It was a typical Wednesday morning in April of 2015. Well, as typical as it could be. The 19-year-old skeletal figure I had become limped down the stairs of my house in Houston, Texas. My emaciated finger weakly pressed a button, and my morning coffee began to brew. I shouldn’t be here. When the mug filled my boney hand roped the handle and I hobbled to the kitchen table. I should be in college, with my friends, drinking beer, being hungover, studying for midterms. My sunken eyes gazed upon the table as the coffee warmed the body I was too thin to warm myself, and I noticed a letter addressed to me. The return address was to my big, at my sorority: 2830 Bancroft Steps.

It had been over a month since I packed a bag and left Berkeley. I told few people that I was leaving, and they only heard the half-lie I had cultivated: I’m going home for some mental health stuff. Fact. I’ll be back after spring break. Fiction. I was too embarrassed to say anything, even though it was quite obvious; I had an eating disorder, and I had it bad. My tomboy self refused to believe that I had developed the ‘vain’ disease of anorexia, but when spring break ended, instead of returning to Cal, I entered a treatment center for eating disorders where I began traversing the rocky and unkind road to recovery.

I was too embarrassed about my condition to honesty say it: I have an eating disorder. It was obvious at that time, yet even though everyone could see my heart and soul wither away with every pound I lost, I was embarrassed by myself and the ‘vain’ disorder I had developed. I didn’t know what was wrong. Why wasn’t I eating? Why did I have to work out every single day? Why was I doing this? How on earth would I explain it to anyone if I didn’t even understand? My brain didn’t work properly and I didn’t think anyone would understand, or even care. At least I thought that was the case.

When spring break ended and I was nowhere to be found, my friends started asking when I was returning. Eventually I summoned the courage to tell some people what was wrong, what was really going on in my life, the truth. I was met with a tenderness and understanding that I’d never experienced before and something finally clicked: People really cared about me. It brought tears to my eyes and determination to my heart. I’m going to recover. I’m going to make it.

A month had passed without much word from my friends as I gazed at the card and thought, Oh, that’s so sweet of my big to send me a letter. Opening the envelope, I pulled out the card and flipped it open. As soon as I opened the card and revealed the inside, tears flooded my eyes. I threw the card to the ground, and jumped up. For a split second, I saw the contents of the card. It was not a sweet note from one person, but multiple messages from many people. I couldn’t handle it. There was so much love. People actually took the time out of their lives to write to me. Hand over my mouth, tears fell from my eyes, carving river banks down my cheeks. Pacing, each time I caught my breath and the tears slowed, I’d reach for the card only for the tears to come racing back. That card had something that I needed, that I craved: love. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle having people love me because the truth was that I didn’t even love myself; I thought no one did.

I thought I would be lost in the sea of the college lifestyle my friends continued to live, drifting away, floating on a poor dingy, no supplies, no knowledge that anyone knew I was still alive, that anyone still cared. But this letter, this letter was the hope I needed to keep going. I realized that people are searching for me, people love me, people care.

I knew when opening that letter, reading it, that I would know I was loved. I would know I was wanted. I would know that my life has meaning. I’d want to feel happiness. I’d want to feel my abs hurt from laughing so hard. I’d want to feel the warmth in a friend’s loving hug. I’d want to feel wanted. That’s something I never believed before, and that something drove me to cling to my eating disorder for the love I never felt. My eating disorder was always there for me. If I needed it, it was right there, in my head, whispering sweet nothings. It brought me purpose: if I survive, it survives. It brought me comfort, something to do, someone to hang out with. It brought me a best friend. Imaginary or real, I can’t quite decide, but none of the less, seeing that card, seeing real notes from real people, seeing the love and support that a literal human being can bring me made me realize something: I have to choose. I can choose my eating disorder. The comfort it brought me. It’s omnipresence’s. It’s love. Or I can choose to pick up the card. I can choose real people, real love, real life.

In that moment, I picked up the card, and began to read.