I was 13 years old and my bra was stuffed with cotton. I weighed as little as a normal eight year old but I still belived I was fat. The school nurse called my mother every week to say that something had to be done, that I was sick and needed help, that she had to know if I at least ate at home. Of course she does, mum said. She's eating like a horse. And there's nothing wrong with her. At all. She is not sick. She is perfect.
After a while, the nurse stopped calling. Me and mum was very relieved. And I was fine. Just fine. Still am.