Recap of NEDA Walk 2017

"It's time to talk about it"

Thank you to those who donated to Team Kwas to help us raise a total of $1,305 for the 2017 Santa Monica NEDA walk. We surpassed our original goal by $300!

After almost a week of rain in Los Angeles, we finally got a sunny day- making it the perfect morning for a walk by the beach.

Leading up to the walk, I was excited about the thought of the event, however, the morning of I was extremely nervous. The jig was up. My secret would now be out. Or so I thought. During my entire span of treatment, I never wanted my name associated with the dreaded "A" word, because of the stigma that was attached to it. People saw it as a disorder about vanity, or perfectionism. Which sometimes, I guess is the case. But, not for me. For me, it was never about food, or how I looked. For me, anorexia developed as a manifestation of poor self esteem. My depression was drowning me. I didn't care how my body looked, because I never wanted to look in the mirror long enough to analyze it. I didn't want to use the "A" word, because that would mean admitting there was a problem, which in turn would mean admitting I needed help. I needed to face it. Who would want that?

ED thoughts bombarded me as my sister and I made our way to the beach. I wondered what the other walkers would look like. I wonder if they would even believe I ever suffered from an eating disorder, now that I was weight restored.

I wrongfully had these thoughts during in-patient treatment, also, but to my dismay, I almost was kicked out of treatment in fear that my low weight might trigger the other patients or hinder their recovery.

I wondered if being at the walk would help, or trigger me further. I briefly hoped it would trigger me, but quickly dismissed it. 

These thoughts always catch me by surprise having been in what most people would call 'recovery' for almost five months now. But, that's the dangerous thing about eating disorders. The symptoms aren't always obvious, as they are often things that can't be seen, something the sufferer hides and hides well.

I knew this was supposed to be an event about celebrating recovery, but I was constantly fighting it.

The energy at the walk was incredible. You could feel the men and women in attendance were feeling happy to be alive, happy to be given a second shot at life, and a dedication to life and learning to love it and themselves.

Meeting people in person that you have connected with over Instagram through the eating disorder community was a surreal and inspiring things. There are so many people doing amazing work to support recovery through blogging, and have helped me immensely throughout my own recovery by answering my questions and being a shoulder to virtually cry on when days got challenging.

I was looking forward to hearing the speakers: Aerie Real Model, Iskra Lawrence, YouTuber, Matt Shepard and Instagrammer and Body Positive/Recovery Activist, Gina (@nourishandeat).

I loved hearing Matt Shepard's speech about acknowledging the minority in the eating disorder community, which are the men who suffer.

All pain is valid and needs to be acknowledged as so. His speech was powerful and motivating, and contained a call to action to address the men. Acknowledging that men also suffer allow them the courage to speak out and speak up and ask for help.

Like any other disease, mental health and eating disorders do not discriminate. They affect men, women, minorities, and people of all ages and sizes. 

It was refreshing to hear Iskra Lawrence reinforce to the men and women in the audience that every body is a good body, regardless of the media tells us. As the face of Aerie Real, she embraces her flaws, stretch marks and imperfections and exudes confidence.

There was so much power in the walk banding together with men and women and encouraging each other, rather than judging one another. Encouraging each other to love the skin we're in, imperfections and all. We have one body that is merely a vehicle to get from point A to point B and is capable of amazing things, and like Iskra said, our body is our home. We should treat it nicely. Everything on the outside is simply decoration.

There are no words to describe how special I felt having my sister, and our friends spend their Saturday morning with us walking in my honor, and all of those who have suffered and have come out victorious, or are working on building up their strength.

As I chug along on my recovery journey, I am learning more and more everyday how much my struggles have affected my family as well as they have myself.

My sister said being at the walk was emotional for her, because she was about to walk with me, rather than in honor of me. And after the last year, it was a close call.

As Matt Shepard told the crowd, "Your recovery is the greatest gift you have."

And I'm working on it every day.

Until next year... It's time to talk about it. 

Recovery is tough, but so are you

"My recovery must come first so everything I love in life does not have to come last."

Graduating university with crippling anxiety and a co-existing debilitating eating disorder is one of my greatest and bravest accomplishments to-date. 

I'd like to say that the moment that I got out of the hospital, recovery from that point on was smooth sailing. 

But, that's not reality. 

Recovery is hard. And messy. And a daily choice. 

At this point, I didn't know what would make me want to choose recovery. I loved my family, my job, school, and my work, but for some reason, something inside still resented myself. My friends and family wanted recovery for me more than I did. It would never stick long-term, I thought. 

All of the affirmations that I had learned during treatment, which I once viewed as bullshit became my lifelines. 

Some things I can't change. I need to become familiar with my triggers and actively avoid them. I need to stop responding to negative energy. For once in my life I needed to allow myself to be selfish, and focus only on me. I needed to be surrounded by positive and supportive people. 

I was vulnerable and completely succeptible to triggers. At this point, everything triggered me. 

There could be no mention of numbers, calories, diets, food, workout plans, exercise, I couldn't wear workout clothes, or look at anyone who was, I couldn't drive down Bayshore Blvd. and see all of the people running, without the urge to jump out of my passenger side window and run alongside them. I couldn't have anyone comment on my food or my body, whether good or bad, I didn't want to be asked if I was working out or moving my body at all. I didn't want sympathy. I couldn't be in the grocery store. I couldn't eat any of the foods that I had used to punish my body during the height of my disorder and the depths of restriction. I couldn't look at other people's carts at the grocery store, without returning everything in mine, and opting for healthier options. I couldn't see anyone who was thinner than me without stressing out. I couldn't talk about my rollercoaster brain: one day devout to recovery, the other wanting to cut everyone out of my life who might promote my recovery.

The worst parts about recovery for me were: 

1) Accepting the fact that I couldn't exercise: 

          I tried. I have been active my whole life, just for fun. Soccer, basketball, track, boxing, biking, swimming, running, walking. I hopped on my bike, feeling rebellious for going against my mom and doctor's wishes. I used to ride 20 miles no problem, now, I could barely complete a mile. So I walked. I aimed for the 10,000 steps per day. Extreme hunger kicked in. My body didn't want to let go of anymore weight, and if I exercised, I had to eat double the calories to make up for what I burned. It made more sense to skip it entirely. It was hard enough to hit my calorie goal as it was.

2) Extreme Hunger: 

          This was the most physically, mentally and emotionally challenging part of recovery next to the weight returning. Extreme hunger is a common symptom for those recovering from any eating disorder or period of calorie restriction. With extreme hunger it is normal to consume between 6,000-10,000 calories in a single day. And boy did I. Even though I knew I needed the calories that I had deprived my body of for so long, I was still fighting it. I was terrified of it. I thought it would never end and I would never be able to stop eating. I wanted to just be normal around food, have a normal portion. I swore now I'd listen to the dietitian and have a protein, carb and fat, and not just a protein and vegetable if it would just go away forever. 

