I remember my mother's reaction when I called her and admitted what I was doing to my body. I remember the tears as I told her, my voice shaking and full of shame, that for months I had been purposefully sticking two fingers down my throat to rid my stomach of whatever meal I had just consumed with guilt not even 10 minutes prior.

I was terrified, and it scared me even more to admit to the one person who always saw the best in me that I had taken my not-so-good relationship with food to a point I promised myself it would never reach.

It started as a "one time" thing my sophomore year of college after eating way too much pizza one night. I felt so sick I thought I was going to vomit. But my body wouldn't vomit naturally, so I told myself that "just this once" I would encourage the food back up my esophagus using two of the fingers on my right hand.

I remember the relief I felt watching through tear-filled eyes as the food fell from my mouth to the toilet below me. I couldn't stop my body from shaking and my throat was raw with pain, but deep inside me, a small satisfaction was pushing its way to the front of my brain.

I suppose that's when I realized this wasn't going to be a one-time thing.

In all honesty, the number of times this was going to occur isn't the only lie I've told so far. In fact, I lied about when this all started.

It didn't really begin my sophomore year of college. It started six years prior, when I weighed 115 lbs, wore an A-cup bra, shopped for size one jeans and took a proactive approach to sports.

It started when I began limiting what I would eat at the age of 15 because thigh gaps were trending. I was obsessed with reaching that point. I went to the doctor after reading an article that thigh gaps were more based on your genetic structure and casually mentioned this in an attempt to see if I was one of the lucky ones.

I would wake up at 5 a.m. just so that I could get a two-mile run in before class, when I already had a two hour soccer practice that night. I knew instead I should be sleeping so that I could function enough later in the day to study and do homework, but that didn't stop me.

I began to skip breakfast and pack minimal amounts of food for my lunch so that I wouldn't be allowed to over eat. Eventually, a classic lunch for me consisted of a small container of spinach omit dressing, but only because I "forgot" it that morning.

If I packed almonds for a snack, I wasn't allowed to eat one over the recommended serving size on the packaging. I kept track of every calorie, carb, gram of fat or amount of sugar using the My Fitness Pal app on my phone.

Breakfast became coffee with no creamer. I asked my mom not to buy avocados because of their fat content. Bread was the enemy, red meats were bad for me and most fruits had to be avoided. There was no room for unnecessary sugars.

When I did eat, I could hide my habits from my parents because of my school and soccer schedule. I would walk through the door at six, throw down my backpack and soccer bag, exclaim how starving I was and then go into the kitchen and take as little food as possible. I would prepare my chicken without seasoning and dab off any excess oil left over from cooking it.

When I couldn't control each detail of what I ate, there was the guilt. When I was around my friends, with social events that usually involved trips to get dinner or ice cream, I couldn't withhold from eating in front of them. I would use these moments to eat whatever I wanted, but later would make up for that by creating extra workouts or restricting myself during other meals.

All of the extra workouts spent running in the mornings while it was still dark, boxing in my garage and "healthy" lunches awarded me sort of "fit-girl" label. A total lie, but I lived for it. I wanted everyone to think I was the healthy friend.

I wanted everyone to think of me as healthy and skinny. I wish I could pretend I got over that in high school, but it's taken awhile.

There were drawbacks of course. I couldn't tell why I was tired all of the time. I lived in a constant state of guilt. It eventually got to the point where I spent a four year period treating every bite I took like the puff of a cigarette. I thought by eating I was ruining my body.

I didn't know what it meant to enjoy eating anymore, yet everyone around me thought I was this healthy foodie of sorts that loved to bake and could eat Italian food without seeing the consequences.

So when I called my mom crying and afraid one afternoon in college, she told me she wasn't mad. However, she wasn't about to allow me to follow the same path she did. My mom had her own body-image issues growing up that she's told me about in the past and in hopes I would avoid them. Yet, here I am.

She gave all of the support she could as a mother that lived out of state. As soon as I came clean to her, I really did want to get better. Yet, a week later I was back in the bathroom, letting the water from the shower drown out the sound of my mistakes all over again.

