I’ve always wanted to tell my story, however I felt I should wait for the right time. In light of National Eating Disorders Awareness Week (February 21^st through 27^th) I think it’s finally time. First, I would like to clarify one thing—this is only one part of my story. This is the part of my story about my eating disorder; my eating disorder does not define me and it alone is not my whole story.

I started skipping meals mindlessly as early as eighth grade, but it was a mental illness that infested in my mind and body even as a child. One of my earliest and strongest memories is watching "Matilda" and becoming profoundly uncomfortable when the child had to eat the entire chocolate cake. I remember that the disgust I felt was far more deep seated than just the humiliation the scene was meant to invoke. It seemed gluttonous, and made me want to cry.

My eating disorder was by far the ugliest during my junior year of high school. It was a plague and an absolute parasite, and it had festered itself in my heart and was killing me from the inside out. I suffered, and I suffered terribly. I was addicted to my own weakness. When I was weak in my knees from starvation, I felt it was a sign of my strength.

I was wrong.

There is nothing neither of us can gain by my divulging intimate details of my pain the years I was suffering from my eating disorder. It will only hurt both of our hearts. Instead, I want to talk about everything after May 9^th, 2014: the day my recovery began. It was messy, and it was harder than words can ever express. There is a lot more than people realize that goes into recovery. Sure, there’s the therapy and eating regularly. But it extends so far beyond the realms of a “quick fix.” You cannot recover from an eating disorder by "just eating." I wouldn’t have made it through my recovery without the endless support from my family and friends. I cried and screamed a lot about how I didn’t want to “be better.” That wasn’t the truth. The truth was that I was afraid to be better. I was afraid of food, of fat, and of the unfamiliar that came along with "being better".

However, what happened after I took that first step, and ventured into a new journey of self-discovery and happiness, was incredible.

I began to cook and turn meals into social events. The negative feelings I had toward food evaporated when I began to associate meals with a time to be with friends and drink milkshakes together. I began to listen to my body and adjust my vocabulary. I ate slowly, and I still do. I am still careful, but I am careful to analyze, am I hungry right now? I no longer told myself that I couldn't "afford" to eat this or that based off my previous intake or last weigh-in. I took the word "already" out of my lexicon completely, as before I would use it to gauge how much I felt like I should be eating, instead of listening to my body. It didn't matter that I had "already" eaten some spaghetti. If I was still hungry, then I was still hungry and I needed to eat. I no longer ask myself, “Do I really deserve that brownie?” as if walking up a set of stairs or pulling an all-nighter for a test justified my consumption. I began to learn that I always deserve that brownie.

Most importantly, I replaced "fat" with "healthy." When I caught myself thinking or saying aloud, "If I eat that, I'm going to get fat," I would correct myself by saying, "If I eat that, I'm going to get healthy." I used to tell friends and family that I was afraid of getting fat. Once I realized that what I feared wasn't actually making me fat, but was making me healthy, I looked at recovery far differently. It was no longer this horrible object of fat and failure that been forced upon me, but rather the difference between merely existing and truly living. It was something that was not at first my own choice, but quickly became it.

For the first few months of my recovery, I refused to look in the mirror. I knew that if I did, I would stare for hours at each ounce of weight I gained back. I see my recovery in two parts. Physical health came first, which was where the idea of not looking in the mirror derived from. It was most important first to assure that I gained back weight and nutrition, and avoided hospitalization. I knew avoiding mirrors would be instrumental throughout the beginning of my recovery in order to achieve that. However, I realized afterward that my eating disorder was still controlling my self-worth. I was ready to take back my body.

I had already gained back weight and was comfortable, to a degree, with eating three meals a day. Yet, my eating disorder continued to control my confidence. I had conquered everything else, and this was the last frontier. I had to learn to love myself.

And that’s when I gave up on modesty. I gave up trying to make myself small or play down my accomplishments. I started not only looking in the mirror, but looking in the mirror and saying “Damn, girl!” even when I didn’t feel that way. Soon enough, though, I would feel that way every day.I noticed every single one of my incredible features, inside and out. I let down my crazy, curly hair and stopped selling myself short. I realized that there is so much to me that I love, that something as small as my weight couldn't hold me back from loving. No matter what my weight is, I will always be a hilarious party guest, a blessed student, an ambitious writer, an adoring friend, a gracious daughter, a silly little sister, and an extraordinary woman. Being beautiful is only a matter of feeling beautiful.

I love, and I love fully. My eating disorder was keeping me from loving, and I’ve never felt so free since I left it behind. I became fluent in the languages of love. I never noticed how exciting my father’s military career was or how sacrificing of a father he is, or how selfless and genuinely gorgeous my mother is, with a beauty that shines through her compassion. I didn’t notice how inspired I am by own sisters, or the way one friend always feels like home, even when we are apart for months, or how another gave me courage by first having courage himself. I never noticed how much I cared about a cashier’s response when I ask them how their day is going, that I was hoping they wouldn’t just say “good” for pleasantries, but that they really meant it. I never noticed I loved every stranger on the street, or that I already love the children that do not even exist yet but will one day be mine. Giving up my eating disorder opened me up to a world of love I didn’t realize I had access to, but now that I’m living in it, I can’t imagine I ever lived any other way.

I thought this life just wasn’t meant to be for me. But it is. And it’s not just meant for me, it’s meant for everyone.

Why tell you this story? I will admit I am afraid of the response. Will people judge my past? Will they scrutinize me at every meal? Will they look at me like a hurt puppy, and jump to conclusions? Will anyone believe me?

The truth is—I don’t care about the response, because that’s not why I’m doing this. There are two major reasons why I want to tell my story. One, I wholeheartedly believe that by endlessly exposing our wounds, we heal them. I felt like I was consistently living a lie by hiding such a dark spot of my life, instead of embracing it as a part of my journey into the courageous woman I am today. Admitting where I was, and rejoicing in where I am, is a part of that healing.

Most importantly, though, I want to challenge the stigma. I want to educate, and oppose the idea that an eating disorder is a fake “rich girl” problem, a diet, or a life style choice. I want to de-romanticize the literature surrounding this deadly disease, and reestablish the idea of a “cover girl” as a woman who is confident, happy, and free, not thin and thin alone. I want those affected by eating disorders to realize that their mental illness is a flaw in their chemistry, not their character. I want to show people that recovery is possible, and open myself up to those who need a hand to hold.

Every morning when I wake up, I have to make a conscious decision to pick recovery. Some days, life has battered me down so ruthlessly that I feel as though I have no strength. I would be lying if I said some days I don’t miss my eating disorder the way you miss a toxic lover. I know it’s terrible, taunting, and destructive, but it is still familiar. However, on my road to recovery, I’ve also become familiar with phone calls home, long talks with friends, a cup of hot chocolate, and hope to get me through the day. Recovery has given me a strength that my eating disorder can never take away from me again. I learned to accept that relapse is a part of recovery. It does not set me back or make me weak.

I know that I am strong. I know that I am courageous. I know that I am beautiful.

And I know that you are extraordinary. I know whatever it is you yourself are going through right now, I know you can do it. And I know, that even though I do not know you, I know that I love you.