3) What do I wear?

          My clothes don't fit. But, I know deep down, they were never meant to. I had a panic attack the first time I tried to slip on the size 0 Old Navy boyfriend jeans that were once too big on me, and I couldn't manage to get them over my knees. My regular size is a size 8, but losing the label felt like a loss of control for me. It was the only time I was a size 0 in my life, and probably (and hopefully) the only time I will be again. To avoid future anxiety, I threw away all of the clothes I wore when I was sick, before ever trying them on. All of the child size clothes, all of the crop tops and sleeveless blouses- gone. Why put myself through that when I knew what the outcome would be? My mom took me shopping to buy clothes in my regular size. She was thrilled, and I tried to avoid the mirror, choosing clothes strictly off her opinion and whether or not the high waist promised to conceal my growing belly. 

I'd like to say that after being released from the hospital, I never relapsed. But, that would be a lie. 

I found myself thinking a lot about my time in the hospital and the routine I had developed there: 7:30 breakfast, 12:30 lunch, 5:00 dinner, group therapy throughout the day, work on homework during breaks, and 9:00 snack and medicine. I found myself missing my routine. I wanted to be back there- but, why?

Having been so numb while I was in the hospital, I was processing the entire experience for the first time. And I felt bad for that girl who was trapped in those four walls- confined to an IV. I felt bad for the girl whose routine became waking up to getting blood drawn and pressure taken, getting shots in the stomach to prevent infection, and offered pills like they were tic tacs. I felt bad for all of the CT scans, echocardiograms, ultrasounds, and X-Rays, where she didn't blink, becoming so indifferent to the process. I didn't know that girl, and I didn't want to be her. Not anymore.

My triggers sometimes still catch me by surprise, though not as often as they used to

Now, I'm better prepared, and the people around me are more aware and quick to call out my behaviors. 

I share my story not to gain empathy or sad stares for myself, but I share to raise awareness for the others who struggle. Every man or woman who has struggled with an eating disorder who has ever felt confused or scared or silenced or trapped. I share for the sufferers who feel silenced, out of fear of the consequences of what would happen if they revealed their deepest secret. I share for those who are scared to leave their disorder behind. Like a bad relationship, it's time to quit it. It's time to speak up and be fearless in despite of the threats the demons might make. 

This is a new chapter and only you can choose how you want to define it. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 6

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other." 

read part 5 of my story here:  

Walking out of the hospital felt as if I was just released from prison. I felt like I was out on parole, any move I made, any decision had the capability of sending me right back upstairs. It terrified me, but also provided a sense of comfort. The hospital was all I knew for the last six weeks. I felt comfortable there. I had a routine, I had friends, and I was being monitored. 

Leaving the hospital, I also felt terrified. It was a new found freedom that I didn't yet trust myself to have. It was a few days before Halloween, and I asked my mom if she thought I might be able to meet some friends to celebrate. 

She didn't think so. I may have been 21 now, but I hadn't yet had a drink, and with my weight still extremely low, she didn't want me to go out drinking. She didn't want me to go out unattended. 

I asked if I could go back to school.

She didn't think so, either. If I did, she would drive me. She didn't feel comfortable letting me drive my car, in case something happened while I was driving, or if I got tired walking around campus. If I wanted, she would drop me off at school and work. I felt frustrated. I felt like a baby getting dropped off at school by her mother with a packed lunch box and a kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a bright red lipstick mark to conceal my blushing face. 

I didn't think so. I wanted to do it on my own.

I asked if we could go to the mall, so I could practice walking for longer distances.

It was out of the question.

On the way home, we stopped at Walmart to pick me up some clothes that would fit. Nothing in my closet fit on my body the way it was supposed to, and even now, my underwear was sliding off my backside, down to my ankles.

I wanted desperately to get out of my hospital-issued clothes and to throw them away in the trash. I wanted this behind me, but part of me wanted to go back upstairs. I wanted to go back to my meetings, and I wanted the routine they had provided me. 

In Walmart, my mom bought me some fuzzy pajama pants, new slippers, a few t-Shirts and some new underwear. 

We shopped in the boys section for t-Shirts. They were cheaper, and I was officially a 'fat boy.' I slipped into a boys youth size XL and still had some wiggle room. My mom was horrified, and my brain felt glorified, that maybe I could fit into a smaller size. 

She moved along to the girls section to pick me up some underwear. The only options available were Halloween-themed, with puppys or bats with wings on the side. 

"How about these?" she asked me as she held them up way up high, as a group of boys my age passed, trying to conceal their laughs. 

"I don't think she'd like those," I said quick in defense- horrified. 

There was still part of my brain that felt really proud of fitting in these child sizes. Once having an athletic body, with a firm backside, and a larger chest, I now was flat all around. The hospital had placed padded patches on my lower back so that I was able to sit down. My bones were sticking out of my lower back in between where my dimples lay and there was no support in my butt. There was no butt, just bone. I needed these stickers so I wouldn't bruise laying on my back, or sitting in a chair. 

Walking around Walmart, I needed to hold on to my moms arm, and the shopping cart for support. I hadn't walked that long in over a month and my legs felt like they were starting to lock. I was worried my mom might have to put me in the seat of the cart, if we didn't leave soon.

Being in the store for the first time in months filled me with crippling anxiety. I hated grocery shopping in the first place, and having so many options terrified me. 

I was taught to shop the outer parts of the grocery store for the healthiest food, and my mom wouldn't allow me to get only fruits and vegetables. She said I needed to make a meal. I needed all components, like our dietitian taught us. I cried the whole trip. I didn't know how to cook, I didn't know what I would even want. All of the foods in the inner aisle scared me. 

She convinced me to challenge myself, but it was too much too soon. In the hospital, I picked my meals, but I had a few meals I was comfortable with. I had egg whites and cheerios every morning, greek yogurt for snacks, baked fish and vegetables for lunch, and a veggie burger salad or PBJ for dinner. I didn't know anything else. I didn't want to know anything else. I liked not having options, because it limited the anxiety surrounding meal time. 

She took me down the snack aisle, and I was on the verge of a panic attack. I couldn't avoid reading all of the labels: picking up an item, studying the back, then throwing it back on the shelf like the box was on fire. 

"I don't know how it tastes," I told her, "I never had this. I don't know what I want. I don't want anything from here."

There was no protein. Mostly fat or carbohydrates. I didn't want anything from this aisle, I didn't understand why anyone would. 

We left the store, frustrated, she was mad that I couldn't find anything for dinner, and threatened me with takeout. 

"No, mom! You're trying to do too much, too soon, you're stressing me out!"

When we got back to the hotel, I checked the pantries and the refrigerator, out of habit. I had always done this when I got to my mom, dad, or sisters house. I was curious to see what other people bought at the store, but I couldn't help but judge what they picked.

