Over 30 million people in the United States are suffering from an eating disorder.

I am one of those 30 million.

Only one in ten people suffering from an eating disorder will receive treatment.

I am proud to say that I am one of that 10 percent.

Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness.

I am trying very hard not to be a part of that statistic.

Am I still the girl you thought you knew?

To say that anorexia is a hard thing to deal with would be an understatement. I’ve been dealing with this issue for almost seven years. I’ve just begun to reach out for help from my friends in the past three years, and professional help in the last few months. It is beyond terrifying to say that something is wrong, to admit everything is not as perfect as it seems. This is true for any form of mental illness, but especially with eating disorders, as they often stem from a distorted view of perfection and an attempt for control over an aspect of your life. I was in seventh grade when I first began restricting what I ate, and here I am, a sophomore in college, still struggling. It came from a comment made by someone I had once called a friend. What that comment was is not important (though of course I remember it word for word and always will), but what is important is what the intention was: to make me feel like less of a human being; to injure my self-esteem; to hurt me, plain and simple.

Ever since that day, my self-worth has been tied up in what others think of me, especially what they think of how I look. I’ve always been small, tiny, skinny. I didn’t want to lose that. “Skinny” became part of my identity. It was who I was, and I wanted to maintain that, as it seemed to set me apart from others. Everyone always commented on how small I was, making jokes about how I weighed less than a pound, saying how “pretty and skinny” I was. I associated “pretty” with “skinny” and thought I couldn’t be one without the other. So I ate less and less, and then not at all, because I wanted to maintain my identity.

Anorexia became a talent.

I was good at it.

That’s the scariest part, I think; that I became so skilled at hiding how little I ate, how much food I threw away, the rare occasions I managed to get my finger down my throat and throw it all up.

I don’t blame anyone for not noticing sooner. I really was pretty good at it. And I was proud of how good I was at it. I am thankful, however, for the slip-ups, the posts, whatever led whoever to ask me “Are you okay?” because no, no I was not.

Telling people is even scarier. How will they react? Will they think I’m lying? Will they think I’m stupid? Will they stop talking to me, because who wants to talk to a girl who has an issue like that? They’re taboo subjects, mental illness and eating disorders. To tell someone you have a problem demonstrates a huge amount of trust. I’ve begun to trust several people with this information about me, which is terrifying because I hate to feel so vulnerable, hate to give up that control. But at this point I’ve told enough people and I feel comfortable admitting it, so what better way to hold myself accountable?

I don’t particularly want to focus on the past in terms of what I did and how I did it. Who would that help? I want to focus on right now, on what I’m doing to recover, and what you can do if you, or someone you know, is struggling with an eating disorder.

Someone once asked me what a younger version of myself would think of the person I am now, if 9 year old Nicole met 19 year old Nicole. I laughed and gave a lighthearted answer, saying she’d be proud of what I’d accomplished and amazed at the places I’d traveled. But if she really, truly looked at me and what I had done, I know what would happen.

She’d cry and cry and say she didn’t understand and I’d say “Sweetie, neither do I.”

I want to save that little girl so badly, but I can’t.

All I can do is save who I am now and hope to make some small difference in the life of someone else who’s struggling.

I wish I could tell that little girl with so many innocent dreams that it’s always better to be full.

Be full of love. Be full of passion. Be full of kindness. Be full of hope.

Be full of food because sweetie, you can’t take on any of your dreams completely and wholeheartedly on an empty stomach, it just won’t work.

If you’re anorexic or struggling with any kind of eating disorder and/or body image issue, tell someone. You can’t do it all alone. Don’t want to tell a friend or family member?

The number of the National Eating Disorder Association helpline is 1-800-931-2237.

You can also text “Start” to the Crisis Text Line at 741-741 to text anonymously with a live, trained specialist.

You cannot do this on your own. I tried for several years, so long that it became dangerous and life-threatening. Reaching out for help is hard, but it’s worth it. I promise you. It is so, so worth it.

If you think someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, talk to them one on one. Don’t attack them, don’t accuse them of anything. They will be defensive. Then they might break down. Then they might yell at you. Then they might cry. More than likely they will try to deny it. Be gentle with them and if you don’t think you’re getting anywhere, remind them that you care about them and are always available to talk. But don’t push them.

You absolutely cannot say things like “Well…why don’t you just, like…eat?”

It’s not that simple.

Help them find the help they need. It’s no overnight transition, no immediate recovery once they hear the words “You’re perfect the way you are.”

Ask them if they want to talk, ask them if they need help. I have friends that have known about my problem for several years, but I asked them not to tell my parents, I was going to figure it out. As I got worse, however, they encouraged me to look into therapy, to ask my parents to help me figure out what was happening. I could not have reached out further if it wasn’t for their support and understanding.

