I remember the day perfectly. The day things started to change. It wasn’t a flip of a switch. It was gradual. But I remember it perfectly. I didn’t mean for it to happen… And I definitely didn’t chose for it to happen. I even promised myself I wouldn’t let this happen. However, after the first few months of self destruction, to feel numb it did happen. Calories. The silly little numbers you see on the back of food packages. Most people pay no attention to them. And that’s okay, you shouldn’t, does it really even matter? It didn’t matter to me at all… Until it did. I can recite the calories in almost anything if you’d ask me. There was a time when these numbers meant nothing to me. And then a little voice called ED decided to knock on my door.

I’d been warned about these illnesses in health class. The good old lecture about mental health. “Look for the signs” “tell an adult if you think a friend is harming themselves” etc. etc. etc. but what happens when it happens to you? When you’re too ashamed to ask for help… Too sick to even realize you’re sick, then what?

15 years old. That’s how old I was when my life changed forever. The very first time I looked at a package label and saw the word calories. It flashed in my mind like bright red letters, and stung like a thousand needles in my chest. Serving size was 2 cookies and I had had 4. To this day, Oreos are still hard for me to eat.

It began slowly. Slowly cutting out “bad” things such as snacks and sweets. I remember going over my plan in my head every single day. I’d only eat my meals. And gradually as the summer went on I began to compromise with what I thought was myself and I’d sleep in so it was “too late” to eat breakfast. By the time the beginning of school came, I had a master plan of how to get out of eating breakfast since I couldn’t sleep in anymore. I’d take a long time getting out of bed in the morning, take my time getting ready so by the time I finally went down stairs I’d have to go straight to the bus stop. At the bus stop I’d tear my breakfast up into tiny pieces and throw it out into the grass, because how could I dare eat an English muffin. If I put that in my mouth I’d feel so guilty that I’d want to kill my self. By October I’d stop eating lunch also and I got my last period for what would be the next 5 months.

Lunch was a whole other story. I’d pack my lunch every night before I went to bed. The same thing… Half a peanut butter sandwich, a bag of trail mix, fruit snacks, a tangerine and a drink. But if you thought I actually ate the you’re crazy. Every day I’d pack an extra ziploc bag in my lunch box, and I’d tear apart my food into tiny little bites and pretend to eat it. I’d throw pieces of my food on the ground and I’d stick my gummies I was “eating” under the table and under my chair. By the end of lunch I’d have a bag filled with uneaten ripped apart little pieces of food that I used to long for but now despised to the point of throwing up. Every. Single. Day I’d get up and throw out my bag of guilt. My bag of numbers, my bag of “if I eat that I’ll kill my self” every day.

Thanksgiving came. I was still eating one meal a day. But I spent all morning before thanksgiving dinner weighing myself and counting up the calories I was allowed to have for the day and looking up the calories of every possible piece of food that would be there. My morning consisted of getting on the scale. Looking at the number. Getting furious with myself because it wasn’t low enough. Crying on the bathroom floor because I was trying so hard to be perfect and I wasn’t. Nothing was working. And then I’d do it all over, again and again until it was time to leave.

“Do you feed your child?” “Gosh she needs some meat on those bones” “wow her metabolism must burn all that off so fast” comment, after comment after comment from extended family. My mom sticking up for me saying “yes of course she eats she just burns it all off” it was funny because I was blaming this weight loss concern that my parents had on the gym class I was taking. And it worked. For a little while.

Eventually it was time for the part of the day that I’d been dreading the most… Dinner. We said grace and then everyone was heading towards the kitchen to get plates and pile it with food. I stood and looked at everything. The tender turkey, and the fluffy mashed potatoes, everything I couldn’t have.

I existed through thanksgiving, and then Christmas came. My clothes were baggy on me, I hid in oversized sweatshirts and layer upon layer because regardless of how warm it was inside or how many layers I had on I was still constantly shivering. Christmas was rough. I remember Christmas Day, I pretended to eat the whole day. I’d hold a napkin in my lap while I put a piece of my moms legendary homemade sticky buns that she only makes on Christmas into my mouth but I didn’t dare swallow a thing.

I’d pretend to chew and after every bite I’d “wipe my face” while spitting the food into the napkin. And at lunch that day I did the same, except I’d spit the food into my cup of water to keep people from seeing what I had become. They didn’t understand. Nobody understood that if I’d eat I’d get fat. Nobody understood that I had so much more weight to lose and that all I wanted was to shrink and shrink until I was nothing. Because that’s what I thought I was, nothing. Nobody understood that there was so much lying beneath what they saw in the surface. New Year’s Eve came and I was invited to a party where I brought a bag of my own food because I didnt know what food would be there. The bag consisted of 1 pear, and some veggies. Instead of eating the delicious homemade food that my friends mom had made for us, I sat alone in the corner nibbling on my pear. Except it wasn’t a pear it was 100 calories for the whole thing but if I only ate half it’d be 50. Yeah 50 was better because then I’d be under my calorie goal for the day. I’d overachieve by underachieving. Everything was a number.