"Too much sodium, too many carbs, too much fat, so processed..."

Before the hospital, my diet consisted of maybe ten items that I deemed 'clean' or 'safe,' if I was being generous. 

My mom offered me foods that I had loved prior to the development of this eating disorder, and I became very angry with her.

"Why would you buy pickles? There is SO much sodium in them. Not worth it," I shouted. 

I used to eat a jar of pickles, no problem, angry if one of my family members took it upon themselves to have one.

"I got your favorite poptarts," she said quietly. 

"Why would you buy that?" I asked with disgust, "I hadn't eaten those since I was a kid."

I felt above eating poptarts. I looked at them as dirty. There were so many calories and so many carbs for such a little pastry, and it did nothing for you. It didn't make you full, it didn't have any protein, so why would anyone eat it?

"You used to love them." 

I wanted to take a shower, and get away from her, and as far away from the kitchen as I could.

I was scared of my mom and I was scared to be home, convinced that I would gain the 60 lbs I had lost, back overnight. I was stressed out with options, and I was stressed out without having a routine. I should be in group, right now...

Not knowing what else to say, my mom became very good at making comments to try to scare me into eating food that I was scared of. I took it as an insult, although well-intended. She took it as if I kept not eating, I would need help getting in the shower for the rest of my life. 

Stubborn, I was determined to do it myself, but who the fuck made the shower wall so damn high? Were they always this high? My hospital room didn't have a shower wall, so I was able to do it myself. 

I thought about first standing on top of the toilet, than onto the side and over the shower wall, so I could do it myself. My legs were already so tired from walking around Walmart for almost an hour.

"Mom- please just help me" I yelled out- defeated. 

I was emotionally exhausted after being released, but I was determined to get right back to work. I had my laptop now, so I could check my emails. I had one from my professor containing my midterm. It was a take home and I was allotted 24 hours to complete it and send it back. 

I knew the answer right away, so I got to work. 

Having no food in the hotel room that I or my mom could eat, she asked if I would go out to dinner. 

Pizza was out of the question. 

I tried to get her to go to Publix so I could pick up a salad or a salad roll, wrapped in rice paper. 

It was out of the question. I wasn't allowed to have salad, but something more calorie dense.

I was pissed.

She stopped in front of a Chinese buffet, somewhere we used to love going together back home in New York. After she would get home from work, she would ask if I wanted to go. I would say yes, even if I had already eaten what I considered dinner. 

 I threw a tantrum in the car: "I hate Chinese food!" "There's nothing I can eat here," "I'm not getting out of the car!" 

It was 90 degrees and I still had on my fleece sweater, but I was willing to sit in the hot car, if it meant I didn't have to go into the buffet.

"Too much, too soon!" I cried "Why are you doing this to me?" "What kind of person takes an anorexic to a buffet, seriously?"

She convinced me to try a little bit of everything they offered-just to see what I liked. She tried to get me away from the salad bar, but there wasn't a chance in hell that was happening. It was the only thing I deemed clean in the entire place. 

I ended up having three plates: sushi, coconut shrimp, plantains, french fries, and a few bites of dessert. 

Although I was making progress, I couldn't bring myself to make conversation, or even look at my mom. I stared down at my plate as if it were the enemy, and in my head, I was singing "Eye of the Tiger." 

I had brought my mom so much pain in the past few weeks, I wanted to make her happy. 

She would be going home soon, and I would be left to my old ways. One meal wouldn't kill me. 

I felt like I had failed my disorder by eating at the buffet, and enjoying it. I thought about what my dietitian told me that I once thought was impossible, that food was meant to be enjoyable. It was the most I had eaten in probably a year, and for the first time I could remember having a meal and enjoying it. 

I hated the full feeling in my stomach. I hated the way a full belly made it look round. I hated the after taste of all the food I had ate. 

When we got back to the hotel, I went to my bed and cried. I was determined to start fresh tomorrow. I couldn't wait to have the meals I was comfortable with. 

My mom came in my room and told me how proud she was of me. I was mad at her pride- didn't she care that I was losing control? What would she think if I became a binge eater? Is that what she wanted? How could she be so happy when I was feeling so sad? She told me it was the happiest she has been since she got to town.

I asked her if she could extend her stay.

Earlier in the day, I begged her to bring me back to my apartment. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be on my own. In my own bed. I wanted to make my own meals. Do my own shopping. I wanted to be trusted, but I didn't trust myself. Not yet. 

She was supposed to leave within the next few days and I knew deep down I wasn't ready to be on my own.

"Please, mom, I need you to stay. If you leave now, I know I will go back to my old ways. I'm scared." 

I didn't want her to feel like I was threatening her. That if she left, I would get sicker. But I knew somehow that I would. I needed to be monitored and I needed to be accountable. I wasn't in control yet. I didn't know how to make my own choices 

She was happy to oblige and happy that I was so honest with myself and her for knowing I needed her to stay. 

She set me up in my apartment by taking me grocery shopping, and cleaning up the kitchen and my room so I would have a comfortable transition back home.

One of the main things that has helped me through recovery, was my body taking over against my brain's pushback. It's called Extreme Hunger. At the time, I thought it was a made up phenomena, something binge eaters coined to make them feel less shame abut the volume of food they ate. 

Extreme Hunger is common for those recovering from anorexia. Having suffered organ damage for so long from calorie restriction and deprivation, extreme hunger kicks in to help repair the damage done to your organs, and help put back on weight. 

A quick Google search said it would not be uncommon during periods of extreme hunger to consume up to 10,000 calories in a day.

I almost fainted.

That was probably more than I had consumed in the last two months. 

Unlike before where I felt like I couldn't physically eat, now it felt like I couldn't physically stop eating. I felt shame every time I got up to get another snack. What kind of anorexic was I? Where had all my control gone? Would I swing to the other side, and now develop binge eating disorder? Would all of this food make my weight spiral out of control?

I felt embarrassed every time I got up to get another snack, like my mom, or anyone around me would question why I was eating again.

My hunger cues were starting to come back, and they came back with a vengeance. They terrified me. I didn't trust my body and it didn't trust me. 

Besides consuming larger quantities during the day, my body would wake me up in the middle of the night, requiring more energy to repair all the damage I had done. 

I would eat up to four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at one time, I would finish the ice cream in the freezer, something I wouldn't dare eat, even before my eating disorder. I didn't know what was going on. I was embarrassed to even ask if it was a normal occurrence.

I wanted to go back to school, but I was so terrified of what my classmates and professors would say. 

I imagined people asking where I had been all of this time, why I was allowed to miss so much class and still be welcomed back in the classroom setting. I imagined people giving me strange looks wondering where I had gone that I had gained so much weight. 

I tried not to be so full of myself. 

