I've had an eating disorder for almost 3 years.
I write about it now because now I am able to freely talk about it...
Well, sometimes I can.
Many times though, it's difficult to talk about.
But if I'm writing to myself, it's easier.


No one would ever know that I struggle with an eating disorder.

I hate even saying those words.

However, maybe this journal can help.

My first post.

I wonder if anyone will read it, if anyone will even understand it.

Sometimes I don't understand it myself.

I will post every day, and hopefully continue making progress as the days go by.

I decided to create this blog to mostly, encourage myself, write down my own feelings about it,

maybe continue to help myself down the road of recovery.  My husband helps me every day.  I am so blessed to have him.

This is to hopefully encourage others with the same problem

to know that there is a way out.

There is help,

& there is hope.

I will start off with this; how it all started.  

We will just go from there.

I was a junior in high school.  3 years ago.  I recently had moved to a new town the previous year, away from everything I knew to something I was not expecting.   I came from a really successful, beautiful, ritzy area in Texas-  had a boyfriend, best friends; to me, life could not have been better.  & then it changed.  When I moved to Utah, suddenly a part of me was missing.  It was like my happiness was taken away from me and I had nothing to rely on and no one to count on.  I felt completely and totally alone.  This was simply the trigger.  Every time I looked in the mirror, I felt worthless, I felt unnoticed, I felt unwanted.  I wanted to be accepted at this new school, and it felt like every time I walked in I was being judged or picked apart, that every little thing about me was just wrong.  I wanted to be noticed and cared for and loved and I wanted friends.  Eventually, it ate at me, and eventually, it all boiled down to the way I felt about myself.  And of course, especially for women, it starts with appearance.

Appearance.  What does that word mean to you?  To me, it meant everything. All I knew was that to me, changing my appearance would change myself, which in turn, would change the way I felt.  To me, changing my appearance meant happiness.  Or so I thought.

I don't remember if it was one day that sparked it, or a few days of simply starting to restrict my food.  But it started, and eventually grew worse and worse and worse.  After two weeks or so, I had simply stopped eating.  This is when people began to notice.  Friends, family, boyfriend... everyone.  Except me.  I didn't feel I was changing enough yet- I didn't feel I was good enough yet.  I had to lose more weight.  After about a month, I had lost 15-20 pounds, which increasingly grew to 25... After a month and a half, I was down to 100 pounds.

I weighed myself every single day, morning, after school, evening- at least 10-15 times a day. The smallest ounce made a difference, and if I wasn't where I wanted to be that day, I would run until I was.  I counted calories in my head multiple times a day- sometimes all I would eat in a day is an apple.  Sometimes nothing.  Whenever I'd get so hungry that I couldn't stand it anymore, my body would be shaking, and I would have to eat something- I would eat cooked carrots.  That's it.  And when finally I needed more than that to maintain staying awake, I would eat something; a sand which; which in turn made me feel like I had just blown up into a giant hippo- so I would go cry or run or do anything to make sure my weight was where it needed to be.  It was a real life nightmare, and for months & months, this is how I would live my life every single day.

One night, when I couldn't sleep (because my brain was twitching so bad from hunger) I walked upstairs to eat a few carrots so that I could simply go to bed.  I saw my dad standing in the kitchen.  He looked up at me with tears in his eyes and told me he was worried about me.  This wasn't the first time either of my parents approached me about this; but every time they did, I would deny it.  I would lie and tell them I ate lunch when all I really had was a diet coke.  I would lie and tell them I already ate dinner when it was dinner time, and I would sit at the dinner table while everyone else ate.  I became good at lying about it and my parents knew that.  My dad looked up at me on this particular night, and told me I needed to get some help, and that it was okay to realize that I had a problem.  I didn't want help though.  I thought I was fine.  But anyone in their right mind would agree that I wasn't.  And the worst thing about this entire problem was that I wasn't feeling better.  I felt worse and worse about myself every single day.

My dad held me tight that night and cooked me some soup to eat.  I remember reaching for the soup can in the pantry, shaking so bad I could barely hold on to it. I only ate a few bites, but to my dad, that was more than enough.


I remember restricting water so that I wouldn't gain weight.  Even though water has no calories, it would make the number on the scale go up.  When I would be alone at home, I would step on the scale for hours, hopefully watching the scale go down every five minutes I'd weigh myself. I would try on clothes for hours looking in the mirror, hoping magically I'd shrink even smaller.  I remember going on vacation with my parents and my sister and I went shopping, and a size 00 in Hollister fit me.  My 9 year old sister wore the same clothes I did. I still thought I needed to lose weight. I would count each one of my ribs in the mirror, and be happy that I could see and count each one.  I would take laxitives even though there was nothing to pass through me except my body's water. I didn't see myself start to disappear; however everyone else did.  I was getting worse each day, and everyone began to worry.

My mom approached me about it again after numerous times and told me I needed to get help, and that I had no choice but to get help. She took me to a doctor, & I was then paired with a nutritionist and a counselor.  It helped me quite a bit, and after 6 months I was up to almost a healthy weight.  I thought this was the end of my struggle- I didn't realize it would linger with me for probably the rest of my life. I'm hoping not. :) 

I guess I'm writing about my beginning, because to every story, there is a beginning.  Mine just has no end right now, as I still struggle with this problem every day.  Not to the extent that it used to be, but it is still always the first lingering thought in my mind.  This blog is my road to success and recovery, to overcome this problem and to live life to the very fullest I can live it.  While to most people their eating disorders are very private and usually kept to just themselves; I realize what I have and the problems I've faced.  And to save anyone from feeling like me, or to help somebody realize that they are not alone,  makes it worth it to me.

My eating disorder is something I struggle with every day.  It's still hard to admit that I have one.  I know that I do.  & I know that some of the things I will write on this blog won't make sense to anyone and it will sound crazy.  However this is me, and this is the way that I see things and the way that I feel.  This is my journal to hopefully seeing the better of the two sides of myself- the side that tells me I am okay, that I am important, that I will make it through this.  

Tomorrow we will start with feelings; how do I feel? What do I feel every day? How do I feel every time I eat?  What do those voices in my head tell me every time I'm about to put something in my mouth? Yes, I do hear voices.  

Maybe all I need right now is the Lord.

Prayer can heal all wounds., so right now, I will do just that.

Talk to you tomorrow. Goodnight, all.