Hundreds of nail polish bottles, coloring books and fleece blankets decorated with the smiling faces of Disney Princesses. What separates this scene from any average young girl's room are the basic rules set in place: No numbers. No diet tips. No diet foods.

Every Wednesday night, women (and the occasional male) will file into the day room to discuss their progress, what fear foods they have overcome this week, what concerns they have with the planned meals for tomorrow. They are treated as children unable to handle themselves: escorted to and from the bathroom, watched closely in the lunch room, wheeled in a wheelchair for distances longer than a hallway. They aren't even allowed to carry their own belongings for fear of physical exertion beyond what their frail bodies can handle.

My high school experience was much different than that of my peers. Instead of gym class, I had study hall, forbidden to exercise or play sports. In the cafeteria, lunch attendants were instructed to pay extra attention to my table. I never finished the first semester of my junior year. I was a guest at what should have been my senior prom. I didn't get to toss my cap at graduation. I wasn't in the photo that my group of friends since elementary school took to celebrate the milestone of completing their required years of schooling.

What I remember most about my middle and high school years are not the memories I made with the people I loved, not the transformation of my adolescent being into a woman or the boys I feigned over in locker-side conversations between classes. I can’t tell you how to reduce an algebraic equation, and don't even ask if I know the names of all the bones in my body that were repeatedly taught to me over the years. Instead, I could, in a heartbeat, tell you the exact number of calories in a medium-sized carrot, six saltine crackers or one large apple. I could tell you exactly how long you need to run on a treadmill to burn off the calories in a single peach. I could tell you how much hunger hurts: mentally, physically, emotionally.

I could also tell you how your body reacts to hunger. You lose your hair in record amounts. Your skin is tinted with gray and yellow tones, no matter how much makeup you cake on. Your period stops. A paper cut results in endless bleeding. Bruises come easily, almost as easily as you lose friendships, relationships. Almost as easily as you lose the most important years of your life without even realizing it. But the worst thing is the loneliness. The feeling that you not only can't tell someone what you are feeling, but, that if you did, they would take one look at your body and validate your reasoning for doing this to yourself in the first place.

I began leaving clues for my friends. I wanted them to know; I wanted to be helped. I didn't want the weight of my disorder (I shudder at the word) to lay solely on my shoulders. I needed someone there, someone to help me. They did notice; they did care. But how do you approach someone like me with questions, expecting answers they knew nothing about? How can you delicately question someone that you are seeing slowly wither away without triggering them further?

The first person I told, and I mean actually told, about what I was feeling was my high school boyfriend. Though we went our separate ways not long after I sought treatment, his role was a crucial one in helping me admit that I needed help. I finally entered treatment my freshman year and eventually found temporary solace.

I'm not here to tell you that it will definitely get better. I'm not going to lie to you. I'm not going to tell you that I was cured after my initial treatment. At the beginning of my junior year my disorder got so bad that I was removed from school to be home schooled in order to cater to the many appointments my mother would take off work for and drive me hours away to. And can we talk about my parents? Can we talk about the hell that I put them through since I was fourteen years old? At times I barely feel like the victim in this situation. The money, time and mental capacity needed to cater to the recovery of a daughter with a problem as extensive as mine is incomprehensible.

I think, most importantly, that "recovery" is often a dangerous word to affix to disorders like mine. The fact is, eating disorders don't just disappear. You can't fix them with compliments. You can't cure them by assuring victims that they are, indeed, skinny and beautiful. Probably the most harmful thing you can do, in fact, is telling a person with an eating disorder to "just eat." It's not that simple.

I'm 19 years old now, and I've been through five years of on-and-off treatment. I no longer consider myself an anorexic, but I would be lying if I said the feelings didn’t still plague me at points. My boyfriend thinks the world of me, and I know he does, but I still can't eat in front of him unless he is also eating. When I order at a restaurant, I wait to see what everyone else is ordering to determine if they will judge me for what I want to order. My roommates no doubt notice that there are days, sometimes weeks, at a time that I will act differently, come up with an excuse not to go out with them so as not to ingest any extra calories. I'm sure they notice, but they’ve never said anything. And I don't blame them for that. I don't need to be catered to, I don't need to be fawned over or babysat.

I'm here to tell you that the most important thing you can do for someone with an eating disorder is to love them. To show them you care. To show them you pay attention to their life, their worries, their aspirations and what could be hindering those aspirations. At most times I consider myself not a victim of eating disorders or of my own body, but of the emptiness that resides in the fact that, at times, it feels that there is no one there beside me to help me or listen to me or show me they care. It took me years to admit I had a problem for the same reason it is hard to tell people now when I am feeling bad—the idea that this disorder is an embarrassment. I was humiliated for years, and the anger and jealousy closely follow. Why couldn't I enjoy a night out with friends the way they could? Did they not assess and mentally take note of every calorie, every bite taken in? How could I be so hindered by this disease and be surrounded by my beautiful friends all radiating confidence?

All in all, this story is not a personal one. This story is the heartbeat of millions of women and men who have gone through what I also have gone through. In fact, the word "alone" seems unimaginable when you evaluate the number of people in this country that suffer from their own body image. There is no one way to stop this disorder, but the most important thing you could ever do is love. Show you understand, and that you want to help. The most underrated treatment is that of human kindness, empathy, and attentiveness.

“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”—Elizabeth Kübler-Ross

Below are some resources if you or a loved one are suffering from an eating disorder.

National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-931-2237

National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders: 630-577-1330