It all began in college. At a time when I should have felt the freedom to enjoy adulthood, I looked critically at the outside of who I was and hated me.
Living alone, with no one monitoring me, I could choose how to eat. Or in my case, not to eat.
In an attempt to re-shape myself into what I thought would be a perfect size, I kept up my insane starvation diet.
As I got skinnier and frail, I’d nearly faint from standing too quickly or exerting too much. I know my family was terribly worried—but this was way before eating disorders were fully recognized as a mental illness.
I was hospitalized once. My doctor tried to understand my reason for not eating—jotting notes in my chart. Shaking his head, he told me that he wouldn’t make a record of what I said—if anyone looked at my files, there was no need to have this affect my future.
Then the hospital dietician came in. She was grumpy and no nonsense. “Want a burger? Fries? How about a chocolate shake?” She left me without a backward glance …
It was always the dreaded 666. But could these temporary tattoos be getting us closer to the real Mark of the Beast?
