To the Girl I Was Before.

It started in Lille.

I remember walking to the shop at the corner in the pouring rain, buying an apple, and heading to the gym where I would spend the rest of my day sweating on the elliptical and trying not to compare myself to the toned women and men exercising on the machines next to me. When it grew dark outside I would trudge to the subway, sit myself down in the seat furthest from everyone else, and eat the apple I had purchased earlier. When I finished, I was filled with a sense of dread and emptiness. The rest of the ride home I fantasized about the next time I would let myself eat.  When I got back to the house I shared with my host family, I would refuse dinner.  I would tell them that I had a big lunch, that I went out with friends for an early dinner, that I felt too sick to eat. I wanted them to see me as dainty. I wanted them to wonder how I had so much self control.

But when night fell, and I was absolutely certain that everybody else was sleeping, I would silently creep downstairs to the kitchen and fill my pockets with food from the pantry. Thinking about stuffing myself with sweets made me giddy, I felt euphoric. In those moments, I experienced true happiness. And when it was over, I hated myself. Alone in the darkness of my room, surrounded by discarded wrappers and empty containers, I carefully calculated how long I would have to go without eating to make up for the food I had just consumed.

I would have to add several hours to my workout the next day.

As my days at the gym became longer, and my secret kitchen escapades became less secret and more of an annoyance to my host family, I grew desperate. Despite my best efforts- the days of fasting, of exhaustion and fainting- the hours upon hours of cardio- the weight piled on. My host mother called me fat. She called me lazy. She asked me how I could eat the way I did and if I was ashamed of myself and my body.

I was.

Finally, I couldn’t handle it any longer. With 3 months of my scheduled gap year left, I chose to leave France and spend my summer at home with my family in the United States. As my host parents drove me to the airport, they told me that I was the worst exchange student they had ever hosted.

I had already decided to lose the weight I gained abroad before I landed back in the states. This was my summer to change my life, to become motivated and fit, to become beautiful and thin and desirable before I left for college. If the people on myfitnesspal could do it, why couldn’t I?

The first twenty pounds were easy. In fact, when people started noticing my weight loss they came to me for advice. They wanted to know what I had done to drop the pounds. I felt invincible. But the urges came back and when they did, they came back stronger than ever before. By day I would eat egg whites, vegetables and zero calorie noodles. I would turn up my nose at the offer of pizza, and no, I didn’t want to hang out- I had a power yoga class and then was headed  to the gym. At night however, I once again raided the pantry, scarfing down whatever snacks I could find.

I grew terrified. I was determined not to lose my progress. I would rather die than go to college and alienate myself by being “the fat girl.” I started experimenting with purging, laxatives, and diet pills to curb the damage done by my nightly binges. But I laughed off the growing concern of my friends and family. It was nothing serious. I was certain that I could stop whenever I got to a weight I was happy with.

It’s been a year since that summer. My hair is falling out now. I have four cavities because the acid from my stomach eroded the enamel on my teeth. I haven’t had my period in months.  I recently discharged from a residential eating disorder facility and every day I struggle to recover- to not give in to the urges that have taken over my life.

I don’t know who I am without my eating disorder, I am scared that I won’t make it out alive. I am scared that the next time I pass out on the bathroom floor I won’t wake up. I am scared that my mom will find me hunched over the toilet, covered in vomit, cold and motionless. But I don’t know if I have the strength to move on. When I am not binging and purging I feel numb; like I’m watching someone else live my life for me.

I wish I could grab that girl on the subway and shake her until she snapped out of it.  I wish I could pull off her baggy clothes and force her to love herself. I wish I could tell her that she’s about to jump into the deep end.

I don’t know how it got this bad. Right now I don’t know if it will ever get easier. But I have to believe it does. Hope is all I have.  I am taking it one day at a time.