Living on Fear and Air
Food became a negotiation. Every bite needed permission; every meal turned into a test.
She’d prepare beautiful plates — roasted chicken, pasta, vegetables — and serve everyone except me. If Dad noticed, she’d slip easily into character:
“Lauren’s not hungry tonight. She’s learning self-control.”
When he traveled, the rules tightened. No dinner at all. Just water — and her voice echoing in my head:
“Real women don’t crave. Real women conquer.”
By fourteen, my world had shrunk to numbers: pounds, calories, minutes on the treadmill. I learned to smile through hunger, to laugh when people said I was “so disciplined.”
No one knew I went to bed shaking every night.
