I droop over my bathroom floor, weeping. The fan buzzes, water rushes from the faucet, and music blares to mask the sound of my sobs.
You didn’t deserve any of that food. You’re so fat.
But I did have a great workout. I’ve never run that fast before- I did amazing!
None of that exercise matters when you eat like a pig.
I tentatively slide my finger into my mouth like I witnessed in the movies and read in the books.
What are you doing?! This is dangerous! Plus, we’ll get caught!
One time won’t do any damage. Only girls with bulimia get ulcers and rotten teeth. You have anxiety, not bulimia.
My finger slithers back farther and farther into my throat until it brushes against my uvula. I gag. I cough. No vomit.
Phew! Glad we got that over with.
We’re just getting started. Do it again, you pig.
This time, I tie my hair back and lean over the toilet, as if tricking my body into purging itself. My hand grasps the arm that plunges deep into my mouth and encourages it to advance. Again, I gag, and a coughing fit consumes me. My sobs grow louder and louder.
Quit it! You’ll blow our cover!
The weight of an elephant crushes my chest. I can't breathe. A knife repeatedly stabs my head. I can't think clearly anymore, and I reluctantly give in to her requests. Suddenly, I throw my entire fist into my mouth; I gag right away.
I can’t do this anymore. Please, I’m begging you, make it stop!
You wuss, you can’t quit now. Come on. Just a little farther.
But my instincts overcome me, and just like that, I am gasping and coughing and wheezing and sobbing. Still no vomit. I failed.
What a loser. You can’t do anything. Not even make yourself throw up.
My body trembles with shame.

There is shame everywhere. There is shame in facing school, work, and life with 30 extra pounds. People just assume that I am some fat loser that sits on the couch all day devouring chocolate. Not true. I exhaust myself every single day at the gym, but I suffer from anxiety and depression. There is shame in telling my friends, teachers, and teammates that no, I cannot come because I have another "doctor's appointment." "Do you have a serious illness?" they ask. I always contrive some story like "It's just physical therapy" or "I have to get a shot." What I want to say is "I'm going to a psychologist because I suck and I hate myself." There is shame in my mom catching me sneaking chips and candy into my room. There is shame in my dad declaring to my family that I should not eat that pizza. There is shame in my friend informing me that the reason I do not feel cold is because I have "more fat," so therefore, I am "insulated." Don't these people realize that I exist as a real human being with real feelings?

Most people writing a college essay choose to write about some adversity that they endured and eventually overcame. They are vulnerable, yet boast in their ability to conquer whatever life throws at them. Not me. Anxiety and depression never "go away." They always linger, like that devil that sits on your shoulder and whispers worry and fear into your ear, a constant reminder that you are never good enough.

I will be dealing with my anxiety and depression for the rest of my life. At first, I denied this and fought my anxiety. But the more I fought, the more my anxiety fought back. Slowly, I am learning to let go. I realize that I do have a choice whether I listen to my anxiety or not. While I will never be perfect, I am a stronger person each day. I can accept my desire to eat, yet challenge myself to confront my problems instead of avoiding them. I can acknowledge my mistakes and forgive myself. I can look in the mirror and know that I am enough.