Thankfully, more than a decade after all this stuff happened, I'm happy to say that I no longer treat my body like it's my enemy. Now I love to cook for myself and my family, and since I know how bad fast food is for you (even when it tastes good), you won't find me cruising around town with a Big Mac in my hand. If I went to McDonald's twice in one day now, I'd probably puke.

I have a healthy relationship with food now. I can still lose weight easily, like if I need to quickly drop a pound or two for a photo shoot, or shed my postbaby bulges, but I do it the right way. I might as well make bumper stickers that say "Starvation is not the answer."

I still consider myself something of a control freak, though. It is just how I am—I will never be a go-with-the-flow kind of girl, bouncing around like a pinball. I like to know where I'm going, and that I'm in the driver's seat. I want to have my fall wardrobe sorted out by the beginning of the summer. I know how I want my house to look, and when I have a schedule, I like to stick to it. I think this is also part of why I have such a strong work ethic. I always know my lines, I'm always on my mark, and I'm always on time. I take pride in being professional, and I like to set a goal and work toward it.

As a teenager, though, you have very few outlets where you can decide what you want for yourself. You probably don't have a job, you can't drive yourself, and you're at this weird transition point when the only way you can have any independence is if someone else decides to give it to you. Controlling what I ate was my one way out, the one place where I felt like I got to make the decisions in my life. In my journal, I'd note what I'd eaten that day and what I planned to eat tomorrow. Keeping track and organizing what I ate, and the effort it took to hide what I was doing, felt like a full-time job, which was actually exactly what I wanted. I wasn't acting at all anymore, and I needed to have something that felt like work.

I don't want to trash the idea of going to therapy or taking medication, because that is what works for some people, and both can be very valuable tools. It just wasn't what worked for me at that point in my life. Now I go to therapy semi-annually, because I think it's a much-needed time-out. It helps me to be more introspective, to be more grateful, and to get to know myself in ways that can hopefully make me a better person.

My mom is also now my best friend—I've even read her my horrible journal entries, which now come off as laughable odes to teenage angst and melodrama. I still wish she had been more understanding of what I was going through, and I think she does too, but we both understand why she wasn't. I think you're finally an adult when you can look at your parents as people going through their own shit, rather than just seeing them as unfeeling tyrants here to make your life miserable.

It also seems like body issues are the norm for a lot of women, and I'm sure more than a few people will read these pages and think "that's me!" Being happy with how we look is just something that a lot of us struggle with, and we can name what we hate much more easily than we can name what we love. Some of our parts are too skinny, some are too fat, and some we just hate for no reason. We're always super critical of ourselves, and that also leads us to be more critical of other people as well. You see it in all the tabloids that seem to be chomping at the bit to get a pic of someone bending over in a bikini on the beach, just so they can draw a big red circle around the cellulite. So what? We're supposed to make ourselves feel better by making other people feel worse? It doesn't work that way.

Accepting your body is a lot easier said than done, which is why I think you gotta do what you gotta do to make yourself feel good. People have a lot of opinions about plastic surgery, but more than ten years after I got my boobs, they still make me happy when I look in the mirror. It might have even been the best $8K I've ever spent . . .

SORRY:

Wallowing in self-hatred. It's not cute.Starving myself crazy. This did a number on my physical and mental health, and I owe my body a big apology.Stashing my dinner in a drawer rather than eating it. (Mom, I am truly sorry you had to discover this decomposing compost heap.)Shitty communication. Being better at talking things through would have saved both me and my parents a lot of trouble and tears.Thinking I "hated" my mom. Moms and teenage daughters will never get along—we just have to realize it's nothing personal on either side.School uniforms. Seriously, they're the worst.Can duty and falling victim to the school's indenturedservitude recycling program.

NOT SORRY:

Keeping a journal and making lists. I learned early on that writing down your goals is the first step toward achieving them.Boob job. I thank my Coogan for this cleavage.Knowing myself well enough to know that I didn't need antidepressants.Learning to love my body and take care of it, even if I don't think it's perfect.Figuring out ways to get around can duty (thanks, Dad!).