![]() “norexia emerges less palpably as a humiliating physical and psychological affliction than as an elevated state of mind, an intellectualized hallucination,” wrote Ginia Bellafante in a review of Going Hungry, a collection of essays on eating disorders. As I write these words, my sister is an exceedingly thin, charismatic, disciplined woman who does brilliant work in her Ivy League Ph.D. (Their habit of ignoring it and at times facilitating it indicates something between denial and acceptance.) Are they wrong? Who knows. My parents raged for a few years against the routine but at this point regard it as normal-ish. E has a routine that’s more or less stayed the same since eighth grade-it allows her to eat (not much) and exercise (a lot) without really asking why. When we were 17, I developed anorexia, impelled by some unpoetic cacophony of motivations: wanting to be close to her, wanting to compete with her, wanting to rescue her, wanting to cancel her out. When we were 14, my sister developed anorexia, impelled by perfectionism, genes, whatever spectral lever it is that tilts the cosmic pinball board and then everything changes. My twin sister (we’re fraternal) is beautiful and accomplished. My parents, D and J, are lovely and kind and interesting people. ![]()
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