I was 5-foot-8 and 112 pounds. My cheeks sunk in, like the fish face I used to make when I was little. My arms were like thin, dead tree branches. My ribs emerged from my torso like a parrot's cage, convex and wiry. By the time I landed myself in the emergency room, I no longer looked like your average all-American 20-something college student. An intravenous needle punctured a slender vein in my hand, replenishing my famished body. At my bedside, my nervous mother held on to my other hand so tightly that it ached from lack of circulation. Unsure of what was wrong with me, not one doctor suggested or even asked me about a potential eating disorder.