I Didn’t Know I Had an Eating Disorder

I started getting sick when I was 16. It made no sense. I was always such a healthy, happy kid.

I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t tell anybody. I thought it was just a one time thing and I didn’t want anyone to worry. I couldn’t keep food down, so I kept a plastic bag by the dinner table. I couldn’t leave my dorm room. I missed classes and parties. I was up all night puking in a plastic bag.

Boiling acid lined my throat like a blazing fire, a constant and throbbing pain that made it hard to swallow or speak or think. The pills I took made my entire body shake, my palms sweat, my heart pound. I kept gasping for air, but I couldn’t get anything. I prayed to God, “Please make it stop. Make me better.”

I looked in the mirror, but I didn’t recognize my own reflection. I used cigarettes, sex, cocaine, anything to distract me from the pain. I avoided places and situations because I was terrified of getting sick.

The illness had completely taken over my life. I couldn’t keep any food down. I spent an entire summer eating nothing but breath mints. When I did eat, it felt like my stomach was going to burst open, like there was a wedge of dynamite stuck in my intestines, ready to explode.

Exercise was the only thing that made me feel better, so I went to the gym, and then I went to yoga, and then I went back to the gym. I beat my own body. I tried to rip the fat off my stomach. That was keeping me sick. My fat was standing in between me and my healthy life. I counted everything – miles, calories …

I didn’t eat. One wrong look from someone and I was on the treadmill. I wrecked my car because I was bingeing. My nose was bleeding, I was dizzy, but I was terrified of being caught eating.

When I was finally ready to talk about it, I found out that I wasn’t bad or crazy or weird, and that most of all, I wasn’t alone.