I’ve lived two lives. The former was one riddled with despair, worry and constant frustration. The beginning of adulthood for me was a bite much bigger than I could chew. Just 22 years old, a new mother of twins finishing a BA at NYU, I found myself in the middle of a custody battle with the father of my children.
It was the single worst year of my life counted against other years: my father’s battle with cancer, his subsequent death, bouts of unemployment and romantic relationships gone sour. In that year, thoughts of suicide were rampant. I forgot to eat and my weight dwindled down to 90 pounds. My clothes draped over my bone-thin frame like I was playing dress up in my mother’s closet.
