Dear ED,

You probably waltzed into my brain sometime soon after I was born. I mean, I’ve known you as long as I can remember - you were right there with me in some of my earliest memories. I always knew I could count on you to push me to strive for perfection.

But I’ve gradually come to realize what a parasitic role you have always occupied - not only in my head but also in my body and in my life. While you’ve thrived, I’ve withered; so you can guess we’ve had completely different perspectives on everything we’ve experienced together. Here’s mine.

You don't know what it's like to feel compassion for others, but to be unable to extend even half of that compassion to your own self.

You don't know what it's like to judge yourself harder than anyone judges you; to feel ashamed and worthless because of the way you look.

Or to feel that you don't deserve love, friendship, companionship, to eat, to simply exist, because of the way you look.

You don't know what it's like to attach your worth exclusively to your looks and to hate everything about yourself.

You don't know what it's like to stand in front of the mirror, at age 6, unable to find even one thing you like about yourself.

You don't know what it's like to pray, at 7 years old, "Dear God, please let me wake up with thinner legs tomorrow," and then promptly eat only half your lunch for a whole week until your mom scares you with warnings of girls dying from this sort of behavior. To spend your entire childhood fearful of getting fat.

You don't know what it's like to wake up one day, 13 years old, and eat only a little less than usual. And instead of getting hungry and cranky, you feel....relaxed, numbed, high. All the negative thoughts suddenly go away. And suddenly, you feel "in control." And the next day, you eat less. And the next, even less. And one day you wake up and realize you've lost a lot of weight. Dare I say it, a little too much weight, even by your own distorted standards. And you think, "Hmm, maybe today I will eat an extra apple." Because of course, that's a sizable quantity of food, right? But then, when it comes time to do it, you just can't. And suddenly, you realize, "Oh shit, what have I done! I can't stop!" Well, too late sucker. You're addicted. And no matter how much the doctor, or your mom, or your friends beg you, you just can't bring yourself to do it.

You don't know what it's like to live your life, every single day of your life for the next six years, as a walking calculator, constantly keeping track of how many calories you've had and how many more you can afford, using calories as your personal currency. And no, it's not over after you brush your teeth and crawl into bed. Then, you have to keep recalculating those numbers to make sure you did the math correctly because of course if you are off by 50 calories you've FAILED.

You don't know what it's like to constantly compare yourself to others, to spend hours in school, at gymnastics, in public, on social media, wracked by insecurity, thinking, "I'm not thin enough, I'm not toned enough, I'm not happy enough, I'm not cool enough, I'm not pretty enough, I'm not social enough..." Simply, to feel that you are never enough, and you will never be enough.

You don't know what it's like for people to treat this illness like it's only a vanity thing. "But you're so skinny, just eat a little more, you have so much room to gain weight." Don’t get me wrong, it plays a big role, but vanity does not explain the obsessive, compulsive behaviors around food and exercise. On the day that you decided, on your own accord, to try to eat just a little more, and you realized you couldn't do it - on the day when you realized your drug was starvation - that's when it stopped being solely a vanity thing, and it became an addiction.

You don't know what it's like to stress days in advance of a social event involving food because "what if there is nothing healthy for me to eat and then I'll be 100 calories over my daily limit and then I will gain 10 pounds overnight." Or to only allow yourself to eat certain amounts of food at certain increments of time at certain hours of the day. Wow, just typing that out was exhausting.

You don't know what it's like to forget how to eat. To eat like a human: to eat because you are hungry, because you desire food, not because you are allowed to or because you have starved yourself so much that you just can't take it anymore and you need to eat the entire grocery store. To be unable to remember what it was like to eat "normally" because it's been at least six years since that last happened: for the abnormal to become normal.

You don't know what it's like to take every disappointment, every rejection, every failure out on yourself. As if the letdown was not painful enough, you need to rub salt into the wound by restricting your food even more so that you feel emotionally numb. Because of course, that's what's going to make you happier and more successful and help you move on. Because that's what's going to numb the pain.

