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Blue Marble Review

Literary Journal for Young Writers

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Non-Fiction

Tread Lightly

By Pireh Moosa

“You look so cozy,” my friend says to me with a smile that pixelates on my laptop screen. I smile back, a little too hard. The sleeves on the jumper I’m wearing stretch slightly beyond the length of my arms. Inside them, I fiddle with the cold, silver ring on my finger, pulling it off and pushing it back with my thumb until it slides back and forth with ease. Then I switch fingers. It’s a healthier habit than the other ones, but not as effective. Stillness seeps into the spaces between the movement. Flickers of feeling and memory; the warmth he left in the wool, the way the sleeves fit perfectly on his arms, leaving bare hands that kept patiently at crossword puzzles. My thumb pulls at the ring too quickly and it flings across the room, landing with a prompt metallic clink. The Zoom meeting flashes shut, and I don’t send another link.

Someday the warmth will leave this jumper, I think to myself as bile begins to bubble in my throat. Tread lightly, says another voice in my head. Oscar Wilde’s. In a poem he wrote for his sister when she passed; one I read at my grandfather’s grave a few weeks ago from the collected works he left me. I haven’t been able to read more. But I haven’t put the book back on my shelf. It waits patiently at my bedside, thick with stories. I pull the jumper off gently. Maybe next time.

 

 

 

Pireh Moosa (she/her) is a media student, based in Karachi, who loves reading, writing, and anything musical. In all kinds of writing, Pireh obsesses over capturing the largeness of miniscule moments in time – the feelings, movements, and encounters that leave us changed, in some way. Her work is inspired by the likes of Vandana Singh, Ocean Vuong, Charlotte McConaghy, Rainbow Rowell, and many, many others, all of whom have changed her life. Currently, her published work can be found or is forthcoming in Star 82 Review, Ice Lolly Review, The Aleph Review, Pandemonium Journal, and Blue Marble Review.

Six

By David Chen

It is a perfect autumn 6 a.m. Morning dew drips from the edge of the roof onto the terrace, leaving darkened patches on the already mismatched wooden planks. The once lush plants that line the garden now wither, petals of flowers ripped off by strong wind, dried leaves tumbling to the earth. In this sixth hour of September 25th, the sky is ruled by neither the moon nor sun. It simply is—colorless sky that begins to tinge blue and see through clouds that drift, dispersed and reformed by the cold autumn breeze.

A pile of scarlets sits at the roots of the lone maple tree in the corner of our front yard, tucked away between two broken fence boards. The crows’ chirping rings through the open back door of the dining room. If I’m quick, I can still catch a glimpse of the flock as they migrate south. I grab a carton of whipping cream from the fridge and turn the stand mixer to high. I scoop 60g of powdered sugar into the mixer before stepping outside. A light mist coats my face, accompanied by the nostalgic scent of earth after rain. My breath leaves my body in a plume of smoke. With every ginger step I take comes a crinkle, crack, a crunch. The grandfather clock in the dining room strikes, six times.

To my mother, the number six is perfect. It is a perfect fourth of the 24-hour day, a perfect half of the 12-hour clock. In Chinese, the number six symbolizes 顺. It’s one of those words that doesn’t have a direct Chinese to English translation. Google translates it as “smooth,” which could work, if it means smooth not in terms of touch but in terms of action—as in a meeting that went smoothly or a smooth flight without hassle or obstacle. Either way, it’s a mark of an auspicious and promising future. It’s lucky.

A car grinds gravel into the ground, generating a brisk gust of wind that sprinkles droplets of water on my face. Another leaf falls from our sugar maple, trapping itself between the rusted bars of the storm drain. I stroll back inside, closing the door with a gentle nudge from my knee. A bouquet of plastic flowers sits in a vase on the faux-granite kitchen counter, and when I move them to the dining table, the thin, wispy fibers that detach from the petals make me sneeze. I bring the chiffon cake I made last night out of the fridge and let it rest. The golden brown crust crumbles off and leaves crispy flakes on the cake stand.

Not only is the number six lucky, it is perfect in every other way. It’s constructed by multiplying the first two prime numbers, two and three. It is also the sum of one, two, and three, which is perfect because those are the number six’s positive proper divisors. Three multiplied by six then gives the good fortune symbolized by the eighteen pleats of soup dumplings. The epitome of perfection.