I wasn’t a human anymore I was a ghost with a beating heart, I was 10 pounds away from a goal weight that’d never be enough. I was 100 calorie items cut in half, I was salad with no dressing, food spit in cups. I was sugar free frozen yogurt after not eating all day because i’d have to save room for the 80 calories of frozen yogurt I’d allow myself to eat. I was Diet Pepsi and weak muscles. I was hair falling out by the handfuls, And fuzzy hair growing all over me because I couldn’t keep myself warm. I was dizzy to the point of fainting, I was nails that would break just by holding a pencil. I was stares from the crowds of people in the hallways at school, from strangers on the street, from my own friends. I was forced laughter and fake smiles along with conversations that made me so exhausted I thought I’d pass out. I was bowls of cereal with water because milk was dairy and dairy had fat and fat had calories and I couldn’t dare consume more than my calorie goal. I was my fitness pal, logging food, every little thing that went into my mouth. I was pieces of gum instead of lunch, I was scared of the calories in gum and toothpaste. I was rotting teeth and yellow skin. I was the smell of death. I was 230 calories a day, I was a scale on the cold bathroom floor. I was 30 pounds underweight but was still the fattest I’d ever been. I was concealer on my wrist because it was just my dog. I was ringing ears and blurry vision, I was my pills that would help me floating in the bottom of the toilet bowl because maybe the pills would make me gain weight. I was hidden vitamins because vitamins had 15 calories for two and that was unacceptable. I was food hidden in napkins at restraunts and looking up calories on the internet before I went out to eat. I was my mother crying by my bedside begging me to stop doing this to myself because i’d die. I was calculators and apples cut in half. I was nightmares about food that I’d eaten, I was tears over a piece of toast. I was the sight of death. I was killing myself. I didn’t care. I was going to die and I didn’t care. All I cared about was losing x amount of pounds and not going over x amount of calories. I was cutting myself every single night and laying in bed looking at pictures of food. I wasn’t me. I was a number. My identity was a number and I had become numb and bitter. Everyone that showed concern for me I pushed away and yelled at because they couldn’t understand me. Nobody understood me. I didn’t need to eat. I was still alive wasn’t I? I didn’t need food to live. Food was bad and they didn’t understand that I still needed to be perfect I still wasn’t small enough to shrink away into the nothing I thought I was. Nobody understood. Nobody. Until one day my whole world came crashing down.

Hospital. The place you go because you’re physically ill right? Wrong. I was physically ill because I was mentally ill. I didn’t expect to go to the hospital. I wasn’t sick enough to be in the hospital or thin enough or bad enough. But that’s he thing, you’re never bad enough or sick enough or thin enough. Ever. I remember my first appointment with my counselor. She’d later describe me as dull, emotionless, locked up and sick. I remember the nutritionist she sent me to that blindly weighed me. I was furious. There was no way this lady was going to make me eat a damn thing. Funny thing is, she wasn’t the one who did either. Later that day I was ordered to go “straight to Hershey” to this clinic where they’d do a check up on me. “We’re going to admit her to the hospital just to monitor her vitals and if she eats she’ll begin partial program and if not she’ll go inpatient” what do you do when the doctor is telling this to you and your parents? Regardless of my frail state and emaciated appearance, I didn’t see why I had to be admitted to the hospital. But regardless I was. I stayed In the children’s hospital for 5 days… This was never what I expected. How could something that promised me so much happiness have turned into this? Why at 15 was I hooked up to an IV pole that was pumping me full of hydration and having to get my vitals checked every 4-6 hours and blood drawn every day? But I knew why. After 5 days in penn state Hershey children’s hospital I was released and started a partial hospitalization program the next day.

The first 2 months were hell. Dealing with my meal plan that increased everyday sent me over the edge. I would lay in bed and cry at night because of what I had eaten. Dealing with the weight gain was a whole other trigger that sent me spiraling into inconsolable cries. I didn’t need to gain weight at all. But one day in therapy, my therapist said “Lauren you were knocking on deaths door” and that’s what snapped me into reality. To be honest I felt like death. I was barely able to walk up the stairs, I was too fatigued to hold a decent conversation, and getting out of bed in the morning was the hardest thing to do with no energy and a failing heart. My vitals were so bad when I first came, and I thought that was good. I was shivering constantly even though I had a long sleeve shirt on with two jackets, i was still cold to the bone. I never took the jackets off. I huddled in front of a heater all day because even though that could barely keep me warm it was better than nothing. After 3 months of missing school and spending my sweet 16 in program, I was finally released with a new found optimism and on a recovery high. But that didn’t last long. Once winter hit my depression became bad. Ever since then I’ve had an uphill battle with anorexia, depression, anxiety an self harm. My weight fluctuates constantly because I’m either doing good, okay or bad. People are so naive when it comes to things like this. They’re jealous, they think it’s stupid, a choice or out of vain or they just expect you to get over it and be better. I am not a car in a body shop. Recovery isn’t something that once you get out of treatment you’re perfectly fine. Recovery is constant. There are no days off. You have to wake up every single day and choose it. And choosing recovery is hard. Especially when everyone and everything around you may be pulling you under. But if I learned one thing, recovery is so much more than weight and food. You gain life. You gain love. In my case I gained a very best friend and have met amazing people along this journey. My journey is far from over. It may never be completely over. I still struggle on the daily. Sometimes I have to pick myself up off the cold floor after breaking down after eating a meal that still scares me or I have to fight the urges to hurt myself to numb the pain. My depression still flares up and my anxiety gets bad and I still look at calories and have thoughts about ending everything. Body image is still a daily struggle. But I’ve also learned. Life is much bigger than this. You are more than any of your struggles. There may be times where I want to give up but I will never let this disease open up deaths door to me. I can’t promise I’ll be okay. That’s unrealistic. I can’t promise I won’t relapse or end up back in the hospital or program. I simply can’t. But I can promise that I will try. I will fight until the day I die. Out of this I don’t want any sympathy or recognition. All I want is hope. I want hope to come out of my journey. If I can spread hope than waking up everyday and deciding to eat the damn cupcake will be worth it. Putting away the blade will be worth it. Celebrating the little things like 3 and a half years in recovery will be worth it. Because in the end you are not your struggles. You are human. And there’s nothing more miraculous than being human and struggling and learning and making mistakes. That is the beauty of life. And right now I am loving life.