In just a few days National Eating Disorders Awareness week will commence. Which means it’s been one year since I came out. I came clean in the name of bravery, compassion, healing, and helping. Or at least I believed those were my reasons. I announced to my little world that for years I was ensnared in the hungry jaws of an eating disorder. For a decade, I played puppet to a master whose commands differed so greatly from one moment to the next that the strings holding me upright were twisted and tangled and hardly even functional. I spent years counting steps and calories; pounds and fat percentages until my body ignored my calculations and stopped responding to my efforts to control it. And probably much like a teenager, it began to rebel and do the opposite despite my hysterical and erratic demands. I put on weight and retained water; my eyes were puffy and blood shot from the strain of purging and my gag reflex built up a tolerance to my bitter efforts to expel any trace of a binge.