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Six years ago, a newly minted graduate of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was working three part-time jobs and adjusting to life as a non-student. She stopped in for a drink one night at a restaurant in Chicago’s Bucktown neighborhood, where she got into a conversation with a guy. The next thing she remembers clearly was awakening at home the next morning, aching, covered in bruises, with a swollen lip.

She believed she had been raped and went to the local police station to file a report. The police sent her to a hospital emergency room nearby where, with her permission, a doctor did a medical forensic exam, checking her for injuries and taking evidence from her body and clothes to potentially use in a prosecution case. The exam took hours and made her even more miserable.

Police never made an arrest.

As time passed and the woman tried to move past the assault, she received regular, unwelcome reminders: bills from the hospital and emergency physicians group that treated her.

The physicians group eventually sent her bill to a collection agency, and she started receiving nagging phone calls as well. Now 28 and living near Dallas, she still gets phone calls and letters a couple of times a year ordering her to pay up.

1. I matter.

2. I’ll get through this.

3. I am a beautiful.

4. I deserve to be loved.

5. I can find peace, happiness and contentment.

haven’t exercised

eaten too much yesterday

eaten too much today

don’t know the exact nutritional value of the meal

have gained weight

aren’t feeling hungry ‘enough’