I used to devour biographies of people like Natalie Wood and Marilyn.
The problem with writing a book about bulimia is that whenever you go to the washroom, people think you're throwing up.
People don't know. We don't know ourselves so we tell ourselves what we really know is other people. We could say the depth of pain we feel for the lovers who've left us is because we knew them so well.
My radar, after all these years of sanity, is still off when it comes to what people do or don't mean.
At least you know where you are with blood. At least other people can see it.