I stayed at home to do my homework and work remotely for about a week until I couldn't take it anymore. 

My first day back at school, I felt so much anxiety. I had only been in these classes a few weeks, before I was admitted to the hospital. I hoped I could remember where everything was. 

Was I in the right class? Is this the right time? Am I caught up? Did I remember to do the reading? 

Surprisingly, the transition was fairly easy. My professors and classmates were extremely welcoming and kind to me, very willing to catch me up to pace. 

I met individually with each of my professors to make sure I was caught up and to see what else I would have to do to ensure I would meet the deadline for December graduation. 

I had a 12-page paper in politics, a presentation, two short stories and revisions for fiction writing, and a full portfolio to develop for creative non fiction. 

They didn't say it, but I think my professors underestimated my ability to get these things done in time, but they were willing to let me try. I had a month. 

I knew it would be challenging, but I was determined to get everything done, and return back to work. I couldn't wait to be back in the newsroom. I had checked on the status of a few of my stories while in the hospital, to which my boss replied I should log out of my email and let myself relax. 

I felt extreme pride being able to get all of the work done. I started with one class at a time. I completed all of the work that was owed, than having finished all of those assignments, I moved onto the next class. 

I loved seeing the grades roll in, surprised to see A's on assignments. I was up on the reading, because I had all of my textbooks in the hospital. 

Professors reassured me it would be fine if I withdrew due to medical reasons, and my mom told me she wouldn't be mad if I got C's. I didn't drop out and I didn't get C's. I was determined this would happen. 

I was so excited to get the email confirmation that I would be graduating, not only in December, but a semester early than originally anticipated. To get A's on my final assignments made all of the suffering to me feel worth it. I had my drive back, and that to me was more important than anything else. 

I made Dean's list this semester, and I know it was because of my mom's unwavering patience with me. She brought me my books, supplied me new notebooks and pens, when necessary. And sat by my side listening to my frustrations and my dreams, and encourage my determination. When I wrote out an assignment by hand, she would type it up and send it to my professors, reassuring them that I was on the right track, that despite their concerns for my health, I was getting my work done, and it was keeping me healthy, giving me incentive to fight harder than anything else would. 

Initially, I never wanted to walk at graduation. I had severe anxiety and I never liked being in front of a crowd. I hated anything that would draw attention to me. 

Having achieved what no one thought I would, I was hellbent on walking across that stage with pride. 

I wanted to do it for my mom. It was her graduation as much as it was mine. I wanted to walk for us. For all we have been through. I wanted to literally walk through the otherside of what we had come to known as hell. 

Having her drive four hours to see me make a ten second walk across stage meant the world to me. 

Four weeks prior, I would not have had the strength to make it across the stage at all. I was gaining weight regularly, and though I had some hard days, for the most part I was OK with it. She helped me be. 

We cried the morning of graduation. I had woken up early, though I hadn't even slept. I was too excited and it felt like the nervousness you get before the first day of school. But it was my last. 

After I put on my gown and cap, my mom gave me a gift. One of the most special gifts I had received in my entire life. 

She put my Nanny's favorite heart necklace around my neck and said she wanted me to have it, and my Nanny would, too. She wanted her to be with us today and have her close to my heart. 

The whole day felt like a dream. There was so much excitement, laughter, and positive memories made. 

I had my family and everyone that was important with me and it meant the world to me to have them there for support. It meant the world to me that I could be with them again, that I could make them proud for once. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 5

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other."

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers

read part 4 of my story here:

After placing the feeding tube, there was a fight between the ICU and the regular hospital floor. The regular floor wanted me to stay in ICU. My heart rate was no longer in the 30's, but still way below average. I would be a liability on the regular floor. The doctors in the ICU knew I didn't need to be there anymore. I looked around and saw older patients on breathing tubes, patients who had suffered life-threatening injuries and felt shame that I had brought myself here on my own doing. I was twenty-one confined to a hospital bed, wishing my life away while patients just two doors down were fighting for theirs. 

I was excited to be placed on the regular floor. The meals came later and less frequently, and I already felt less anxiety. The doctors no longer picked for me, and I would be given a menu, allowed to pick what I wanted. This was a strange concept for me, because looking at the menu, I didn't want anything. All of the options gave me anxiety. Half of the options were things I had never had before. For the past four years, I had had the same breakfast, lunch and dinner almost every day. I didn't know about options. Options gave me anxiety. 

On the regular hospital floor, I had a real bathroom. I was allowed to close the door 3/4 of the way. This new freedom was extremely liberating for me. I told the doctor that she didn't need to hold my hand or my heart rate monitor, because I was confident I wouldn't fall. 

I didn't have much trouble getting to the toilet myself, but it was tough to get up, with my legs now mostly bone. If the nurse asked if I needed help, I quickly yelled back no. I would do this myself. I leaned on the hand rail over the toilet, like an older patient and did it myself. 

I quickly frustrated the doctors on the regular hospital floor, too. When the nutritionist brought me my meals, I had 30 minutes to finish my plate. I wasn't allowed to use any food rituals, give any food away, or dispose of any of it. There was a camera in my room monitoring my progress. I often had my allergies and food aversions revisit, and offer my roommate portions of my plate. She was happy to accept seconds. 

My weight was still declining, despite being fed extra calories through the feeding tube. Now at 82 lbs, I was a liability to the hospital, and they didn't have the resources to treat me there. 

I was to be transferred to another hospital, one we were promised specialized in eating disorders. 

I was happy to be out of the hospital, sure I would be able to convince the new team of doctors to send me home to take care of myself. I was unhappy about their no technology rule. I would have to surrender both my phone and my laptop. How was I going to finish my homework? I was in the last semester of university, and while I was in the hospital, I had my pile of books on my bedside, so I could email my professors chapter outlines and creative writing pieces to go towards my final portfolio. Now, in the new place, my mom was limited to how many hours a day she would be able to visit me. 

I felt abandoned. 

I didn't want to go, but as my mom was in charge of making medical decisions for me, I didn't have a choice. It was either the hospital or residential treatment. 

I wasn't allowed to walk to the ambulance, even though I had proved I was capable. I was an athlete my entire life, now I didn't have the privilege to walk down the hall and into the ambulance. I was wheeled on a stretcher and I felt like I could melt away with embarrassment. I was capable, not a liability! 

When I arrived in the new hospital, I was given a hospital gown, underwear and socks. They made an exception for me to keep on my fleece sweater, because my weight was so low, I needed extra blankets to avoid my temperature dropping any further. 

Immediately, I felt like an exhibit in Ripley's Believe it or Not museum. Nurse after nurse came in asking me invasive questions throughout the day.

"Why are you scared to eat?"

"Are you afraid you will get fat?"

"Have you ever been fat?"

"Were you obese growing up?"

