It was supposed to just be exersising and eating right. Getting in shape for the next school year. Finally becoming the thin, bubbly, happy person I so longed to be. The kind of girl boys would want, the kind of girl everyone would want to be friends with. My mental ideal. I guess it always starts out that way.

I was so proud the first day, everyone complimented me, telling me how good I looked. They didn't ask how it was accomplished. They never do. I thought it was normal. I didn't have an eating disorder. I wasn't thin like those pictures, I was still fat. Therefore, it was just dieting. Nothing harmful. That's what I thought.

I remember eating a bite of cookie, then skipping back to the bathroom to weigh myself. I'd go back, have another bite, then weigh myself again. When the number went up, I stopped. I'd berate myself for eating. Eating was for the weak. But I had to eat sometimes. So I just adapted. I hated throwing up. I hated the taste, the feel. But I learned around them. Sadly. But I loved the feeling afterwards. My brain, instead of being tense with worry and anger, was relaxed and content. It didn't matter how much screaming had occured earlier, or if my mother had threatened suicide again. My brain was relaxed now. The world was good until morning, which meant another day of battling the food.

But one day, my mother heard. She confronted me. Told me how horrible it was, what it could do to me. I nodded, agreed to treatment. But the voice inside told me it would never leave. I went to therapy. Began talking. Talking, expressing myself verbally, has never been a strong point. Had never been encouraged. But now... it was expected. And it felt... good.

The eating disorder was my defense mechanism against the world. I had to learn that I was stronger than this thing living in my body, taking over my life. I had to learn to outshout it when I had never shouted at anything before. I had to learn it was okay to be angry and to let others know it. That's my story. I can now say I've been purgefree for almost two years. But I'm not done battling. It's daily. Everyday I think about it, everyday I want to not eat, everyday is a struggle. I don't know if it'll ever stop.

I want to scream at those who think this lifestyle is glamorous, good, anything but a horrible wasteland. But I know it won't do any good. I work in a grocery store, there is a woman who always comes in, painfully thin, only buys gum and lite food. I see her jogging as I go to work. I want to reach out to her, tell her I understand, there is a better way. But I know it won't help. Think about it. How many of us would have listened if someone came up to us and told us how horrible this lifestyle is, when we were at the height of our disease? I could have been shooken, screamed at, lectured, pleaded with, anything and still continued throwing up and not eating.

But for everyone, there is a little spark that finally trips the light on that there is life outside of food and numbers, that their life isn't normal but can become so. For me, it was therapy and something-fishy.org. That site was the first to make me cry and honestly admit I wanted to change. So perhaps, someone reading something on this site will be inspired in the same way.

I can only hope.
~Stephanie

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