There was a time, not too long ago when I was embarrassed of the person that I was. Deeply rooted emotional pain coupled with mental illness led me to starve, cut, burn, and constantly torture myself. I spent my hours running on the tread mills and ellipticals fueling myself only on self deprecating, hate fueled thoughts. Each step I took as my muscles screamed and my heart and lungs begged for a break was a cry of "you're fat," "you're stupid," "you're weak,", or "you're worthless," among other insults. I found myself working out in front of mirrors, and doing things as drastic as trying to force myself to pee (without drinking any water) before I hopped on that scale, because that .0000001oz difference was what I lived for.

There was a time when my unmanageable rage led me to kick, punch, and throw things, often to the point of self injury. Where I hated myself so much that I would hold flaming objects to my skin as I told myself over and over again that I deserved that pain, and even more pain.

There was a time, when I was in treatment, that I would get so upset that I would flee our wing of the hospital, running and hiding until my body gave out and I couldn't run anymore.

There was a time where the sight or mention of food sent a cold chill through my body. Where walking past a restaurant or cafeteria sent my pulse racing and my palms sweating.

So how did I get to where I am today? How did I get to be the girl that smiles and laughs, who exercises for fun, who loves herself, and who loves freely and openly. How did I become the woman that can take a deep breath and walk away from conflict? A woman who not only can not dream of ever harming myself again, but who can look a broken person in the eye and pray that they find peace and joy and overwhelming strength as I have?

It's simple.... and it's because of you. Each and every one of you. I came to you broken and tired--lost and desperate--hopeless and confused. I left you, each of you, irrevocably changed for the better.

There were the nurses who dealt with me day in and day out, God knows how they put up with me, and I spent my first several weeks there hating them with a fiery passion that one day grew to respect, appreciation, and love.

So often, when I find myself upset, I hear the voice of my nurse reasoning with me. Reminding me that a bowl of oatmeal is nothing to scream about, and that kicking a chair across a room is not an appropriate response to being told no. She was the tough love that I didn't know I needed to crawl back out of the hole I had dug myself down into. To this day, I thank her for every breath I take.

There was the dietitian I had in the hospital. She connected with me on a level few people could. I saw myself looking at someone I liked and respected--athletic, smart, sarcastic, and undeniably cool. And the day she told me that she struggled with her body image at my age, I remember thinking "it might be possible to come back from this." One day, she helped me overcome my paralyzing fear of eating pizza. She sat with me and ruined my life (by telling me about a documentary she watched that said koalas are actually not cute and cuddly, but rather aggressive) while I faced my greatest fear. When I was done, she just smiled and said "I told you so." Like everyone else in that hospital, she believed in me, and she did not forsake me when I had given up on myself.

To the recreational therapist that so often met me moody and hostile, and always had the ability to turn my hostility into a smile. So often in treatment, I would work myself up, telling myself not to "break" and enjoy myself in RT that day. Every time, she got me to laugh, no matter how difficult my last meal had been. In many ways, she reminded me that I could have fun--something I had long forgotten I was capable of.

To the occupational therapists that led cooking group and took me on outings. They saw me at my worst, and it seemed that every activity they suggested set me off. They faced my volatility and panic attacks, but yet never stopped supporting me and making me feel loved.

To the chaplain that reminded me that God had not forsaken me, but rather he had opened a realm of possibilities for my life. He never came without chenille stems, and I remember twisting them in my hands to calm myself as we talked about life. For the first time in years, I remember thinking that perhaps God didn't hate me, maybe he just had a purpose for me that I didn't yet have the ability to understand.

To the Nurse Practitioner that had the awful job of convincing me that medications are necessary. And then the even worse job of teaching me that medications are only effective when you actually take them. So often she would take the brunt of my temper, and she never gave up on trying to help me. Eventually we got to a point that, though the disordered part of my brain hated her, I loved her and the warmth she brought to every encounter.

To my outpatient team, that picks me up every time I fall. My dietitian has sat with me and listened as I screamed and cried and attempted to pull fat off my body. She has heard me say the worst things I have ever said about myself, and she never believed them, even when I did. She and my Therapist know me possibly better than I know myself. The two of them always meet my sass with their own, and without them I would have fallen down into a hole I could never get myself out of. My therapist has listened to my absolute worst nightmares, and she has never once made me feel that I am a victim, or anything less than a bad ass. Most of all, they ALWAYS have my back, and without them, I know this journey of recovery would never be possible. I love them more than I have words for, and though I no longer depend on them to survive, I can't imagine what I would do without the support they constantly offer. There was a time when I couldn't make it through a group meal without having to step away for a coaching call with my therapist, but her coaching has been so impactful, that I smile and laugh my way through group meals--meals often planned and organized by me. I want to put into words the appreciation I have for them. For their past, present, and future support--but in all honesty, there are no words that could ever express the endless gratitude I have for them and the work that they do. So all I can say is thank you, and all I can do is prove that the faith they and so many others have placed on me has not been wasted.

If you are struggling with mental illness, eating disorders, addiction, trauma, anything at all, I promise there are people out there to help you, you just have to find them! Recovery is the hardest thing I have ever done, and probably the hardest thing I will ever do. Every day was a battle and there were many times I found myself curled on the floor crying out in exhaustion and pain and wanting to give up. In those times, the voices of the various treatment providers came to me, encouraging me and coaxing me into trying again. Without them, I wouldn't be writing this, or doing anything else for that matter. Recovery is hard, it almost feels impossible, but it is possible, and, though I am not 100% of the way there, I am happy, healthy, and a firm believer in the fact that you can do it too...

And from the bottom of my heart, Thank You to those who have picked me up when I have fallen.