I felt vulnerable, embarrassed, and ashamed. I wanted to run, to hide my face in the blanket and melt away. 

One of my nurses felt it was a good time to confide in me about her own eating disorder, describing in vivid detail each behavior she used to maintain her slender figure. I was stressed out. I couldn't use behaviors while they were watching me. After I ate, they checked the garbage, under the sheets, and my drawers in case anything was thrown away. I wasn't allowed to use the bathroom for 30 minutes after finishing a meal, and my walking was limited to a few laps up and down the hallway each day. My body was surging with nervous energy and I hated this nurse and her skinny body. I hated that she was getting paid to make me fat and I hated that she wanted to talk to me so much. 

We quickly realized that this new facility wasn't fit for treating patients with eating disorders. It was a medical behavior unit. Here, they would be able to stabilize me medically, but not the underlying cause of the disorder. No acknowledgment of depression, no talking about eating disorders. The nurses would put a "!" sign on my door to remind them to weigh me each morning, with a disclaimer not to allow me to look at the scale and not to use numbers out loud or within ear shot of my room. The facility was primarily a psychiatric unit, where they would treat patients with schizophrenia and hold patients on baker act who were on suicide watch after an attempt.

My door would often be kept close, because of angry patients screaming down the hall, or my neighbor, who would run into my room if the door was open, convinced that I was her mother. 

The nurses were the least bit sympathetic to me, treating me more as a burden than a valid patient. 

"See, that's why you have the tube in your nose," one nurse said after aggressively adjusting the tube, before storming out of my room.

She was mad that I couldn't eat the meal that was sent up to me, yet again. She was tired of me sending meals back and asking for substitutions. She acted as if the feeding tube was a punishment. 

Unlike the other patients on the floor, I wasn't allowed to use the shower room, because of my IV, feeding tube, and heart rate monitor. Instead, each morning I was given a tub of water, a few washcloths, soap and hair wash to clean up, if I had the energy. 

I didn't.

I told the nurse that I would wait for my mom to come so she could help me, and she wouldn't have it. She wanted me to learn to do it myself. 

I cried out of frustration, because I couldn't bend to clean the bottom of my legs and I couldn't reach my back. 

I wasn't allowed to shave my legs, because we couldn't have razors in a psychiatric facility. I quickly began to miss these little signs of freedom: fresh air, water pressure from a shower head, and bare legs. I felt trapped in my own body.

My blood pressure was taken every few hours, so the nurse decided to just leave the arm cuff around my arm. It was a child's size, so no one else on the floor would be using it, anyway. 

I quickly developed a routine in the new hospital as well. The last meal of the day came anywhere from 4:30-5 p.m., so I would turn in for the night after I finished eating, exhausted from the stress of the meal. The nurses would wake me up at 9 p.m. for my medicine, blood pressure, and any other tests they required from me that day.

On average, I got about three or four shots each day. One every morning at 5 a.m. in my stomach to prevent infection. Barely having any belly fat, this one hurt more than any other. Certain nurses were not very skilled at giving this shot, so I still have the purple scars to remind me I never want to be here again.

The nurses thought it was funny how immune I became to the process of getting blood drawn or getting my blood pressure taken. 

After medicine, I would typically sleep through the night, and not wake up until the nurses woke me for breakfast. I was too sad to do anything else. 

When they came in my room for blood or blood pressure, it got to the point where I simply stopped waking up, instead just raising my arms in robotic motion, letting them take whatever they wanted, letting them poke me in whatever vein they deemed fit, which for them, was wherever they hadn't poked me, yet. 

I slept a lot, because there wasn't much else to do. I didn't want to walk my four laps a day, but when my mom came to visit, she made me. The nurses made me get out of the bed and sit up in my chair to eat my breakfast and start my homework, so they can make the bed. My philosophy was if I never left the bed, they would never have to make it. 

I hated leaving my bed, because when I did, I had to drag my IV bag, and feeding tube with me. The wheels they came on were much like when you get a wonky cart at the supermarket and only three of the wheels turn. It was frustrating, and I didn't have the strength or patience to pull it beside me and I often tripped over it, or got it stuck in the doorway. As hard as I tried, I couldn't imagine ever being disconnected from either. 

When my mom came to visit, we talked about school and the news. I missed school and I missed the news. 

Every time she mentioned the possibility of having to drop all or any of my classes for the semester, I couldn't take it. I loved going to school and I loved being a student and I was determined to graduate on time. Every day she came to visit I asked her to bring me my school books and the newspaper. 

While she was gone, I would read my books for school, and write my assignments by hand. I handed her my assignments, to which she would take them home and type them up to email to my professors. 

Having my mom come to visit me was the highlight of my day, because it helped me establish a routine. Being confined into this one room allowed me to appreciate the little things in my day. I wanted to know what the weather was like outside, and I wanted her to open the blinds in my room. At this point, the only time I had been outside in the past month had been when I was wheeled into the back of the ambulance. I missed fresh air and I missed seeing the sun. I wondered if it was raining and for how long. 

I tried to accomplish as much as I could before my mom came to visit in the afternoon. If I managed to sit in the chair for breakfast, clean up and brush my hair and teeth before she came, I called it a good day. 

I hated when my mom came before lunch, because having her in the room while I was trying to eat stressed me out. The doctors were marking percentage of how much of my plate I ate, and when I reached 75%, they would consider turning off my feeding tube. I hated seeing how hurt my mom was during meal time, although she tried hard to be supportive. She tried to distract me with conversation, but I couldn't keep my mind off of what was in front of me. When I saw the nurse carry in the tray at each meal, it was as if I blacked out. The anxiety washed over me and I felt like I was drowning in myself. I couldn't imagine completing 75% of my meal, and if the meal was wrong I threw a fit, which upset my mom, the nurses and the cafeteria workers. I didn't care. If they didn't change it, I wouldn't eat and that was fine for me. 

The day that my nurse said that I could take a shower, I was so excited. I hadn't had a real shower in a few weeks and I just wanted to clean my hair and feel the water run down my back. But, I wasn't allowed to go on my own. I could only take a shower if my IV was covered with plastic bags, and my mom helped me in the shower room.

Despite my excitement, I felt immense shame. Despite how many times the nurses had helped me change my hospital gowns, I was afraid to take off the gown in front of my mother. I knew how much she cried when she saw my body. I closed my eyes and pretended I didn't see her holding back tears as she came face to face with my ribs, that were poking dangerously out of my body. She gently moved the washcloth over my shoulders, careful not to hurt me, because my shoulder blades now protruded out of my back. I held on to the shower rail, careful not to fall, because I hadn't stood that long in a long time, but I wasn't ready to step out of the steady stream of water the shower head provided. 

There were so many doctors assigned to my case, that we often got contradicting information. Several times I was promised discharge in coming days, which got my hopes up and never came. In my head I prepared of what I would do when I got home, who I would see, and how my transition home would be. 