When my best friend and roommate found out, I felt the same embarrassment and shame that I feel now as I write. However I knew it was the final straw to getting help. She worked with me and even stayed in contact with my mom about it.

When I told my mom it happened again, she presented me with two options:

1. Work hard to make it stop.

2. Take time off school to check into a facility meant to help those suffering with eating disorders and give up my acceptance to study abroad in Australia and Italy.

She was right. I didn't want to arrive to my new life in Sydney, or Italy of all places, unable to enjoy eating, but I honestly couldn't remember a time in my life where I had eaten a bite of food without feeling guilty. That terrified me.

Three months after others started to really find out about what I was going through, I arrived in Sydney. I had minimal relapses in the time leading up to my big move down under. Halfway through my time being there, I realized something weird and different about me.

I can't say exactly when it started, but two months into living in Australia, I stopped mid bite of a donut bigger than my head and realized that I hadn't even thought twice about purchasing it.

I was hungry. It sounded good. I ate it. No guilt. Simple as that. When did the guilt stop? I couldn't remember.

It may have been the distraction of meeting new people and living in a new place, but even as the next semester rolled around and I got ready to leave for Italy, the feelings of guilt were rarely present when I ate. Along with that, the binging and purging had stopped.

In Italy, I ate gelato daily, sometimes twice. When I left to visit Paris, I ate three crepes and an entire baguette all in one day. High school Gianna would never have allowed this type of eating.

Now I'm a senior and yesterday I ate four Oreos, a brownie and a pasta dinner. I also reached a week-long gym absence yet still had someone tell me that I looked "tiny." Whatever that means.

There are still times I eat when I think I'm supposed to feel guilty for it, but in the end the guilt never really comes. If it does, the thought is gone nearly as soon as it appears. I'm active, young, have a fast working metabolism and a life to live.

It shouldn't have taken a trip to Italy or Paris to realize that food wasn't a punishment, but instead meant to be enjoyed. The phrase I once looked at with fear and uncertainty "everything is okay in moderation" is now a motto I live by.

I'm just sad it had to get this far.

Now, I'm over fad diets and juice cleanses. If I want a slice of pizza, I eat it. If McDonald's chicken nuggets seem appetizing (they always do), or if I want a cupcake from work, I enjoy it and move on.

Today I was supposed to be "eating better" after over a week period spent eating low-nutrient foods with no trips to the gym. After my healthy breakfast and even healthier lunch, I ate a chocolate chip cookie that I wasn't even hungry for.

The emotions came back a bit, more than they have in awhile. As I walked the stairs to my room, I peeked inside the restroom to see if there was anyone else in there. There wasn't. I could easily run in, find the stall furthest away from the door, play a song on my phone or run the shower water, and get rid of the cookie I had just consumed.

Instead, I paused in the doorway and thought about the last time I purged. The last time it happened I had been in pain from the amount of food I had shoved into my stomach.

Today, I reminded myself that my stomach wasn't in pain, I was just feeling an unnecessary shame because I ate a cookie that my body wasn't even craving. I stood in the doorway of the bathroom, contemplating all of these decisions in a sort of panicked trance until I heard someone say "excuse me" so they could get by me.

In that moment, I felt myself snap out of it. I shook my head, apologized for blocking the doorway and went to my room. I drank a bottle of water, made a workout plan for this afternoon and then decided to get out of the house so that I couldn't go back on my decision.

I can now admit that the fears I had about going to Italy and gaining a ton of weight were unneeded and honestly a bit comical. In the end, who cares that I gained a few pounds and lost muscle mass during a four month period spent traveling Europe and eating whatever I wanted.

There are worse things in life that can happen. The guilt and constant worrying are just not worth it.

In the end, binging and purging ended up being a very small part of the picture in my overall battle with an eating disorder. It happened in a fraction of time I had a terrible relationship with food.

I don't consider myself to have been bulimic, although I know for awhile I showed some tendencies. I just don't want to take away from those who truly deal with this battle daily.

I don't know how to categorize what I put my body through or even if it needs a label, but I do know that my current relationship with food is now actually something I'm proud to call healthy (and I didn't even have to stop eating pizza for the rest of my life to think so).