Sometimes life throws hard, dark battles at you. Ones that require fighting beyond what you think your mind, body and spirit can withstand. And by some miracle, we almost always come out on the other side, and we’re stronger. We’re better for it.

Some people talk about their wars, and some don’t. But most people have this silent thought that those who have gotten through them have weathered through all of the pain. That they have come out on the other side with cuts and bruises that have healed and faded with their victory.

But I know this is not the case.

They are not small cuts that close up, or bruises that lose their deep color. I know because I have fought my battle and I’m not sure I’m quite done healing after five and a half years. Because those cuts were made far into the soul, the scars are imprinted forever. There are small pieces, reminders of the pain, that will stick with me (and anyone else) for life. It’s not necessarily the worst thing in the world, because it is a part of who I am and who I have become. But that doesn’t retract from the aftermath that still plagues me. Daily.

There are many who know and many who don’t know that I suffered through an eating disorder. Five and a half years go, I was the victim of ED and its painfully acute attacks on every part of my being. My mind bullied my body, my body bullied my mind; every piece of me was off balance. ED came along with its sidekicks: depression, depletion of self-confidence and debilitating negative body image. My mind was constantly flooded with thoughts of how I didn’t look good enough. I wasn’t skinny enough. I couldn’t eat anything out of my extremely restrictive list of “safe foods.” There were tears, crying alone in my room, crying alone in the bathroom at the gym because I wanted to leave so badly, but I would never let myself out those doors until I burned an unhealthy amount of calories. It was my body shutting down — being cold even in the 100 degree heat of the summer, my period stopping altogether, and my bone density plummeting. It was everything going wrong, and the worst part was that it was all by my own will.

Somehow, by some miracle, I gradually moved further and further away from the excessive restriction that caused me to lose 40 pounds in less than six months. One-hundred-and-four pounds on my frame was terrifying, and somewhere deep down I knew that. Thankfully, I began eating more. I gained almost 20 pounds back over the course of those months. I began expanding my diet; after all that time, I allowed myself to have peanut butter again, one of my very favorite foods. I stopped making an excuse why I couldn’t go out to eat, even with family, and I started allowing joy back into my life.

The year following my hard-fought battle was a series of ups and downs, setbacks and steps forward, happiness and sadness. It was the wild roller coaster of recovery that required hourly attention. It was people reminding me to eat more, and reassuring me that it was necessary. It was cross-country teammates helping me heal when they didn’t even know a thing about my struggle. They were just there, and that in itself was comforting enough. It was admitting to myself that I had a problem. It was stepping out of denial, finally.

And I would love to say that agony stopped there. But the reality is that it didn’t. Still, to this day, I find myself thinking that I’m still messed up in one way or another from that dark time in early 2011. And these are those scars I was talking about. The ones that last. The ones that I’m still wondering if will ever fade.

Even though I nourish myself well, eat healthy foods for my body, eat unhealthy foods in moderation (or slightly more than moderation) for my soul, exercise often, and keep myself as centered as possible, it still feels like a weight rests upon my shoulders. I still have thoughts that are far more negative than anyone could ever classify as healthy, good sentiments. The voice inside my head is not always nice to me, and sometimes it’s hard to shut her up. And there are aspects of my life that are much harder because of it all.

When I wake up in the morning, I can’t just throw on an outfit and walk out the door. I must carefully select the pieces I am going to wear as if it is the most important decision I’ll make all day. And in some respects, it is. Because it will determine the level of confidence I feel when I walk to class, when I run errands, when I meet up with friends. I craft my ensemble based on which garments will hide what I consider to be my “problem areas.” I put on one, two, three, and sometimes more outfits than that before I find one that I am satisfied with. I stare at myself in the mirror, turn to the side, and then turn back to face the mirror directly. I analyze how I look from each angle. And all the while, I hate that I do this. I hate that I wear only five to six outfits regularly when I have more clothes than anyone I know. I could make endless combinations of fashion, thrown together with nothing more than the idea of style in mind, but shadows of ED from five-plus years ago decide they have another plan for me.

When I go out to eat, the menu is a daunting piece of folded paper with options that simultaneously excite and terrify me. I’m not afraid to order a cheeseburger and fries; in fact, that meal is one of my very favorites and it always has been. But I know the feelings that will follow after the meal is over. I know that no matter how healthy the rest of my day has been, I will feel immense guilt that deserves to take up no space in my head. I will beat myself up for it the next day when I wake up and feel “gross” and I will get to the gym or hit the streets for a run as soon as I can. I will view these exercises as “damage control,” rather than the rightful gift to my body to release endorphins and feel strong.

Dealing with the aftermath of an eating disorder is not pretty. It’s wanting so badly to be completely free, yet having someone, or some intangible thing, hold down your wings. It’s irrational. It is the most irrational thing that doesn’t make sense to anyone else. And sometimes I don’t know who’s talking — me or the evil that tries to take over my inner peace.

And because I acknowledge that these thoughts are doing nothing but wearing me down, I am going to do something about it. I am not going to live in fear that this is how it will be for the rest of my life any longer. I have decided to talk to someone who can and will help me get to a truly healthy state. I will learn how to think positively about myself. I will figure out, in all of this mess, how to love every inch of me as fiercely as I know I am capable of.