I was terrified to be home, knowing left to my own devices, I wouldn't know how to change my behavior. I had accomplished many difficult things in my life, I couldn't understand why I found it so impossible to feed myself a proper balanced dinner. I couldn't understand what had went wrong in my brain to make myself hate my own existence so much. 

After a broken promise of discharge, I learned it was possible to be sued for rights to your own body. That week I was taken to mental health court, where the hospital would go to the magistrate and ask them to keep me for up to six months against my will in order to properly care for me. The hospital was convinced, if left to my own devices, I would go back to my old habits and eventually end up dead. They were damn right, if they sent me home, I would restrict twelve times harder to regain all of the 'progress' I was convinced I had lost. 

I lost in court. 

Although I would be getting my feeding tube removed, because I had proved I could consistently finish meals voluntarily, I would be staying another week on the psych floor. 

Here, treatment would be focused more on my depression. 

Having lost in mental health court, I didn't leave my bed for two days. I was more depressed than ever. It was a week before Halloween, and I wanted to go home so badly. I wanted to return to school. I wanted to go to classes in person. I wanted to go to the bar with my friends and go on dates. I wanted to go for a walk and experience the sun beating down on my back. I wanted to inhale deeply and fill my lungs with fresh air. I wanted to be off the IV, have the feeding tube out of my nose, and I wanted to go back to my old habits.

I was terrified of changing floors. I had a routine here and I had my own TV. My mom was allowed to stay for half the day, where now she would only be allowed to stay two.

I felt abandoned. 

I was convinced I did not need to be on the psych floor, just because I had an eating disorder.

I was right, and again I felt like an exhibit.

The treatment on the psych floor was geared more towards addiction and I had trouble relating lessons learned in group therapy to my own life. It all felt like BS to me and I felt like a prisoner. 

The other patients were hyper-concerned with my condition, but I made friends quickly, because I was always super willing to give away my dessert and milk, and anything else somebody might have wanted off my tray.

I had a week of eight hours of group therapy, before I would be released into my mom's care.

The first step out of the hospital in six weeks felt like I was released from prison. I felt as if I could have gotten high off the first deep inhale of fresh air, a little pleasure that had suddenly become so significant. Air. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 4

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other." 

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers

read part three of my story here:

I was admitted to the ICU for the second time at 5'7" and 86 lbs. I was brought up in a wheelchair, and almost immediately placed on bed rest. The doctors wrapped my wrist with a bright yellow bracelet labeled "high fall risk."

I had a call button to call the nurses every time I needed to get up from bed to use the bathroom. When the nurse came in, she would untangle me from my IV and all of the wires that I was hooked up to and undo the circulation leg wraps, which were used to prevent blood clots, since I wasn't moving around. 

My heart rate, again was in the high 30's and I needed to be closely monitored until they could stabilize me. 

The first night in ICU I slept with six hospital blankets, and a heating blanket that read 114 degrees Fahrenheit, because my body temperature was several points below average. 

Having sent several meals back and asking for swaps, and for friends to bring me things that I swore I would be willing to eat, foods that I deemed 'safe' to my diet, the doctors on my case declared me medically incompetent to make my own decisions that were in the best interest of my health. 

They were concerned, when asked if God forbid anything happen with my heart if they should take all measures to save my life and at twenty-one, I told them "no, DNR." 

I was depressed, I didn't care. I was numb to the warnings. I was becoming smaller and smaller, until the demon swallowed me whole.

Part of my brain was still the overachiever, perfectionist who wanted to be at work, wanted to be at school, and wanted to participate in all the activities I once loved, especially life. I felt sad when my friends came to visit to tell me stories about their classes, nights at the bar, and blind dates they went on. I was twenty-one. I wanted to go to the bar. I wanted to be out drinking whiskey, rather than cooped up in the hospital, drinking laxative soda. I wanted to go on dates, but I didn't want any man to see me like this. I didn't want anyone to see me like this. 

The disordered part of my brain felt great sense of accomplishment when I stepped on the scale and watched the number decline. I wondered how low it could go. My brain felt like it was on a high. I felt like I could sustain on no food, just gum and seltzer water and diet soda. I wished I could do all of the things I loved without worrying about the stress of having to eat. 

The next morning, my mom had drove four miles to be by my side, and start making decisions for me. When I woke up and saw her there, I was pissed. 

"Why did you come?" I asked. "You should just go home." 

I was scared having her there. She was going to make me gain weight. They were trying to force me into recovery and it wasn't fair. I wasn't ready to choose recovery. I still wasn't happy.  

When the psychologist came in that day, I begged for medicine, something I had always been against. 

"I can't live like this anymore," I told her. "It's as if I'm already dead. My spirit is gone." 

During this entire struggle, the biggest loss for me was losing my sense of faith. I loved studying Buddhism, I felt it filled my spirit more than anything else. It helped me to remain calm, not to take things in life so seriously, to be a better daughter, a better friend, and a better sister, and helped me learn to act, not react. Suddenly, everything I read in the books felt like bullshit. I could read it, but I didn't believe it anymore. It seemed impossible that such philosophies could be applicable to my life. 

The nutritionist at the hospital threatened that if I didn't start eating, they would have to insert a feeding tube. I was in the hospital for five days, and I was losing weight by being in bed. I was 84 lbs and I still couldn't walk on my own. I couldn't take more than a few steps to the portable toilet placed next to my bed, and even then, I needed help getting up so I didn't fall. 

When I was stabilized, I was placed on the regular hospital floor, where I would get a feeding tube placed. I couldn't avoid it anymore. I had made every excuse. Every time the doctors made a threat, I promised I would eat all of my food, knowing that eating such a high volume was physically impossible for me at this point. I promised to drink boosts, but again, I couldn't drink as many as I would need to to even maintain my weight. 

I had heard of people who pulled out their feeding tubes, and I was sure that's what I would do once the doctors and my mom had left me alone. Until they placed it. I was told to drink soda from a straw as two doctors leaned over my bed strategically sliding the tube up my nose and down my throat. It felt like a sun burn sensation sliding down my throat, burning more and more on the way down. Considering my luck, the tube had to be replaced two more times before they had it right, because the end was coiling in my stomach, which would cause it to clog. 

The doctors gave me a Xanax so that I would stop crying and thrashing and hopefully be able to get some sleep that night. After having the tube pulled all the way out, back down, then back up and wiggled around inside my nose and around my stomach, I vowed I would never touch it, even if I had to leave it in forever. I never wanted that pain ever again.

With the feeding tube now in place, I still wasn't taking anybody seriously, although I was embarrassed of my appearance. 