I pinch the teardrop-shaped bottle of food coloring—one of the kinds you would find at the Dollar Tree, tucked away in some aisle with the other baking supplies—and let a few drops of red fall into the container of whipped cream, which lightens to a baby pink after a few quick stirs. I dot the icing in uneven blobs on the side of the cake and swirl crooked roses on the top. The cake doesn’t look as perfect as those sold in Sam’s Club’s display cases, but it looks natural. Handmade. Authentic, with hints of human imperfection. I lick the excess icing off my fingers—something my mother wouldn’t have liked—before dropping all of my utensils in the sink to be hand washed later. “Never the dishwasher,” my mother would cry. “Waste too much water and electricity.”

Despite my best efforts, I can never seem to be the “perfect Asian son” that I feel is expected of me. Kevin. Son of her professor friend at the University. Cornell. Now at Amazon, making a salary in the hundreds of thousands. Eric. Multi-award-winning violinist, straight A’s. Harvard bound. Xu. MIT. Chemical engineer. Successful career, beautiful wife, three kids. Things that are repeated over and over until they all sound the same, until names disappear and the individual people blend into a collective image of the “perfect Asian son.”

My mother yelps with pleasant surprise when she enters the kitchen. She pulls out her phone, a chain of six beads dangling from her case, and rushes to her birthday cake. Her thumb freezes just before it can take the picture, and she tilts her head to the side.

She frowns and asks, “Doesn’t it look a bit crooked?” “What do you mean? I think it looks fine, no?” I reply.

She thrusts her phone into my hands. “Aiya, it’s just a little bit crooked. Come look. See?

The cake is off center from the stand. It won’t look pretty in the picture.” I groan. “It’ll look fine.”

She looks at me. “The picture won’t be perfect if the cake is crooked. It just won’t look as nice.”

Her red lipstick is uniform, and I already know she spent an hour picking out the exact dress she is wearing and another hour doing her hair and makeup. The picture has to be perfect. It’ll be the memory she holds after her own memories have vanished, just as she fears one day they will. These photographs—always to be taken in sets of six—are what will link her to her past.

“Here, we can fix it using this.” I offer a solution, fishing a spatula from the sink and blasting the spatula with some water before handing it to my mom. She alternates between observing the cake from the top and from the side, like a child playing with the claw machine at my family’s restaurant as they dart back and forth to line up the claw. When the cake is centered, she hands me the spatula.

“Do you want a picture by yourself first?” I ask. She bites her lip, then nods, turning around to grab her sunglasses—to hide her wrinkles—and the cake. She holds it out in front of her and smiles. A smudge of lipstick stains her front teeth. I snap the picture, then at her reminder, take five more, so that later she can go through them all and find the one that was the most perfect.

I’m not like the number six—far from it, actually. Maybe I don’t remind my mother of Kevin, or Eric, or Xu. Maybe I’m not like her photographs, perfect snapshots frozen in time. For me, what matters is that perfect 6 a.m. on an autumn morning. The life that persists even as everything else fades for the winter. The moments and memories that are forever rendered in my mind. What matters is that even though I’m not a “perfect Asian son,” I’m still my mother’s son.

 

 

 

 

David Chen is a Chinese-American writer from Minnesota. His work has been recognized by Novelly, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and YoungArts, and is in or forthcoming at Ripple Lit, Kissing Dynamite, and elsewhere. He is also a co-EiC of Aster Lit (@LitAster on Twitter and @aster.lit on Instagram), and you can find him at @davidsongchen on both Twitter and Instagram.

 

Past, Present, Future

By Addeline Struble

(In loving memory of my Ellie Struble, my sister)

Hey, big sister, to catch you up
I’m 14

I started middle school
I am getting really good at dance
Isabel is going to college this summer
I have friends that I trust and love
Tipper is still here and misses you
I have my own room
I love plants
I am trying to understand math
I realize I don’t like planes
I like cleaning and organizing because it feels comforting
Dad and Mom are trying to figure things out
I actually like writing and I am getting better at reading
I’m still at the same school since kindergarten
I learned that I really really like jewelry
Especially looking at yours

