I spent weeks trying to convince myself that I was okay.

Counting calories was normal, I was doing fine on a cup of coffee and one meal per day. That my boyfriend would like me better if I was lighter. I’d be a better dancer if I had the right body. People would love me if my clothes hung on a slim frame like all the other models’ did.
I was wrong. Very wrong.

I spent every moment thinking about food: how much I had eaten, how much I could eat, how much I would have to work off.

I was a girl possessed, more enticed by the dropping scale than my dropping grades.

Being a model, I was constantly forced into competition, baring my body and my soul for everyone to see. Modeling isn’t about selling clothes, it’s about selling perfection: showing girls what they want to see so they think that if they buy those clothes, they can look like that too.

I became so wrapped up in the idea that I could be perfect, I never stopped to look in the mirror and see the ghost of a girl I had become. My skin, once coined “flawless” by a photographer one time, was soon too loose for my bones and I was sinking deeper and deeper into the floor with every step I took.

I stopped getting jobs, no one wanted to hire a girl who look sickly. Yet still, I kept it up. My parents knew something was wrong, they had known all along. But they cared too much about my career to care. Yes, that very same career that was slipping farther and farther away from reach with every little pound I lost.

It wasn’t until I fainted on set for the third time that month that I was finally hospitalized and my diagnosis secured. Anorexia. A disease that would continue to rule my life for the next few years, and still pops up again occasionally today.

They put an IV in my arm that delivered nutrients straight to my bloodstream to replace the ones I hadn’t been getting in months. I spent two weeks in the psych ward where every meal was monitored and if I refused to eat, they would sedate me and use the IV again instead.

Although it was one of the worst experiences of my life, I can honestly say that I wouldn’t be here without the hospital and my parents. From my normal 124 pounds, I had dropped to a disturbing 92 pounds, all in about six months.

I continue to struggle every day but I have learned that being healthy and loving yourself is more important than weight or looks. I quit modeling and started doing more of what I loved instead. Since then, I have opened myself up to so many possibilities that I never would have had before.

So thank you anorexia for teaching me how to be strong and for teaching me what really matters in life. You took me far away but I’m back now and I’m ready for each new day.