I asked the nurses for a face mask, so my mom wouldn't have to see me with the tube in my nose when she came in the next day. When I put it on, we were all laughing, because I was still talking. I told the nurse that the nutritionist said the tube didn't have to be turned on tomorrow night [not true.] So I would go to bed having enjoyed my sugar free jello, one day less of having liquid calories poured down my throat. I was still manipulating, numb to the warnings of what could happen.

Story continued in part 5...

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 3

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other." 

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers. 

read part two of my story here:

I was given an ultimatum. I drove myself to the hospital, just to prove to my mom that I didn't need to be there. I would be forced to wait there for hours, checked out, only to be sent home. I better bring a book.

I was admitted almost immediately to the Intensive Care Unit. My weight was now in the double digits and my heart rate was in the high 30's. 

The feeling of not being able to 'physically eat' I was told was called delayed gastric emptying. My body was not getting enough food, so it was holding on to whatever nourishment it did get, refusing to release an ounce, even waste. The build up of waste was collecting in my body and blocking my stomach, which forced me to feel full all of the time. 

I cried after being admitted. Not because I was scared of the incessant warnings of my body shutting down, or my heart stopping in the middle of the night, but because I had work the next day, and my phone was dead. I was scared of eating in the hospital, not being able to choose what they brought me or when I could eat. 

Meals came frequently. Too frequently: 7:30, 4:30, 6:30. I sent back almost all of my trays in my five day stay. I faked allergies, told them the food was bad, and claimed I wasn't hungry.

Having restricted so long, I no longer felt hungry. My hunger cues were skewed and mostly gone. My doctors told me my body was feeding off the waste it was holding, and my internal organs, and if I didn't stop, they would start to shut down. My hair was falling out, I was cold all of the time, despite the 90 degree Florida heat, my skin had a tint of yellow, and I haven't had a real period in over a year. 

Even being in the ICU, I found a way to manipulate the system. Having sent back so many meals, the doctors let me choose anything I wanted to eat, whatever I would be willing to eat. They were lenient with me, because they knew until I was able to release the waste my body was hoarding, I wouldn't be able to take in too much food. It would actually be dangerous, because I wouldn't release any of it. 

The doctors said until I was able to use the bathroom, I would have to stay in ICU under monitoring. I was prescribed laxatives, magnesium citrate, and an enema to help. Nothing worked. The doctors were shocked. 

I was given one more day, and if I wasn't able to go on my own, they would have to operate to remove the waste, leaving a permanent scar on my stomach. 

It was almost as if my bowels heard the threat from my doctors loud and clear, and I was able to go on my own. 

Having stayed in the ICU for almost a week, you don't have any shame at the end of the week. Besides using the bathroom, which was a makeshift pot located next to my bed, I was on bed rest. I 'showered' with wet wipes, and the doctors had to help change my gown, because of all of the wires I was hooked up to. 

I was only twenty years old, encountering the same complications my 90 year old grandpa was just a few months prior. 

I was released the same day, against the psychologist wishes. He was convinced if they released me to my home, and not a treatment center, I would go right back to my old habits. 

He was damn right. 

I was convinced I had to make up for the lost time that I was in the hospital. I had to lose the weight that I was sure they injected into my body through the IV. I was bloated everywhere and I felt disgusting. 

Against doctor and school officials wishes, I declined further treatment. I was adamant against residential treatment, knowing that being in a facility for 30 days with no access to technology or the outside world would not help me in the slightest. Really, I didn't want to be monitored for every morsel I did or did not put in my mouth. I wanted to get better on my own. I did it before, surely I could do it again. I was determined to start and finish my final semester of university and walk across the stage for graduation.

My mom and I received an email prior to school starting that if I was determined to continue school against their warnings, we had to sign a waiver releasing the university of any liability, should anything happen to me on campus. Also, I wasn't allowed to attend the health center on campus for counseling, unless it was an emergency. 

After four years of attending counseling with the same person, I felt extremely betrayed, but I was determined to prove her wrong. 

I would finish the semester, then in December, I would enter treatment when I had more time. 

To me, it was school first, work second, me last. Always last. 

I had a panic attack my first day of school. I woke up two hours before my class to make breakfast and have my coffee. My morning routine always took me so long, because I always had to have the same breakfast, regardless of time constraints. 

I was out of breath walking from my car in the parking garage, to the elevator to get to my class on the second floor. Then, I had 20 minutes to make it to my next class across campus. It took me 10 minutes longer than it normally would. I was jealous of the people speed walking past me, as I struggled to even make it at a snail crawl. I knew I should probably take the elevator up the three flights, but I wanted to work my legs- get in some extra steps, so I took the stairs. 

It only took me three weeks, before I realized that I wouldn't be able to finish out the semester. I was panicked. I had already started, and I didn't want my mom to lose her money on tuition. It was my last semester before graduation and I didn't want to lose my job. I would get treatment in December, and push through. 

It was a conversation I had with my mom that led me to be honest with myself on my evaluation of my health. 

She went to bat for me to finish school, despite all of the doctors and professors warning her of the dangers, of how close I was to death. She was the only one who knew that if I gave up school, I would give up hope. 

"Please don't prove them right," she pleaded.

It was after that second class, that I knew I wouldn't be able to make it to my next one, two hours later. It was only up one more flight of stairs and down the hall, but I felt like my legs were locking in place. I physically could not make it. 

My professor had already asked me if everything was OK with me, so she suspected something was up. I had skipped her class before on a count of "I didn't feel well." With no shame left, it was the only time in my life I was OK with someone assuming I had the shits, rather than reveal the truth. 

I broke down in her office, and she told me it would be OK to skip class, if I promised to go to the hospital right away and stay in touch with her. Knowing I couldn't walk back down the stairs and across campus to the parking garage, she pulled her car in front of the elevator, and drove me to my parking spot. 

Sitting in my car trying to catch my breath, I went back and forth with whether or not I should actually go to the hospital, or if I should just go back to my apartment and take a nap. 

How would she know, anyway?

Story continued in part 4...

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt.2

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other."

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention numbers. 

read part one of my story here. 

In May of last year, my weight reached its lowest point since middle school. I was 5'7" and 115 lbs. I have been in sports my entire life, so my set weight typically sits around 140-150 lbs. 

In May of last year, my mom told me that I wasn't allowed to work out anymore until I put on some weight. 

I laughed. Yeah, right. I thought. What was I going to do? Sit in my room and let myself go? I completed three or four more workouts, before I realized my mom was right. It wasn't only that I shouldn't workout, I couldn't workout. 

My body was so tired, I could no longer make it through my 30 minute circuit workout. I couldn't bike more than two miles. I was sleeping in late and I was always exhausted. 

I refused to listen to my body, so I pushed through my workouts. I went to boxing, anyway. I couldn't make it through the full hour class. Embarrassed, I would leave early, attributing the lack of stamina to asthma. I sat in my car and cried. I was exhausted, but I couldn't stop. I would try again tomorrow. 