As I list all these things I realize that you have been with me for all these things
Just not right by my side when I needed and wanted a hug
When I wanted a hug after my first dance recital after you left
When I wanted a hug after Milo died
When I wanted a hug after finding what I love to do for fun
When I needed a hug when I figured out we were moving to Michigan
When I needed a hug when I found out Mom and Dad were separating
When I just wanted to have one last hug with you

I’m sure you would give me a hug and say “Everything is going to be okay”
But I miss sitting in your lap
I miss getting hugged by you
I miss smelling your perfume
I miss hearing your voice
I miss hearing your contagious laugh
I miss your smile
I miss saying I love you

I think you would be proud of me
But I honestly don’t know

XOXO

 

Addeline Struble is a fourteen-year-old student at Sacred Heart Academy in Mt. Pleasant Michigan. As youngest of six children she enjoys writing, ballet, basketball, and summer sun. Ellie, her oldest sister, was killed in a tragic car accident in 2016. This loss has provided Addeline with tragic inspiration for her writing as a form of honoring her sister, while also helping herself and family navigate the pain of loss and joyful memories.

 

 

A Winter Morning in Delhi

By Haneen Naseer

I always wake up around the same time my alarm rings but it is never the alarm that wakes me up. I force myself out of the warmth of my blanket. Winter is no longer at the threshold; it has leapt up from the floors and shrouded the entire apartment. I haven’t quite adjusted to the cold yet. Every winter-time nose block tells me, much like the looks on rickshaw-drivers’ faces, “You’re not from these parts.” None of us are. Somehow it’s colder inside. One of them says it must be from all the water poured on the cement at the construction site in front. The other disagrees. I find my face wash and brush and toothpaste at the same spot I left them last morning. I like it when I know where my things are. I wonder if I’m turning into my mother; she always hated my messy bedroom back home.

The apartment is silent in the mornings. A chilly, lonely silence. I like it this way. I close the door to their bedroom lest the sound of my cooking wake them up. My hands are half smelling of chicken when the koodawala (garbage collector) rings the doorbell. I take the trash out and he asks for the money.

I say, “kal doongi, bhaiyya.”

Will give tomorrow, brother.

He throws me an unsure look. But nods and leaves nevertheless. I make a mental note to tell them, hoping I don’t forget by the time they wake up. It’s almost noon when they step out of bed, my flatmates. I don’t know if they are sleeping in or failing to get up. I don’t ask. We are not that close. Or rather, I am not.

I turn on the stove, wondering what oil to use. I still haven’t bought the sunflower oil. It’s recommended for chicken. We have mustard and coconut though. For a year, I haven’t been in a kitchen without both of these. Typical of apartments with students from more than one end of India. I always wanted to make friends with people from different places. Somehow I found them interesting. I think it runs in the family. Everything different is considered interesting. But as it turns out, humans are twisted, no matter the landscape. The cooker is hot enough now. I open the coconut oil.

I pour it in, glancing at the recipe my sister sent me. I’m not used to following recipes. I’ve always just thrown in random amounts. We all did the same when we first came to the city and started cooking. One of them is here with me now. I’m far from being close to her but I know her well. I know she always forgets to keep her clothes away from the bed after changing from one outfit into another three times. I know she cries a lot while cutting onions. Onions. That reminds me. I must put them in.

The recipe says I must wait now. I walk around in the 25 sq.ft. space of the kitchen, waiting. I can hear mothers shouting at their kids to wake them up. Families live nearby. Which also translates to, the mornings and nights are filled with shouts. In the mornings to begin the day, and in the evenings to spit out the despair of existence. Sometimes I regret moving here. But who do I have anywhere else? It’s weird how such a crowded city can be so lonely. It’s been over a year in the city I dreamt of in the lockdown, the name that substituted a lullaby when I rocked myself to sleep on especially difficult nights. It was a long wait to get here. And I’m tired of the wait.

I tip the cutting board into the cooker, letting the chillies, ginger, garlic and tomato fall into it, dramatic sounds enveloping the kitchen. One of them coughs from the room and I realize that I had forgotten to turn on the exhaust fan yet again. The ingredients begin hissing in the cooker and a sense of urgency builds up in my body. I try to pinpoint the source. Maybe it’s frustration or maybe it’s another of those signals that in every daughter resides a bit of her mother. Or maybe both of these mean the same. She always rushes in the kitchen, my mother, as if someone is beginning to write her death sentence as she cooks and only the completion of her work can rescue her.

