I recently celebrated my year anniversary of being admitted to hospital for my eating disorder. It was horrible and helpful, it was difficult and rewarding but most of all it was worth it.

The first week was the hardest. I cried every night and my eating disorder screamed in my brain every second I spent awake. I had panic attacks that raised my heart to alarming rates and brought nurses running to my room, I was awoken one night by my heart monitor alarm because my heart rate kept falling below 45 bpm (beats per minute). I was sick, very sick. I was so weak and my body could not support my eating habits any longer.

I was stuck between hating myself every time I ate, and knowing that if I did not eat I would die. Every bite was a struggle but I managed to do it, and every time it got easier. For that first week, I did little other than sleep and eat. I started to notice that I was feeling hungry before my meals and snacks and for the first time in years I felt some relief after eating.

Despite having all the help and support I could ever need I was alone. It had taken been 6 months of treatment to realize that no matter how much people helped me; they couldn't carry me all the way. I was alone, I was the only one who could help me. Normally this realization would have made me cry, and want to die. Luckily I was in a place where I couldn't even move my legs without someone noticing so I had no choice but to deal with it.

I was able to choose to fight it because I was in the hospital. There isn't a doubt in my mind that if I hadn't, I would have continued to starve, work too hard and hurt myself.

The nurses were there; there were there when I couldn't stop crying when I had panic attacks that kept me up, when I just needed someone to talk to and when I didn't want to talk I just wanted company. The nurses, my eating disorder team, my doctors, my family and I had to all work so hard to make sure I would survive.

It wasn't easy, no part of it was easy, there were times that I knew if I just played there and refused to eat I would die, and dying would be so much less painful. Somehow I managed to eat every time the nurse brought in my food. I managed to gulp down every last bite of food. If I hadn't been in the hospital I wouldn't have been able to do it.

My stay in the hospital provided me with a safe place to eat and get better. I had nothing else to think of, not school, not work, just getting better. Just eating all my meals and sleeping through the night. That's all I had to do.

Slowly it got easier, food began to give me energy, my blurry vision cleared a bit and I was able to concentrate for longer periods of time. Without the stay in the hospital, I wouldn't be here today, I wouldn't be writing any of this because I wouldn't have survived. I wouldn't have made it to my 18th birthday and I wouldn't have been able to experience all the wonderful things that I have in this past year.

My stay in the hospital gave me a place to get better. It made me feel safe and comforted even when the turmoil in my brain got to be too much. It saved my life and I will never forget all the people who helped me and made it possible for me to live.