I was extremely relieved when school ended for the semester. Having time off from work, I was able to go home to New York to spend time with my dad and some childhood friends. I thought it would be just the restart I needed. At the airport I promised not to let this newly developed disorder stand in my way of experiencing being home. I will have bagels and pizza, I promised. I'm only there for two weeks, it won't kill me. But it might, I thought. I put my sunglasses on at the gate and cried thinking of how I used to ride my bike to the bagel store on Sunday and buy bagels for my family so we could enjoy breakfast together. I thought about my favorite slice of pizza, a stuffed ziti slice, that I would never be 'allowed' to eat again, and I cried. What if a friend asked me to meet for lunch? How would I tell them no? 

Going home was not what I expected at all. I was extremely uncomfortable not having a place of my own, but instead staying with friends and relatives during the extent of my visit. The severe weight loss was causing me severe anxiety, and I didn't want to see anyone. What would they think? It was almost June, and I was cold all of the time. I hid under sweatshirts and sweatpants, hoping the extra padding would allow me to get comfortable enough to catch a few hours of sleep. My bones were now protruding, which made it difficult to find a position to sleep in that didn't hurt. 

"Bri you look so good, what have you been doing?"

I gave an awkward laugh, and cried that night. 

I didn't want anyone to do what I was doing, let alone anyone I loved. I was so anxious and depressed all of the time, that I was barely eating anything anymore. I was losing more weight every day even though I was just laying on the couch. I swore my body was betraying me and blowing up, but I was fading away more and more each day both physically and mentally. 

I was trapped. And I didn't know how to ask for help. 

I lost 25 lbs in the two weeks that I was in New York, and two weeks I was in California with my sister and my mom was growing more concerned. 

At this point, it was beyond the mental 'fear' of food, and I felt like I physically couldn't put food in my mouth. 

I was staying with my mom in hopes that her monitoring would 'snap me out of it,' and I would be able to 'just eat.' 

I tried to pretend I didn't notice her crying every time I left my breakfast half eaten, or told her I wasn't hungry. 

I cried, too, because I was mad at her for making me stay with her. I was gaining weight here, and she wouldn't let me workout. 

I took advantage of our time at the pool, jumping in the water, and vigorously swimming laps, while she sunbathed, enjoying reading her book. I wondered how many calories swimming burned. 

Despite my insistence that my legs were getting bigger, and my arms were growing jigglier, my mom swore that I had lost, yet again.

She was right. 

I was now 5'7" and 104 lbs. 

We told the doctor that we were going to find me treatment starting July, when our new insurance kicked in. She told my mom that I might not make it that long. 

July was two weeks away. 

The doctor officially diagnosed me as anorexia, to which I laughed, because, I was still convinced there was nothing wrong with me. 

"I'm not anorexic, I'm depressed," I told her. "I'm sad, I can't eat." 

"Just eat," she responded.

If I could, I would not be sitting there talking to her, now would I?

"Do you realize that you could die?" she asked. "You're too young to be doing this."

I didn't blink at her, and I did not react. This would be the first of many times I would have doctors warning me that I could die. I didn't care. Depression didn't let me. I was drowning, and I was numb. 

She asked me if I would be willing to drink multiple boosts or protein shakes per day to get my weight up quickly, and I had a panic attack.

Weight? Quickly? = Fat? Hell no!

The doctor suggested that my mom bring me back to Tampa and find me treatment now, or I would surely end up in the hospital, or worse, dead. 

Story continued in part 3...

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 1

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other." 

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers. 

It started off as an innocent attempt to combat my depression. I committed myself to my boxing routine of at least three times a week. When I wasn't boxing, I would find other ways to stay active, to keep my mind busy: running, walking, biking, swimming, playing basketball, anything but stay still.

If I sat still for too long, the demons that have been living inside my brain for the past 12 years would catch up with me, forcing me to deal with real emotions, pain that I wasn't ready to confront. I thought if I kept moving, in time, I would be able to outrun the beast.

I've tried everything, but medicine to keep my depression at bay: yoga, meditation, tea, all the natural BS you read in those online articles. Nothing worked, except diet and exercise.

As time went on, I became more and more devout to my workout routine. I would skip plans with my friends and cancel dates, because I had to go to boxing. I would miss class or go in late to work in order to fit in my bodyweight circuits. I was going to school 18 hours and working over 40 hours a week. This was the one thing I did for me. I needed to workout. If I happened to miss a workout, because of prior obligations, or simply because my body was "too tired," I became very angry. I would snap at the people who were closest to me, and it seemed that I couldn't allow myself to do anything else until I completed a workout. Until I sweat off my bad mood.

Once I proved to myself that I was committed to fitness, I explored with diet. I wanted to have the cleanest diet, in order to perform my workouts better. I started by cutting out alcohol, something that quickly isolates you when you're in a college environment, then I said good-bye to processed foods. Everything the magazine told me to do.

For me, it was never about being "skinny," because I was never "fat." I just wanted to be fit and I wanted to feel well.

It wasn't until a night out with my best friend that I had noticed significant weight loss.

"You have lost a lot of weight," she said, "I think you've been working out too much, are you eating?" she asked.

Everyone who was close to me knew my quirks about food. I had a lot of rules about what I would and would not eat, when I would eat and who I would eat with.

I attributed the weight loss to my workout routine and insisted I was eating.

After uploading pictures we took to Facebook, my mom immediately demanded I take down the pictures.

"It's happening again," she cried. "You're too thin."

She was referring to freshman year when I had lost 20 lbs due to a combination of stress and depression and being away from home for the first time. She didn't want anyone to see me like this, so she told me to take the pictures down.

I didn't see it. Part of me felt really proud of my dedication to working out, and part of me felt relieved that my friends and family were concerned, maybe it would allow me to take a break, to loosen up a little bit.

But I was already trapped.

I continued my workouts as if it were part of my religion and regularly looked for ways I could fit in more exercise. If a friend wanted to meet to catch up, I wanted to hike or go biking. I didn't want to waste any time.

If a friend asked me to meet for drinks, or a professor wanted to catch up over lunch, I called my mom in tears. Suddenly I was afraid of extra calories, so I was left alone a lot.

I didn't mind, because it gave me more time to focus on the task at hand- getting fit.

The disorder led me to feel superior to those who would stop for McDonald's at 2 a.m. on the way home from the bar, or grab a bag of candy just because they felt like it. I felt proud of my will power every time I passed up curly fries or mac and cheese in the cafeteria, and instead bee-lined it for the salad bar. I felt proud of myself, but also I felt jealous of my friends who seemed to not put so much thought into when, where and what they were eating and who they would be eating with, friends who would roll out of bed in the late afternoon and swear they would workout tomorrow.

I was trapped. And I didn't know how to stop, or how to ask for help. The wheels kept turning, and my body was exhausted.

Story continued in part 2...