Ten years and two days ago, I called Brandon from a Starbucks parking lot and told him I was going to die. I’d just ordered a double shot of espresso so I wouldn’t pass out, and my heart was beating too fast and I kept looking in my rearview mirror at my eyes because the whites of them looked gray. They’d been looking gray for a while. I’d been sometimes anorexic, but mostly bulimic, for three-and-a-half years at that point. It was a secret. I was consumed by it. I couldn’t stop living the w...