It started with the vegetarianism – my seemingly practical excuse to cut out a slew of foods I deemed as “bad.” Then I developed a new passion for running. And by passion I mean ridiculously impractical obsession.

Every morning, I would tiptoe into my parents’ bathroom where the scale lived. I thrived off the high I felt every time I saw the number get smaller. I felt this same buzz when I sat down and no longer had that tiny, completely normal roll of skin hanging over the waistband of my jeans. I loved how I could practically fit my hand around my bicep and how both of my legs were the size of what one used to be.

I measured my success by the prominence of my hip, cheeks and collarbones.

I didn’t even necessarily like the way I looked, but I was already in too deep; too addicted to the power of being in complete control of my body. My hair and nails became brittle. I couldn’t shake the shivers, even on the hottest summer day. I could literally feel my stomach and muscles eating themselves, but I somehow became accustomed to the constant hunger. Hunger made me feel victorious. I was doing Anorexia and I was doing it well.

Eating became painful, physically and emotionally. I honestly think my body forgot how to process food. I would get severe stomach aches if I tried to eat anything besides the usual broccoli, beans or Light & Fit yogurt.

I can distinctly remember the night my parents sat me down and placed a single piece of honey-drizzled toast in front of me. They hadn’t seen me eat anything all day, because quite frankly, I probably hadn’t. I needed to finish that one slice of bread before I was allowed to go to a friend’s house. I remember frantically trying to think of a way out. I contemplated throwing the toast away, tossing it to the dog or even shoving it in my sweatshirt pocket. My mom and dad were sitting directly across from me, watching and waiting. I felt helpless and trapped. There was nothing I could do. I started sobbing uncontrollably, for two hours. It literally took me two hours to eat that piece of toast. I picked at it, nibbled on it and at last choked it down.

By the time I was done I had no more tears left to cry, but my parents did. My heart broke seeing them as distraught as I was, but even that wasn’t enough to change me. As much as I wish it had been, the toast apocalypse wasn’t the turning point.

Anorexia consumed every ounce of my being.

I think it took me losing several close friends, 35 pounds and a year’s worth of periods before I finally decided to turn things around. My parents and doctors also threatened to admit me to an inpatient facility. I was determined to stay out of there.

The turnaround wasn’t easy. I saw a therapist every week. I forced myself to eat as much and as often as I could while limiting my exercise. I watched as the weight went straight to my stomach and my face. I walked through the hallways at school doing my best not to break down when someone shouted, “eat something.” I was doing the best I could to make myself better while being ridiculed and torn down at the same time.

My self-esteem was so low that I genuinely thought I deserved the humiliation. I deserved the comments, the isolation, the fatigue, the stomach pain – everything.

The road to recovery was incredibly hard. I could probably write a novel about it. It’s an experience I would never wish upon anybody else. It’s been a few years, and I can confidently say that I’m healthier than I’ve ever been, physically and mentally.

I’ve avoided this topic for a while, to keep myself from reliving such dark days in my mind. But, if by sharing my story I can prevent one person from traveling down this road or suffering from the same scars, then it’s beyond worth it to me.