He doesn't see my breasts or my waist or my hips. He only sees the nightmare.

Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.

They yell at me because I can't see what they see. Nobody can explain to me why my eyes work different than theirs.

There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.

Apologies mean nothing if you don't mean it.

Why not spend that time on art: painting, sculpting, charcoal, pastel, oils? Are words or numbers more important than images? Who decides this? Does algebra move you to tears? Can plural possessives express the feelings in your heart? If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!

I handed my tools. The two of them reached down to help me out of the crater I'd dug. ''Isn't that a little deep?'' Yoda asked. ''It'll help the roots get established,'' I explained. ''Established where? China?