I didn't write a f*******: post. I didn't tweet. I didn't want this to be a quick flame that burned out in a day.
I wrote an essay. A long one. I wrote about what it was like to be a girl who had been told, over and over again, that she didn't deserve to exist. I wrote about the bet, about the way it had made me feel, about the eating disorder that had almost killed me. I wrote about the slow process of healing, about the years I had spent learning to see myself as something other than a problem to be solved.
And I wrote about Lila. I named her. I described what she had done, in detail, from the first time she had called me fat in the locker room to the betting sheet at the reunion. I didn't exaggerate. I didn't call her names. I just told the truth.
I wrote it all down, and then I sat