The urgency doesn’t leave my body. It keeps building, alongside the growing sounds from the cooker. Images clutter my head. A familiar, unpleasant feeling crawls upwards from the pit of my stomach. Maybe I should sit. But I dare not. I rummage in the rack searching for the garam masala. The pain continues its ascent as I open the fridge to pick out the mint and coriander. Ah, here sits the masala. Of course. My flatmate always keeps it in the fridge. Another of the things I’ve never asked. I measure out the masala and tip the spoon from the edge of the cooker, along with the leaves, the chicken and the rice. It begins to smell like the Eid mornings of my childhood. That’s how I know I haven’t missed any ingredient.

The pain in the stomach seems to have been overpowered by an increasing numbness in my limbs. I don’t rest. I pour in the water and salt and ghee. And begin mixing, something buzzing in my head. Voices. From yesterday’s nightmare. I try to focus on cutting the lemon. One half shoots away from the cutting board and lands in a corner of the kitchen. A scream. I jerk. Concluding it’s from a nearby house, I coil back into myself. I squeeze the other half into the cooker, grinding my teeth together to stop myself from screaming.

Closing the lid, I begin to break down. It can’t be happening. The day has barely begun. I decide against collapsing on the bed, for fear of not being able to get up. I sink to the bed, head bent and fists clenching. Tears begin to cloud my glasses as I hear my flatmates stir in the other room. I try to stifle my cries. Frustration builds in my head. Feet stepping on slippers, slight knocks on the bedside table, sleepy groans. I keep trying. The walls seem to be closing in on me. Loneliness leers at me from all sides.

‘I want a friend,’ I whisper. The whistle blows.

 

 

 

 

Haneen is an aspiring writer doing her under graduation in English Honours in Delhi, India. She hails from a town in the south of India. Her writings strongly reflect her backgrounds and the changes that shook her life upon relocating to the capital city of Delhi, for higher studies— which is more than a thousand miles away from her hometown. Haneen’s passion for writing dates back to a young age and she seeks to peel off slices out of everyday life to connect with readers. She has been published in three poetry anthologies, “Soul Candy” (2020), “In Which Poetry Breathes Life” (2020), “I.R.L. Collection: 99 Poems on the Dark Side of the Internet” (2020) and in Issue 1 of the Juvenile Literary Journal of The Young Writers Initiative in 2020.

 

They Said We Were Born Just Yesterday

By Mercy Leshi

They  said  we  were  born  just  yesterday, they  said  what  do  we  know?  How long have we stayed  here?

All  these  sound  like  insults  but  no,  they  are  facts.

Yes,  we  were  born  just  yesterday  but  we  stayed  up  all  night  to  unravel  the  histories  of ages  past. We  were  born  just  yesterday  but  we  stayed  up  all  night  to  decipher  the obstacles  that  fell  our  heroes  past. Yes,  we  were  born  just  yesterday  but  we  stayed  up all  night  to  find  solutions  to  tomorrow’s  problems  already!

Yes,  we  know  not  so  much  because  we  focus  on  what  is  work  for  us  and  refuse  to  be distracted  by  fake  visions  and  missions. We  know  not  so  much  because  we  avoid  knowing  whatever  is  not  in  God’s  curriculum  for  us. We  know  not  so  much because  we found  out  so  much  is  too  much  and  ‘too much’  can  change  our  lanes  of  travel  so  we refuse  to  know  so  much  which  is  too  much!

Yes,  we  have  not  stayed  here  too  long,  but  we  have  traveled  far  back  and  way  forth  to understand  that  time  itself  is  a revealer.  It  will  soon  reveal  the  depth  of  our  strive  and the  height  of  our  drive  to  not  only  survive—  but  to  thrive  in  not  only  these  present  days, but also  the  ages  even  yet  to  come.

We  were  born  just  yesterday  but  we  stayed  up  all  night  to  travel  into  the  ages  past  and centuries  to  come!

 

 

Mercy Leshi is a Nigerian Creative Writer, Content Creator and Scribe. She’s a Lover of Art and Creativity beyond the average. Her works has been featured in DeAltar, a religious writing organization and SYNW, a society of young Nigerian Writers amidst others.

