How did I get to this point? She asked herself. Why am I sitting on a plush chair beside my greatly confused mother in an outpatient treatment hospital program? Why can't I eat like a normal teenage girl? Why is everything such a struggle for me? Why?

She tried concentrating on the questions the nutritionist was asking her; tried to ignore the essence of humiliation hovering over the room. Tried to ignore that her mom was obsessing over every choice of words she spoke; over every sentence she managed to string together in an attempt to explain something she hardly understood herself.

Why did I ever agree to a path of recovery? What is recovery anyway? Recovery is getting fat. Recovery is accepting non-perfection. Recovery is giving up every sense of control I have ever known. Who would want that? What kind of person pursues this?

The nutritionist handed the young girl a mealplan, explained some rules, and gently encouraged her to stick with it. After some smiles and thank you's, the young girl and her mother let themselves out.

Alright Treatment Program, I'll try it your way for awhile... But I'm not letting it go unnoticed how frustrated I am.

The End

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