drugs themselves. And by now, I was equally as addicted to him. When one mistake turns into another and then another, I realize he's not necessarily the storm. We both were. Because this twisted illusion of us being the people we said we were was a total fucking lie. But we were in love. And that's enough, right? Wrong. At the time, I'd fight you to the death if you said otherwise. And a few times, I actually did. It's just, he was the love of my life and that's what you do? Nope. Wrong again. If you remember from my last post, I promised to continue exactly where I last left out, which is exactly what I'm about to do.
I was never the type to chase a guy. Things with Aiden were going pretty well. So, I didn't really have too. But then, things took a turn. Not yet though. There was still some time in-between. But when it all came to a head, it's like; how did I not see this coming? Because we were getting high nearly every other day. But I was getting away with it, which made it all seem OK. As if me not getting caught justified our addict behavior. It didn't. I see that now. I was in over my head. But I couldn't understand that back then. Even if I did —because I'm pretty sure that's the case, I wouldn't let myself go there. I remember living with this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. My anxiety hit like a permanent hot flash. The truth struck like a chain of explosives. Was today the day? The day my mom would decide to drug test me? That was yet to be determined. Because I wasn't sure how long I could keep everything up. It's just, I knew I couldn't call it quits either. Like I said, in over my head. Because once I started, I quite literally couldn’t stop, which is around the time I lost control. Because that's just it. I had the will to do good but not the power. I mean, how can you stay sober when the guy you're seeing always wants to get high? Because relationships are hard enough. They carry enough shit on their own. But when you add in maintaining your sobriety while trying to maintain a healthy relationship —well, it's nearly impossible for you to do both. So that's where I was at. And this is how it all went down.
He was supposed to come over while my mom was at work the following day. I was already breaking the rules. What the fuck, Macey. I don't know what I was thinking. The truth is, I probably wasn't. There was just something about him. Something about him that made me lose control. But I wasn't about to let him know that. I knew how to work it. So at the last minute, I pretend something came up. And I ditch him. Not in a mean way. I was playing hard to get. I guess I played too hard. Because this was around the time he thought I wasn't interested. And I shouldn't have been. But I was. I was also eight months clean, which doesn't really count —seeing that most of my sober time was spent in rehab. There's no temptation when you're behind bars. The true test comes when you transition back into reality. Would I pass? Or, would I fail? I choose the ladder. Because I had been home for less than two weeks and me wanting to get high had already turned into a full-blown relapse. So yeah, that's around the time I lost control. And that's why they say not to date anyone when you're in early recovery. On one hand, yes, it's entirely possible for a romantic relationship to succeed when you're newly sober. However, studies show that most intimate relationships that occur within the first year of sobriety tend to take a turn for the worse. From what I'm about to tell you, I think you'll see why. It's just, if you knew what I was really up too, you'd know I wasn't actually sober anymore. Because what I haven't mentioned is how Aiden and I met. Here's what you need to know.
Do you ever feel flat? Dull. Lifeless. Uninspired. It's like, you're not necessarily sad. Because nothing actually happened to justify this type of darkness. It's just, you're not happy either. For me, when this happens —because it does, in fact, creep up, it literally feels like something in my brain is missing. Neurotransmitters probably. It's like sometimes, I want to cry. But I can't. And I don't actually want too. But it feels like I should. That's depression for you. Because it's not always sadness. I mean, yeah, it is. But it's so much more than that. Because it's not going to fit inside society's box. Because you can be laughing one second and wanting to stay in bed all day the next. It's like you want to do the things you love. The things that used to bring you joy, but you can't make yourself get there. So yeah, depression is misunderstood. Depression is also a serious mental illness that can interfere with a person's life. It can cause long-lasting intractable feelings of hopelessness. A loss of interest in shit you used to like is usually how it starts. But what does it actually feel like? Let's find out.
I guess I thought I was just too far gone. What’s the point anyway? But there was. There always is. If you remember from a few posts back, I was faking it as a healthcare recruiter —my first official post-graduation job. Employee by day. Drug addict at night. Eventually, though, those two worlds collide. When I decide to pick up more drugs instead of going back to work, I end up getting fired. As if I didn't see this coming. Because I wasn’t as good as my boss originally thought I’d be. I knew why. But she didn’t. And that’s the point. “You have so much potential, Macey," she said. Potential I wasn't using; I was using pills instead. I was also using my lunch break to score those pills. Because I had to have something to snort if I wanted to get out of bed. But I didn’t work too well on them either. I remember falling asleep multiple times in the bathroom. "Where’s Macey?" That’s when shit got really bad. Bad enough to accept an offer I should have refused, which initiated a chain of events that really fucked my world. That's the easiest way to put it. From one proposition to another, I became the person I said I'd never be. Here's what happened to me.
I was physically, mentally, and emotionally deteriorating. I had never been this depressed before. I didn’t even look like me anymore. And I hated the person I had become. But I wasn’t willing to change or do anything about it. I'd only complain. And then I'd get high. You could count on me for that. It's just, I'd only get like this whenever I was running low. So I made sure that didn't happen very often. As a result, I dug myself into a pretty big black hole. Rock bottom as they call it. There was no way out. There was no light either. Well, I could think of one. And it came from the foiled reflection whenever I'd smoke another pill. What the fuck was I going to do? This time around, I had no clue. On top of everything, I was pretty much in denial. Because I wouldn't let myself go there. As you know, I'd get high instead. I was literally obsessed with those things. My pills. And it nearly killed me. Because eventually, I became willing to do just about anything to get and stay high. From one job to another, I schemed my way in and out; until there was nothing left. Until there was nothing left to do but sell my damn dignity. Essentially, that's what I had been doing the entire time. I mean, you don't go from 130 pounds to 87.5 because you're healthy. I wasn't healthy. I didn't look healthy. At first, I could hide it. It wasn't that noticeable. But after a year or so of the same shit different day, I remember my dad saying I looked like a freaking cancer patient. And still, I insisted I was fine. I just haven't been as hungry, I'd say, which was true. Except, I left out why. Because I'd replace my meals with pills —hunger was more of an afterthought. Somehow though, I managed to get by. Well, until I didn't. Here's what you need to know.