Empty Reflections

By Emma Andersson

Alone in the bathroom, I came face-to-face with my naked body. Illuminated by the harsh light, I studied my reflection in the mirror, scrutinizing the dark shadows tainting the space around my collarbones and across the undulations of my spine. I deliberately stepped on and off the scale, sure of an error, but I repeatedly confronted the same number. Lower than ever, each flash confirmed that this unrecognizable body was mine.

Three days after this encounter, I reclined on the doctor’s table. Scheduled for an overdue physical, our casual conversation pivoted as she moved her stethoscope up my chest and revealed the sharpness of my ribs.

“You’ve lost some weight since I last saw you,” she commented, a hint of concern noticeable in her tone. “How many meals are you eating per day? Are you exercising?”

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” I answered. “I walk almost every day, usually for an hour and a half.”

“Add a snack between meals and no more than one hour of walking per day. Before addressing your anorexia, I want to see some weight gain.”

I straightened up, crinkling the paper beneath me. The harshness of that word lingered. If she registered my shock, she didn’t show it as she dove into a discussion of the physical and mental signs of an eating disorder, connecting each to the behaviors I had revealed during our dialogue.

Was it then that my eating disorder began? A diagnosis from a qualified physician may seem like an uncontested point of origin, but in the days following our exchange, her observations incited reflection. Truth is, my story extends back father in time, though to when exactly remains unclear.

As I proceeded with treatment for my anorexia, I found myself obsessed with deciphering when it began. I analyzed and re-analyzed every moment of my childhood, desperately trying to discern which one triggered the behavior that brought me to my breaking point. Aware that such rumination bordered on self-destruction, I let the memories flood in nonetheless, each a possible explanation.

Age 10, a day at the lake, the first time feeling shame about my body. I removed my cover-up to show off my new pink swimsuit. My brother ran over, cruelly pinching the fat on my prepubescent hips: “When are you going to lose those love handles?!” I held back tears, and later, dabbed the oil off of my pizza and left the crust uneaten.

Age 12, Mom’s birthday dinner, Dad skipping me as he distributed narrow slices of chocolate cake. “You’ve had enough to eat,” he announced to all with a chuckle. Heat consumed my cheeks and I spent the night tallying up the calories from dinner. The next morning, I woke early to run before eating a light breakfast.

Age 16, the universal age of insecurity. I downloaded a calorie-counting app and logged every morsel of intake, down to a single grape. There was no limit as to what I could withhold from myself. I eliminated all wheat products and religiously logged 12,000 steps per day. I avoided parties, fearing the snacks involved, and exercised outdoors despite brutal temperatures and a body that ached for rest. Friends and family expressed admiration for the perceived dedication to my goals.

Met with endless praise, I never questioned the impact of my actions. I unearthed a new obsession, external validation, and my thirst for it became unquenchable. Eating disorders are an addiction, and I was hooked on the high of reverence.

Back on the examination table, I half-listened to the doctor rattle off symptoms of anorexia. Though my behavior matched the diagnostic criteria, I struggled to comprehend how the same habits that once solicited praise were suddenly labeled as disordered. Developed long ago, my “admirable willpower” transformed into “harmful restriction.” What changed?

Finally it clicked: I changed, physically. I recalled the hollowness reflected in the mirror, the way my pants hung on my protruding hips. Newly shrunken, my appearance matched the diagnosis, turning age-old tendencies into causes for concern. Aligning with the socially-accepted definition, others came to recognize my condition for what it had been all along: an eating disorder.

How infuriating this is, I think as I reflect on the years spent at war with my own body, on the energy expended on self-loathing. Had someone, anyone, seen past my size and noticed my actions, intervention could have occurred sooner: before I hurt my body, missed moments of joy with loved ones, and felt trapped by the darkness of my psyche. No matter how hard I try, reversing the harm done during that time remains impossible.

This narrative is not uncommon. For a multitude of reasons, eating disorder victims experience a lag between the onset and recognition of their illnesses. Latching onto the stereotypical image of the paper-thin anorexic teenage girl dangerously excludes people of color, older people, men, the LGBTQ+ community, and other marginalized groups from accessing the help they deserve.

I feel obligated to recognize my own twisted privilege; by achieving the anorexic stereotype – thin, white, upper-middle class, teenage girl – I received the help I needed. However, most do not enjoy that fortune.

