Objective: you will cite strong and thorough textual evidence to support analysis of what the text says explicitly as well as inferences and conclusions based on an author’s explicit assumptions and beliefs about a subject.
Read today's stories and answer the questions that follow.
Story One: I Loved Feeling Hungry
It began in October 2012, about a month after my 16th birthday. I was never disgustingly fat, nor sexually abused when I was six, nor a perfectionist daughter in a long line of high-achievers. I just wanted to lose a bit of weight.
I began to watch what I ate. I wrote food diaries and exercise plans, read health magazines and diet books. I developed a friendship with a new girl at school, I'll call her Lucy, who had similar concerns. She wanted to lose twenty pounds. I thought she was perfect.
She showed me her "thinspiration" scrapbooks - magazine cutouts of nearly nude models, hipbones protruding seductively and legs like pins. We thought we were so clever. We would discuss metaphysical poetry and Bill Ashcroft's Marxist views, while comparing our knowledge of calories. An egg white? 19. A grape? 1.7. I studied them for hours and reveled in all this uncommon knowledge, especially when I saw "fatties" on the subway gorging on a Big Mac (493). My food diaries began to include calorie counts, and at the end of the day I would total up my daily intake. It was such fun. I loved noticing a flatter tummy, or losing a couple of pounds.
Within a few weeks I had lost ten pounds, given up sugar, wheat, fats, dairy. I felt freed from temptation and need. I chose Lindsay Lohan as my role model - she had gone from girlish roundness to superstar skeletal. I could do the same.
My old friends despaired - I received letters pleading with me not to carry on. But each day I tried to eat less than the day before. In the morning I would weigh myself and the position of the dial would give me immeasurable (if momentary) joy, or terrifying self-loathing.
My periods stopped, my boobs shrank, and I lost interest in boys. Helpful friends would remind me that boys don't like waifs - they want curves. I told them I wasn't losing weight to get a boyfriend. Attracting boys seemed so trivial.
As winter settled in, I became painfully and permanently cold. But I loved feeling hungry; it gave me a sense of calm. I became paranoid about hidden fat in my food. If I hadn't cooked it personally, I would have to eat it raw. Thus I began cooking a large proportion of the family meals. I spent hours baking elaborate roasts and cakes, never touching them myself. I even did my homework in the kitchen. It was almost a shrine.
Every night I took a steaming hot bath (or else I couldn't sleep for my cold feet) and read recipe books.
My parents were in agony. I hated seeing them so distraught but I couldn't conceive of stopping.
By mid-January, my doctor had diagnosed me with borderline anorexia nervosa. My skin and nails were yellow, my eyes were dull and my hair began to fall out. I would get itchy sensations all over my body, I was constantly ill with colds, and I bruised with the slightest contact.
My wake-up call came one Saturday in March - I had my weekly dance and drama classes and there was a party that evening. I knew I would drink, so, to balance the calories, I didn't eat a lot during the day. That night at the party I was so ill. I had never been drunk to the point of being sick before, and I honestly wanted to die.
After that I made several short-lived attempts to "get better." They were usually spurred on by pangs of guilt for my family and the impact I could have on my 13-year-old sister's body image, or fear as I pulled out yet another clump of hair in the bath. These attempts ended soon after with careful studies in the mirror, and the conclusion that I needed to stay slim. The truth was, I didn't know how to eat normally any more. I would polish off an entire half-pound bag of raisins in one sitting (or standing - the majority of my "meals" were eaten in front of the cupboard with my hand in a jar), yet I was terrified of putting spread on my toast.
My raisin feasts would result in excruciating pain as my belly swelled up, followed by waves of panic and anger at myself for showing no restraint, and ultimately a promise that tomorrow I would eat nothing to make up for it. Clothes shopping was difficult. Even the smallest pair of jeans fell off my hips, yet I still looked in the mirror and thought I could be thinner.
When my mom hid the scales, I was so angry. I had desperate urges to weigh myself, to count the calories in what I'd just eaten, just to check. But that would only push me further away from being better. I felt sometimes that I would never "be normal" about food. It caused me so much misery and anxiety: I felt completely trapped. But one day I realized I had created my own prison, partly through my habits, but really through my emotions and thoughts.
So I let myself out. It is difficult sometimes. And it's early days. But I feel this time, at last, I've escaped.
It began in October 2012, about a month after my 16th birthday. I was never disgustingly fat, nor sexually abused when I was six, nor a perfectionist daughter in a long line of high-achievers. I just wanted to lose a bit of weight.
I began to watch what I ate. I wrote food diaries and exercise plans, read health magazines and diet books. I developed a friendship with a new girl at school, I'll call her Lucy, who had similar concerns. She wanted to lose twenty pounds. I thought she was perfect.
