A year ago if you would have asked me if I had an eating disorder, my mouth would have said yes but my mind would have said no. Although I was officially diagnosed with anorexia nervosa at the beginning of May in 2015, my mind was in a state of denial for a very long time. I don't think I fully accepted my diagnosis for at least six months, and it took me an even longer time to actually begin taking my process of recovery seriously. I realize now that this state of denial was my eating disorder's way of prolonging my recovery and essentially allowing it to stick around for as long as possible. You may recall my original story of recovery that I published in January 2016, and I want to make sure it is known that the purpose of this new article is not to discount the authenticity of my previous writing or to say that I was lying before. However, I recognize now that I have changed drastically and made huge strides since writing that original piece.

Lets start from the beginning, shall we?

May 31, 2015: Shortly after being diagnosed, I have it written down in my journal that my therapist told me that recovery was going to be the worst and hardest thing I'd ever do. I remember thinking, Yeah right... Screw this lady! I bet she tells that to everyone. I'm gonna make this whole recovery process a piece of cake! I'm more than ready to recover from this stupid disorder! Bring it on!! Looking back on that day, she totally knew that when I nodded my head and agreed to dedicate every inch of my being to recovery that I had no idea what I was getting myself into. In hindsight, I was definitely not ready. I thought I was, but I was also slightly addicted to the sick and twisted "benefits" that came along with having an eating disorder: being thin, being told how beautiful and great I looked all the time, feeling powerful and, quite honestly, better than others simply because I felt as if I possessed a level of self-control that they didn't have. Oh, how lost I was. I even believed that by going to therapy, pretending to follow my meal plan, doing a little exercise here and there without telling anyone, and busying myself with any task imaginable, that I was recovering.

Skip ahead to December 2015. At this point my body is exhausted from months of malnutrition and overexercise. For weeks my therapist has been telling me that I have too much on my plate and that I'm not "focusing hard enough on my recovery process." I recall being infuriated. Who was she to say that I wasn't fully dedicating myself to recovery?! She didn't know what was going on in my head. She didn't know what it felt like to have an inner voice tell you how disgusting you are every time you place a bite of food in your mouth. Sure, I was cheating the system a little bit: taking a full course load at my university, working 20 hours a week, volunteering at two non-profit organizations, and writing for two different online publications. But hey, I was trying!!

But was I?

It wasn't until I moved back home a couple months ago, around mid-June, that I admitted to myself how full of crap I truly was. Mind you, it wasn't entirely my decision to move back home. It was more along the lines of, "Emily, you are going to die.... It's never been this bad.... They're worried about your heart, honey. You have to move home... We can't trust you alone at your apartment anymore." Those are the words my parents said to me shortly after I had arrived at their house for what I assumed would be a quick stop to pick up my mom for a jaunt to Charleston.

At some point during the family discussion, it finally clicked for me. I thought, Enough! Enough starving. Enough feeling exhausted all the time. Enough seeing my friends and family give me worried looks. ENOUGH, ENOUGH, ENOUGH! I'm tired of this stupid eating disorder!! I don't know why or how that feeling came about. Maybe it was the fact that they had never told me they were worried about my heart before that day. Maybe it was because I finally saw how unhappy I was and how unhealthy my body looked. Maybe it was because I finally admitted to myself that spending my days alternating between reading and watching TV in between attempting to force myself to eat is not a healthy way to live. Honestly, I don't think it was just one reason. Regardless, I am just happy to say that for the first time since I was diagnosed I knew that I was ready to change.

Let me bring you to the present time. Right now it's 7:00 PM on August 18, 2016 and I am sitting at my parent's house watching the news as I listen to my dog snore beside me on the couch. I'm exhausted, not physically, but mentally. All I can say is that my therapist was right. This is the hardest thing I have ever done! Since moving home, I've spent every second dedicated to recovery. What does that look like? To an outsider it probably looks like a whole lot of nothing: going for light walks around my neighborhood, running errands with my mom, reading, writing, cooking, helping out around the house, and thinking, a lot of thinking. There's also the things most people don't get to see: the yelling, the cussing, the crying, the struggling, and all the horrible things I say to my family as they remain the most patient and loving people through this extremely difficult time in my life.

Recovery feels both good and bad, mostly good though. It feels good when I go out to dinner with my boyfriend and enjoy his beautiful smile as we devour huge bowls of ramen, and when I eat pancakes with my family for our weekend breakfasts, and when I share a delicious chocolate cupcake with my mom. At times it feels bad because I have a lot of emotions and I cry a lot. I cry because I have to gain weight. I cry because my clothes fit differently. I cry because I want to be able to kiss my boyfriend without this nasty voice in my head telling me that I don't deserve to be with him. I'm not saying that crying is necessarily a bad thing, but I do a lot of it because for so long I didn't allow myself to feel. For a long time I didn't realize that my eating disorder didn't just impact my nutrition, it impacted every aspect of my life, down to what time I went to bed and who I allowed myself to express emotion to. I had become accustomed to locking my insecurities, feelings, and emotions in my own head, allowing them to eat away at my confidence and my mental health.

Let me tell you a secret: I love food! My eating disorder doesn't, but I do! I love the flavors, the textures, and even the smells! The food is and isn't the problem. I know it doesn't make sense. I've come to realize that it's not supposed to make sense. For example, some individuals with depression want to take their own life. That doesn't make sense to you and I because, well, we like living and we don't have depression! I like food, my eating disorder doesn't. It's like my brain has been hijacked and infiltrated, but deep down the real Emily is still there. I'm still a girl that loves Ben and Jerry's ice cream! Still a girl that has a guilty pleasure for donuts! Still a foodie that loves to try new restaurants! I still love shrimp alfredo, and bagels, and brownies, and peanut butter, and anything else that my eating disorder has deemed uneatable. I promise that girl is still there because I finally found her and continue to find her every day of recovery.