I look myself over in the mirror before leaving the bathroom to get ready for work. I hear Ray pounding on the door, but I ignore him as I usually do. The scale reads "110" and I find I'm unhappy about this. I can't weigh that much, can I? I step off the scale and glance once more into the mirror. I wrap the towel around me and duck under Ray's arm as I head to get ready for work.

He doesn't know. None of them know. I'm a bloody doctor; I should know the consequences, right? But, still, it's hard. My life is spinning violently out of control and I don't know what to do. Michael's in Iraq. I nearly cost Pratt a patient and now, above all things, I have that surgeon's conference coming up. The stress is too much. But, I'm Neela Rasgotra. I'm perfect. I'm pretty. I'm petite. I'm put together well and I'm in control.

No. I'm not.

That's how they all see me: pretty, perfect, put together and in control. The truth of the matter is I'm none of those things.

What would they do if they saw any insecurities about how out of control I really am?

I can't control that Michael's in Iraq. I can't control that I misdiagnosed a patient, nearly costing the kid his life. I can't control the day to day of being a surgical resident. I can't control anything. But, I can control what I do and do not eat.

I can control my appetite as though it were a light switch, turning it on and off at will. I have to maintain this image of petite perfection.

Ray acts like he doesn't know anything, but sometimes I wonder if he does. Like when he offers me a bite of stir-fry or of his hamburger. I try to play it polite, but it's hard.

In the privacy of my own room, I once again stare at myself; pin pointing every roll; everything and anything out of place. I dress and I know what I have to do. Ray and I have about an hour before shift and I decided to talk. I stare at my hands, hoping he won't see the blood I see on them or see how rough and dry they are from the scrubbing. Ray looks at me like he knows.

For the first time, someone close to me has let me know that it's okay for me to be imperfect. I cry as I tell him the secret that I've been carrying around since I was 11 years old. He calms and soothes and tells me it's going to be okay.

But, I have yet to take that step. Ray's still in the bathroom, oblivious to my inner battle while I make my way to the kitchen to see what we have for food. I divulge in Twinkies, Oreos, Doritos, and Coke until I feel sick. When Ray extracts himself from the bathroom, I make my way in, hoping he'll be in his room. I let out everything I've eaten and flush the toilet. When I wash my hands and open the door, I see Ray standing there, a sick and disgusted look on his face.

Now what do I say?

Now, I have to be honest to Ray and most importantly, to me.