I'll do the memo later. After Kristy...I need to write this all down, I need to see why she and I can't be friends until she understands. I have to understand that, too.

Last year, when we moved into the barn, I had those nightmares again. Plus, I missed the club, school was harder...it was all just so overwhelming. I felt like everything was spinning out of control. I obsessed on how I looked and then exactly what I ate...I got compliments on my weight loss at first, so I knew I was fixing something that was wrong with me, I was so ugly on the outside... It was Sharon who said I was anoretic first, in early December; I was so angry at her for that. But for as often as she is horrible with her hovering now...she was right. If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have gotten treatment so quickly. It saved me. In a way...I owe Sharon my life.

I was everything to everyone back then, I was Supergirl. All I had to do was stop eating. I lost twenty-one pounds; I could count each one my ribs, my vertebrate, run my fingers over them like the keys of a piano. To this day, everyone believes the story that I was just stressed from doing too much. I gained weight over Christmas break, I kept gaining slowly the next semester...I kept up appearances perfectly. Nobody knew that my trip to "Iowa" was really to a treatment center in Hartford. The older BSC girls know what it was anorexia. That it is. Those girls, Logan, Barbara and Tess and Dawn. I relapsed in early summer, but I clawed back. This fall, I've been better. Much better; sometimes I feel "normal" again. Not lately. I know that I'm sliding and why. I just have to keep telling myself this, that I know how to fight back, and not let the mirror shout back at me the way it does some days. Not let the people who treat me like I'm made of glass or that I'm "Miss Waistline" bring me down.

What Kristy doesn't get is, I've been standing up to anorexia for a year now. I'm fighting it. I found my voice for the first time in seventh grade, with my father. I used it more and more in eighth. I'm quiet, but I'm not shy anymore: I am not silent anymore. In the end...I will be shouting. In my own Mary Anne way, I will shout. One day.