Specifically, I think of cis men, prepubescent girls, postmenopausal women, and women using hormonal replacements who cannot meet the pre-requisite condition of amenorrhea in the diagnosis of anorexia. I think of bulimia sufferers, many of whom exist at Body Mass Index (BMI) levels deemed “normal.” I think of the victims exhibiting disordered tendencies but whose bodies do not satisfy the DSM-IV definition of weighing 15% less than their expected weight relative to height. I think of those struggling with eating disorders not recognized: orthorexia, an obsession with “healthful” eating, representing one of many.

These victims, whose bodies do not reflect society’s expectations of their mental condition, deserve support as much as the stereotypical victim does. How long must these individuals suffer, and at what greater cost?

Marginalized voices have joined the conversation in recent years: through her own story, Roxane Gay demonstrates how eating disorders develop in response to trauma; Kiese Laymon brings weight into a racial context; and Portia de Rossi recounts using her eating disorder to conceal her sexuality.

But to fully grasp the reach of eating disorders and their potential damage, and to support people of all backgrounds, this message must reach the medical community. Retaining a limited view of eating disorders that revolves around weight threatens the victims of body image disorders that do not meet this conception, rendering it impossible for people to receive help for their mental illnesses. Healing people after they become sick is one of the greatest flaws of our healthcare system, and the mental health sector commits this same fault. The medical system holds an obligation to keep people in balanced states of health, rather than permit the formation of preventable conditions arising from a lack thereof.

In the period of time between onset and recognition, eating disorder victims risk enacting irreversible damage to their bodies: infertility as a consequence of malnourishment; damage to the digestive system; comorbidities like anxiety and depression. In fact, anorexia nervosa demonstrates the highest mortality rate of any mental illness.

As I progress through treatment, I have witnessed how the medical and public perception of eating disorders fails those attempting to recover. Eating disorders do not discriminate on the basis of size, race, gender, ethnicity, or sexuality. So why do we?

In an ideal world, there should be no minimum level of sickness required to qualify individuals for aid. An effective system must grant all individuals equal access to treatment, regardless of race, gender, or class. Practitioners must expand their diagnostic criteria to account for age, ethnicity, trauma, and other factors that contribute to the onset of eating disorders. Finally, the medical community must recognize that eating disorders, at their core, are not physical; they are multidimensional disorders influenced by biological vulnerability, psychological predisposition, social environment, and family.

Given these complexities, diagnosis based on physical attributes must end. So does abiding by the belief that eating disorders exclusively spawn from attempts to adhere to societal beauty standards. This stance disregards the victims that turn to disordered eating as a means of coping with trauma and discrimination. Trauma-informed care has gained traction throughout the medical community, and eating disorder victims will gain from that same approach.

The medical conception of eating disorders as physical pathologies, defined by being underweight, trickles into society and into the ways we perceive our bodies and our suffering. Earning praise for my disordered eating and exercise habits harmed me and my relationships, before and after my diagnosis.

What if, as a society, we recognized these habits as symptoms of a mental illness – without regard for size, race, or sex of the individual in question? What if we stopped romanticizing weight loss, or better yet, stopped commenting on it entirely? What if we gave all those suffering from eating and body image disorders a real chance to heal?

Three years later, my body looks back at me in the same mirror. In her, I see softened hips, a belly full of enjoyment. I see round cheeks, pink after a day spent in the sun. I see tall shoulders, a sign of heightened self-esteem.

I recognize this body, but I also recognize what more reflects back at me: an earnest woman, a daughter and a sister, a loyal friend, an avid learner, a world traveler, and more. Though I will always grieve the moments lost to my eating disorder, all I can do now is move forward and be present in the moments to come. Healing permits this, and I am grateful for signs of its occurrence daily, but I continue to fight for a world in which this becomes a reality for all.

 

 

Emma is a third-year undergraduate student at The Johns Hopkins University, where she double-majors in International Studies and Sociology. Her first-person piece integrates reflections on her own experience confronting disordered eating with a sociological critique of its diagnosis in the United States.

Specifically, she addresses the way disordered eating is glorified in society yet pathologized in medicine; the current exclusion of many victims by a limited diagnostic criteria; and the inaccessibility of treatment. A survivor of anorexia herself, she argues that the medical community and society at large must expand the current practical and cultural understanding of eating disorders in order to help the growing number of people struggling with these diseases.

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