The next week went by in this strange, awkward daze. I felt like I was trying to walk on eggshells, which if you think about it, is pretty ridiculous for someone my size. Because those things would just turn to dust under my feet. My mom and I hadn’t spoken, Jake and I hadn’t really spoken, and I felt like I was going batty. Vicki’s words had been tormenting me too. During another session she’d pointed out how my self-worth had become so entwined in the numbers on the scale. And for as long as I did that, I would be letting the bullies win, because I was still bullying myself. Until I learned to measure my self-worth by other means, I would be stuck in this cycle of self-sabotage, pushing away the things I really wanted and deserved—like Jake, and like wearing a beautiful dress.

We also talked about my panic attacks and I was given more homework: tackling those irrational fears around my anxiety. Like when I’m sure I’m going to die and have a stroke because my heart is beating so fast, or when I’m sure I’ll drown in the air. She taught me some breathing techniques for when the panic attacks hit, and we practiced good self-talk and focused on the things I liked about myself. We talked a lot about the dress that Thembi was making me, and how I needed to see myself in a different light, and that maybe this was an opportunity to do so. We spoke a lot about Jake, not necessarily just him, but guys like him, and how it was ridiculous for me to think that I would never have sex and be loved at my size. That was impossible, she said. She made me read articles, and research and arm myself with knowledge that I’d never had before. Now I’m not saying I was all cured and #bodypostivity vibes were flowing out of my pores, and I’m not saying I thought I deserved to be kissed by someone like Jake yet; I was far from that. Very far. And I still hadn’t managed to stand in front of the mirror yet either.

And then on Thursday, Xander called me into his office again. I went more reluctantly this time.

“Come in,” he called as I knocked on the door.

He wasn’t pumping weights and drinking H2O this time. He also wasn’t smiling as much and didn’t look as orange, but maybe that was my imagination.

“Please, sit, Lori.” His voice was more somber and therapisty this time. Like he was trying to overcompensate for something. Not hard to guess what. It might have had something to do with me catching him in the hot tub with my mom. I wonder if I’d caught them precoital or post? I wasn’t actually sure what was worse.