My body went bad in Flagstaff. I had stopped counting. 28 days between periods. 35 days. 45 days. 15 pounds since high school. 20 pounds. 35 pounds. I lost track. I went to the doctor. He made me cry and then he named it--polycystic ovarian syndrome. My ovaries don't work. They won't let my eggs go. They hang on to them, form pools of fluid around them, push them into their walls. They won't let go. One doctor said it's a symptom of my chemicals, the ones that won't let me lose weight. The other said it's the cause of my chemicals, the ones that won't let me lose weight. They both agreed I needed to lose weight. They both agreed I probably wouldn't be able to. I stared at my naked body in the mirror and mentally took a knife to it. Cutting off my hips. Cutting off my stomach. Cutting the backs of my legs, the bottoms of my arms. I knew I needed to start counting again.