I'm in the process of typing up a story from Elle magazine written by a woman suffering from an eating disorder. I've typed up some of it and will keep adding new bits:

On a clear day in March 2004, I admitted myself into the Highland Park Eating Disorders Clinic in Chicago. Or rather, my boyfriend Jay drove me there, stroked my clenched frame and kissed my sodden cheek as I signed on the dotted line. I was 30 years old and had been slowly starving myself for nearly a decade. Meeting Jay the year before had put me over the edge. Though he never asked me to do anything besides take long walks and kiss in the rain, I wanted to deserve his love. Each time we slept together I signed up for another aerobics class and eliminated another food group. Within months of our first kiss I hovered at a stooped 5ft 8in and just above {contains details that go against forum rules}. That’s when the courtship ended. On my 30th birthday, he’d staged a tearful intervention. For the next however-long-it-took I would be in this hospital 9 hours a day, five days a week, learning how to stop hating and punishing myself.
At Highland Park, I ate every meal in front of a monitor. I drew crayon pictures of my childhood dinner table. I listed my losses – my father and aunt at 11, my stepfather at 16. In a shamed whisper I confessed that I’d had an abortion just out of college. One of the counsellors insisted I talk to my aborted foetus. She held me as I sobbed for the empty spaces I couldn’t fill and the guilt I tried to answer with starving and mutilation. My behaviour had never been about the actual food or even my body. It was about the squall of self-disgust and loathing I was trying to outrun.
I was instructed to avoid all mirrors and windows. “You have a disease”, the doctors explained. “You can’t trust what you see”.
A month into my programme, my mother was diagnosed with leukaemia. After the first round of chemo didn’t work, Jay and I took it as out cue to relocate to New York to be closer to our families. My mother was my closest friend and her recovery seemed much more easily quantifiable than mine. I left the clinic in June with a few more pounds, a schedule of when and what I should eat, and a prescription for a serotonin reuptake inhibitor. The clinic staff were supportive, but told me I still had a lot of work to do.
“Recovery can take a lifetime,” the chief nurse warned.
“Got it! Thanks!” I waved cheerfully.
The next day, Jay and I loaded up a hire van, determined to start our lives over. A week later, my mother died. Jay propped me up as they lowered her into the ground. I was numb and hollow. I remember him excusing me from the funeral reception so he could feed me in a corner.
For the next year I ran from my reflection. Mirrors, windows, polished cutlery, even shadows were off limits. Still, I couldn’t shut out my longing for self-destruction. I felt interrupted and unmoored. Even if I tried to starve during the day, Jay made me eat with him at night. I hated him for being so sturdy and me for surrendering to my hunger. I was too sick with grief to cry and enraged with my mother for abandoning me. I was working on a dark stand-up routine that never made it past the first joke:
Me: “You know what I hate about my parents?”