Under no circumstances should you attempt to become their therapist yourself. Watching every forkful go into their mouth with eagle eyes and a knowing look will not help. Do not ask them what they’ve eaten during every conversation. They have more things to talk about. Don’t sacrifice "Your Friend the Human Being" for "Your Friend the Anorexic." That is not their entire identity. Be supportive, be gentle, do not smother them.

A good rule of thumb for anyone, at any time, to anyone, is to not comment on someone’s size. Please, especially, don’t make “skinny” a compliment. “Beautiful,” is fine, sure, but there are so many other qualities that should come to mind. Compliment a person’s intelligence, their generosity, their sense of humor, their talents, whatever they may be. Tell me I look healthy, tell me I’m glowing, tell me I look happy.

Celebrate accomplishments, not measurements.

My eating disorder began in seventh grade. In eighth grade, as I was rereading the beloved book series, Harry Potter, I realized that there had to be more important things than worrying about what I looked like, as Hermione Granger said, important things being “friendship and bravery.” I wanted to focus on something else other than this fear that was consuming me. Hermione struggled with body image and self confidence issues as well. She’s constantly described as having large front teeth and bushy hair. At one point, the bullying got so bad that she resorted to magic to fix her teeth because she was so self-conscious. For the Yule Ball in their fourth year, she used potions and magic to smooth her bushy hair, but admitted it was too much work and decided to embrace her appearance. I wanted that confidence. I wanted to be Hermione. I started to get better.

Then the stress of high school got to me. Ninth grade came and I was more or less okay. Tenth grade came and I was a train wreck. I stopped eating again. I didn’t want to. I always felt nauseous, I didn’t sleep, I tried to remain “skinny and pretty” because these were things I could control when everything else seemed to be slipping away from me. Nothing else seemed to be stable so I created my own sense of stability. I wasn’t actually stable though. Outside I seemed fine, but inside of me was a constant earthquake that rocked me to the core every single day. I wasn't comfortable in my own skin, the kind of uncomfortable where your hair won't stop whipping around your face on a windy day at the beach and you have sand on your hands so you can't get your hair out of your face because then the sand will get in your eyes, but you can't wipe your hands off because the sand is everywhere else. There's nothing you can do but live with the hair and the sand and the constant feeling of wanting to cry.

One night, in the late winter, I was crying in the shower, trying to hold myself together, when I had the insane desire to write. I am a writer, I always have been and continue to be (obviously) and remain close with my creative writing teacher from high school. But this desire was overwhelming; there was a story inside me that I had to get out. I didn’t even get dressed, I sat in my towel and just wrote. I wrote a story about a bulimic, a girl who wakes up after she’d passed out while throwing up. She had no name, and in the end instead of coming to the realization that she had a problem, she decided she wouldn’t eat at all. I realized, when I read back over the completed story, that although I wasn’t a bulimic, all of the thoughts of the narrator were my own. I titled the story “Perfectly in Control,” and realized at the same time that I was losing control.

Even during recovery I have moments where I realize I'm not in control. Since I received my class ring during my sophomore year of high school, I have worn it on my ring finger every single day, planning to continue wearing it every single day until some guy gets the crazy idea to replace it with a diamond. Over the summer, it became more loose than usual. It would slip off every so often and spin around constantly. Even my fingers were getting smaller. I stopped wearing my ring, fearing I would lose it. Recently, after weeks of not wearing it, I put it on again, along with some other pieces of jewelry I had stopped wearing. To my surprise and delight, it felt more secure on my finger. It was still big, but not as much. I was gaining weight. It was a terrifying and beautiful revelation. The anorexic part of my brain was devastated, thinking a few pounds may amount to a hundred. But the healthy part of my brain, the part that's really me, knew it was a sign of recovery and strength and determination. I know I'm getting better.

I have a tattoo on my ribs of a sunflower where the stem is made up of the words "In sorrow seek happiness." I repeat this to myself in some of my darkest moments like a prayer, reminding myself that it's up to me to pull myself out of this hole, and that there are moments of joy and relief sprinkled throughout each day. I can find the happiness, I cannot let the sorrow consume me.

There are different moments in every person’s life that will make them realize that what they’re doing is not okay. These were some of mine, and though it’s been a bumpy journey, they’ve led me to where I am now and the road to recovery.

Through your passions you will find a saving grace, but don’t let your problems prevent you from following through with your dreams.

I don’t want to say that I’m anorexic. That makes it seem like I’m not doing anything to fix my problem. I’m a recovering anorexic. I still struggle with some of those thoughts and tendencies, but I’m actively working to fix them. I’m working on establishing healthy eating habits and not depending on the number on the scale for my self-worth.

I define my self-worth by the work I produce, the smiles I create, the problems I solve, the love I have to give.

I’m worth it.

Don’t ever tell me I’m not.