The first time I made myself throw up was an experiment. Sophomore year of high school, a girl in my class described to me how she’d tried to but couldn’t. I could do that, I thought. That afternoon in my bathroom, I proved that I could. I’ll stop throwing up after a few times, I told myself as days went by. I’ll stop after four times, or five, or seven, or nine, I thought, until I lost count. I’ll admit I felt a certain pride in myself, in the beginning. Suddenly, I had something that set me apart — something serious and secret and, it seemed to me, grown-up.
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