She showed me her "thinspiration" scrapbooks - magazine cutouts of nearly nude models, hipbones protruding seductively and legs like pins. We thought we were so clever. We would discuss metaphysical poetry and Bill Ashcroft's Marxist views, while comparing our knowledge of calories. An egg white? 19. A grape? 1.7. I studied them for hours and reveled in all this uncommon knowledge, especially when I saw "fatties" on the subway gorging on a Big Mac (493). My food diaries began to include calorie counts, and at the end of the day I would total up my daily intake. It was such fun. I loved noticing a flatter tummy, or losing a couple of pounds.
Within a few weeks I had lost ten pounds, given up sugar, wheat, fats, dairy. I felt freed from temptation and need. I chose Lindsay Lohan as my role model - she had gone from girlish roundness to superstar skeletal. I could do the same.
My old friends despaired - I received letters pleading with me not to carry on. But each day I tried to eat less than the day before. In the morning I would weigh myself and the position of the dial would give me immeasurable (if momentary) joy, or terrifying self-loathing.
My periods stopped, my boobs shrank, and I lost interest in boys. Helpful friends would remind me that boys don't like waifs - they want curves. I told them I wasn't losing weight to get a boyfriend. Attracting boys seemed so trivial.
As winter settled in, I became painfully and permanently cold. But I loved feeling hungry; it gave me a sense of calm. I became paranoid about hidden fat in my food. If I hadn't cooked it personally, I would have to eat it raw. Thus I began cooking a large proportion of the family meals. I spent hours baking elaborate roasts and cakes, never touching them myself. I even did my homework in the kitchen. It was almost a shrine.
Every night I took a steaming hot bath (or else I couldn't sleep for my cold feet) and read recipe books.
My parents were in agony. I hated seeing them so distraught but I couldn't conceive of stopping.
By mid-January, my doctor had diagnosed me with borderline anorexia nervosa. My skin and nails were yellow, my eyes were dull and my hair began to fall out. I would get itchy sensations all over my body, I was constantly ill with colds, and I bruised with the slightest contact.
My wake-up call came one Saturday in March - I had my weekly dance and drama classes and there was a party that evening. I knew I would drink, so, to balance the calories, I didn't eat a lot during the day. That night at the party I was so ill. I had never been drunk to the point of being sick before, and I honestly wanted to die.
After that I made several short-lived attempts to "get better." They were usually spurred on by pangs of guilt for my family and the impact I could have on my 13-year-old sister's body image, or fear as I pulled out yet another clump of hair in the bath. These attempts ended soon after with careful studies in the mirror, and the conclusion that I needed to stay slim. The truth was, I didn't know how to eat normally any more. I would polish off an entire half-pound bag of raisins in one sitting (or standing - the majority of my "meals" were eaten in front of the cupboard with my hand in a jar), yet I was terrified of putting spread on my toast.
My raisin feasts would result in excruciating pain as my belly swelled up, followed by waves of panic and anger at myself for showing no restraint, and ultimately a promise that tomorrow I would eat nothing to make up for it. Clothes shopping was difficult. Even the smallest pair of jeans fell off my hips, yet I still looked in the mirror and thought I could be thinner.
When my mom hid the scales, I was so angry. I had desperate urges to weigh myself, to count the calories in what I'd just eaten, just to check. But that would only push me further away from being better. I felt sometimes that I would never "be normal" about food. It caused me so much misery and anxiety: I felt completely trapped. But one day I realized I had created my own prison, partly through my habits, but really through my emotions and thoughts.
So I let myself out. It is difficult sometimes. And it's early days. But I feel this time, at last, I've escaped.
Story Two: My Dad Tried to Kill Me
My dad was a domineering man, an alcoholic who was prone to sudden mood swings. One day he was the life and soul of the house, the next dark and aggressive. We all came to fear his strange outbursts.
I was the first in the family to go away to college. Dad was so proud. We agreed that I should find a place well away from home, so I could learn to live by myself. A School in Western Pennsylvania fit the requirements. The year I turned 20, he arrived there to pick me up and drive me home for the winter break - a five-hour journey back to Philadelphia. He did this at the end of every term: there was no discussion.
By early afternoon, the car was loaded up with books and suitcases, and we were ready to leave, but first he wanted to visit my local pub to meet my friends, who had supported me through a nasty illness the month before.
Again, there was no discussion. One drink led to 10 more - his main drink being a double vodka and lemonade - and it wasn't until eight in the evening that he finally allowed me to start the drive home.
College life was the topic of the chat in the car. He was so delighted that I was studying, especially given my severe asthma. The fact that I had a girlfriend gave him even more cause for celebration.
After some time, he told me of a short cut through a nearby valley. We started up what was then just a narrow, unfinished farm track. After closing a cattle gate, Dad got back in the car and suddenly asked what I had done to his son - giving me a karate-style slap in the jaw.
Grabbing me by the neck, he then ordered me to drive on to a place where he could kill me. My glasses had come off with the punch, so I drove without them, unable to see much, as he smashed my head against the steering wheel.
The assault continued for around 20 minutes as we crawled and bumped along the seven-mile pass. I hit a few walls, which was better than the 50ft drop on the other side, and eventually made it to the main road, where the now battered car gave up.