You don't know what it's like for people to remark on how thin you are - "wow, you're so tiny!" - for some to even express concern, and to secretly relish it, to pervert any compliments you receive and replay those words over and over again in your head as motivation to keep going, keep withering away. And sometimes, to not even see what they're referring to, because of course, you are never thin enough: "I mean, my hip bones do not blatantly protrude like jagged mountain peaks yet, so obviously I'm not thin enough to be anorexic!"

You don't know what it's like to get high off of starving yourself.

You don't know what it's like to go through a vicious cycle of fasting for three days after binging the weekend before (hmm, maybe because you fasted for three days?) and now you need to lose all that additional weight you gained (which is mostly water weight) STAT because there are parties this weekend and you need to look hot! To spend 3 hours on the elliptical - because that's definitely the best use of 3 hours of your day - and worry, "What if I pass out? It's been 2 days since I ate, but oh well whatever the flat stomach is worth it."

You don't know what it's like to buy an entire closet of exclusively form-fitting clothes - leggings, skinny jeans, crop tops, tank tops - and to go out partying in revealing clothing (sometimes to an excess) because "damn it I am not starving myself to go out in clothes that hide my hard-earned thin frame."

You don't know what it's like to be sick and tired of the vicious cycle - binge, restrict, binge, restrict - and decide that you're going to let yourself eat once and for all, to let your body gain weight, and all of a sudden you wake up one day and find yourself inhabiting a completely different body. You've gained a lot of weight and are now big - despite doctors telling you you’re at a “normal and healthy” weight - or at least, that’s what you’re telling me, Ed, and you’re always right, right? So you hate yourself even more. Your worst nightmare has materialized before your eyes.

You don't know what it's like to be secretly resentful that you are no longer the skinniest girl in the room, that you will no longer stand out because you look unhealthily thin. To feel that you are losing your identity. Yes, no less than your identity, your sense of self. Because everyone's identity is tied exclusively to their weight right? (Well, I think you’d agree with that, Ed.)

You don't know what it's like to wake up every day and want nothing more than to stay in that bed and never leave and never face the world until you are super skinny again - in other words, until you are "deserving" of being seen in public. To cry for five hours on a Saturday night. To grieve the "loss" of your perfect (read: emaciated) body, thinking that life was so perfect before because you were thin and had fun, so now that you're heavier you are obviously not deserving of enjoying yourself, of feeling happiness. To meet people and immediately want to apologize for the way you look: "I'm so sorry, I wasn't always like this, I actually used to be really thin." Because that's the definitive factor when people decide whether or not they want to befriend you, right?

You don't know what it's like to beat yourself up, to berate yourself, to hate yourself even more - if that's even possible - because you are surrounded by friends and family who are so supportive and only want the best for you (even if they don't always express it in the best ways), you are fortunate to attend a great school, you are surrounded by love, you want for nothing and are lucky enough to be born into a family that can provide you with more than just the bare necessities in life, so WHY THE FUCK are you depressed?

You don’t know what it’s like to feel that cutting yourself is the only way you can depict the unexplainable pain you feel inside. To feel that your pain is not legitimate unless it manifests itself physically, with these self-inflicted wounds as a perverted badge of honor, a badge of legitimacy. To immediately realize the drastic nature of your impulsive action and fear your own capacity to hurt yourself, to tell your friends what you did and see how profoundly it affects them, to see some cry for the first time in the years since you’ve known them.

You don’t know what it’s like for complete and utter hopelessness to bloom inside you like a parasite. To wish you could escape your brain because it has been so consumed by depression and you are so pained by it that you think it would all just be easier if you didn't live anymore. So you start planning...and you’re immediately sent to rehab.

You don't know what it's like to laugh so hard on those rare moments when you do so because you haven't laughed in days, to cry from those fleeting moments of laughter because that's the only way you can relieve yourself of the pain inside while you're out in public. To paint a smile on your face while you are crying inside for months on end, because "no one likes a Debbie Downer."

I could go on forever, but I think you get the point.

You don't know what it's like, and for that, I envy you. You may not understand, and that’s fine.

But I’m still calling it quits. I am determined to push through, to turn this period of my life into a semicolon. I still have ways to go, but I’ve learned to drop that perfectionistic view of existence you and I so coveted and accept that life is not linear, but sinuous. To tolerate imperfection - your mortal enemy - that’s the first step.

Most sincerely,