We'd ended up on the main street, in the middle of a town centre, and some men in the town, seeing the car, came to help, thinking there had been an accident. Dad was psychotic by then and had his hands around my neck, trying to throttle "the bastard." I was past caring, and had gone into shut-down mode. I would have fought back if I'd thought I'd get away with it, but my father was a very strong man, and I'm not. I remember thinking quite clearly and practically, making the logical calculation that struggling would only make things worse. Luckily the men realized what was happening. One began talking to Dad, while another bravely pulled me out of danger, and a third called the police. Dad was apprehended and taken to the local police station.
A few hours later, I had given my statement and Dad had "sobered" up and calmed down. He groveled like a puppy and I agreed not to press charges on my near strangulation. Instead, he was simply cautioned and released to my mother, who had driven down with friends to pick us up.
The drive back, with Dad separated from me by my mother on the back seat of the car, was uncomfortable. I remember spending it staring at the lights on the dash board.
We were never allowed to mention that day in his presence again. On the rare occasions that we spoke about it to each other, we put it down to the drinking. Looking back now, however, I believe that Dad suffered from an undiagnosed mental illness and can't help regretting the fact that I didn't press charges at the police station. If I had, he might have been committed, and had the chance to dry out in hospital. To this day, I feel my father would have benefited from some time under medical supervision, and proper treatment. Instead, he died an evil and long death through alcoholism, six years later, a pathetic figure in his last weeks.
If I had been less lucky that night, I would now have been dead longer than I was alive. More than 20 years later, my throat and voice box remain a source of difficulty to me, and I still have nightmares that cause me to wake and throw up. The main legacy from my father's attack, however, is that it has made me value life so highly.
My dad was a domineering man, an alcoholic who was prone to sudden mood swings. One day he was the life and soul of the house, the next dark and aggressive. We all came to fear his strange outbursts.
I was the first in the family to go away to college. Dad was so proud. We agreed that I should find a place well away from home, so I could learn to live by myself. A School in Western Pennsylvania fit the requirements. The year I turned 20, he arrived there to pick me up and drive me home for the winter break - a five-hour journey back to Philadelphia. He did this at the end of every term: there was no discussion.
By early afternoon, the car was loaded up with books and suitcases, and we were ready to leave, but first he wanted to visit my local pub to meet my friends, who had supported me through a nasty illness the month before.
Again, there was no discussion. One drink led to 10 more - his main drink being a double vodka and lemonade - and it wasn't until eight in the evening that he finally allowed me to start the drive home.
College life was the topic of the chat in the car. He was so delighted that I was studying, especially given my severe asthma. The fact that I had a girlfriend gave him even more cause for celebration.
After some time, he told me of a short cut through a nearby valley. We started up what was then just a narrow, unfinished farm track. After closing a cattle gate, Dad got back in the car and suddenly asked what I had done to his son - giving me a karate-style slap in the jaw.
Grabbing me by the neck, he then ordered me to drive on to a place where he could kill me. My glasses had come off with the punch, so I drove without them, unable to see much, as he smashed my head against the steering wheel.
The assault continued for around 20 minutes as we crawled and bumped along the seven-mile pass. I hit a few walls, which was better than the 50ft drop on the other side, and eventually made it to the main road, where the now battered car gave up.
We'd ended up on the main street, in the middle of a town centre, and some men in the town, seeing the car, came to help, thinking there had been an accident. Dad was psychotic by then and had his hands around my neck, trying to throttle "the bastard." I was past caring, and had gone into shut-down mode. I would have fought back if I'd thought I'd get away with it, but my father was a very strong man, and I'm not. I remember thinking quite clearly and practically, making the logical calculation that struggling would only make things worse. Luckily the men realized what was happening. One began talking to Dad, while another bravely pulled me out of danger, and a third called the police. Dad was apprehended and taken to the local police station.
A few hours later, I had given my statement and Dad had "sobered" up and calmed down. He groveled like a puppy and I agreed not to press charges on my near strangulation. Instead, he was simply cautioned and released to my mother, who had driven down with friends to pick us up.
The drive back, with Dad separated from me by my mother on the back seat of the car, was uncomfortable. I remember spending it staring at the lights on the dash board.
We were never allowed to mention that day in his presence again. On the rare occasions that we spoke about it to each other, we put it down to the drinking. Looking back now, however, I believe that Dad suffered from an undiagnosed mental illness and can't help regretting the fact that I didn't press charges at the police station. If I had, he might have been committed, and had the chance to dry out in hospital. To this day, I feel my father would have benefited from some time under medical supervision, and proper treatment. Instead, he died an evil and long death through alcoholism, six years later, a pathetic figure in his last weeks.
If I had been less lucky that night, I would now have been dead longer than I was alive. More than 20 years later, my throat and voice box remain a source of difficulty to me, and I still have nightmares that cause me to wake and throw up. The main legacy from my father's attack, however, is that it has made me value life so highly.
