I never thought it would happen to me. It wasn’t suppose to happen. This is something that happens to people who are different, people who actually have problems. It happens to the girl who was bullied throughout her years at school. It happens to the boy who’s parents fight all the time and are getting a divorce. It happens to the kid who was abused or the girl sitting alone at a lunch table. I’m the girl who only dealt with name calling in elementary school a few times, who’s parents are happily married, and who lives in a nice neighborhood with amazing friends. I am not the girl this happens to. I am lucky, privileged even. I have every reason to be happy, I have a good life. I never thought it would happen to me, but it did.

! ! Im in the 9th grade. Thank God for winter! It’s finally the time of year that I can wear my jackets and long sleeve shirts again. It’s finally a time where I can hide. My days at school consist of the usual routine: go to class, go to class again, go to class again, go to lunch, go to class again, and so on. There is no deviation from the norm, no stopping to admire the day, just go to class. After an entire day of lectures and trying to keep myself awake, I am able to do something different. I signed up for the softball team a few weeks ago, and even though I’m not enjoying it at all, I keep playing. Why? Why won’t I just back out? I’m the works on the team, never put in an actual game, and constantly feeling absolutely and totally useless. But I stay. I stay because it is the only thing that is different from my daily routine. Looking back, I wonder what would have happened if I had quit. If I had run far far away from that sport, that horrible coach, those horrible feelings. If I had, things would have been different, I would have been different. ! We are all standing in two lines, throwing the ball to our partner. My sad excuse for a throw results in a ball at my partners feet every single time, but she does not mind. The day is getting hotter as the sun peeks out from behind the clouds. Even in the middle of a Texas winter, sports are always played in shorts and t-shirts. I feel the heat beating down on me. I remove my jacket and toss it to the side. The next drill is ground balls, great, one more thing I can’t do. At least I’m getting in shape, I think to myself. The coach throws a ball at my feet and I reach down to get it, exposing my forearm to the rest of my team. I pick up the ball and try throwing it back to the coach, an idea only perfectly executed in my head. The ball goes to her far left, she doesn’t even try to catch it. It’s almost comical how horrible I am at this sport. I run to the back of the line with the rest of my team. Katie asks, “What are all those scratches from?” while pointing at my arm. I panic, having no excuse off the top of my head and being too afraid to tell the truth, I just mutter out the first thing that comes to mind. “My cat did it.” She agrees with the answer, and turns away. I don’t have a cat.

! I’m in the 10th grade. 12:45 rolls around, it’s time for lunch. Every student at my high schools pours out of their classes and rushes to the dining hall like a furious river that has flooded over. I’m caught in the waves but manage to escape. The library is on my way to my next meal, it is also the perfect diversion. I make my way from the crowd to the library. Once safely inside, I find a quiet table and set my books down to begin “studying”. The room is dead quiet. Any other time of the day you will find students all over the library, talking with their friends, working on homework, or just relaxing before their next class, but not during lunch. This is my time when nobody can bother me, nobody knows where I am or what I am doing. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. I pull my laptop out of my backpack. Facebook, the perfect way to pass the time. After about 30 minutes of diligently Facebook stalking all of my friends, I begin to hear something. It’s the library door opening over and over again. Lunch is ending. My friend walks up to me and asks, “Where were you at lunch toady?” I respond quickly, I’ve had my answer ready for years, “I just had a lot of work to do, I grabbed a sandwich and came here to study.” She isn’t buying it, but she is also too scared to call me out on my bullshit. She sits next to me and over the next few minutes more of our friends join us. I am back with my friends, as if nothing happened, as if my stomach is not still grumbling from the days it has gone without a real meal.

! I’m in the 11th grade. It’s that time of year again, the time for our school’s winter formal. Guys in their best suits with a boutonniere securely fastened to their coat, girls in beautiful cocktail dresses with corsages settled gently on their wrists, the night is always magical. My dress is something I now wish I hand’t worn. It is a skin tight black dress with spaghetti strap sleeves. It is a beautiful dress, but it also shows my sickness to the world. The black fabric clings to every inch of my shrunken waist. Nobody says anything. Looking back on that night, I remember the looks, I remember the faces and reactions I got to my abnormally thin appearance, but in the moment I noticed none of it. I walked in to the dance with my date and all my friends around me, I am simply enjoying myself. The night consists of dancing and enjoying each other’s company, until I am reminded of my appearance and how it effects those around me.

“Woah!” my friend Tess exclaims upon seeing me when she enters the dance.

“Someone hans’t been eating!” She laughs. Her comment was lighthearted, not intended to be the truth. She never knew how right she was. I smile, thank her for her intended compliment, and walk away, realizing for a split second that maybe my appearance isn’t what is should be, but in another second that thought is out of my mind. The night comes to a close and we all exit the dance. I begin to shiver and my date gives me his coat because I am cold. I am always cold. Riding home on our bus, everyone is still in awe of the wonderful night that was our winter formal. I am caught in this daze as well. Tonight I could forget, forget about my worries and struggles. Then morning comes, and I have to wake up.

! I’m in the 12th grade. My mother tells me one day that I have to get my wisdom teeth pulled. A normal reaction would be nervousness or even fear, but for me, I’m excited. Not because I will not have aesthetically pleasing teeth, but something else; codeine. I’m not saying I have a problem, I just like the way it feels. I’ve taken pain killers before, I’ve tried different prescriptions to get the desired feeling, but I am not addicted. The day comes for my surgery, it feels like I’m in and out within the hour. I wake up back in my bed, not remembering the operation or how I even got home. All I know is that there are 3 pill bottles on my desk, one of which is full of what I’ve been looking for. My mom come in my room, explains that each pill does something different and I have to take certain ones at certain times. I follow the instructions for two of the bottles, but I dare not touch the codeine. My mouth is soar, horribly soar. The day goes by and I just sleep away the pain. After I have completely healed from my surgery, the bottle is still full, I’m saving them for later. Two months after my surgery, there are 3 pills left. These, I need to save these. I am not addicted, if I were they would be gone.

! I’m nearing the end of 12th grade. My palms are sweaty, legs shaking, and my eyes dart around the waiting room. I try to hide how scared I am, but everyone that passes me gives me a smile as if to say,
! “Welcome, everything is going to be ok.” They know, they all f***ing know! Just by walking into these doors I’m labeled as sick, as a patient, as someone who needs help. I want to get up, I want to run out of this room as fast as I can. Why did I think this was a good idea? I am doing just fine! Just as I am about to turn to my mother to tell her to get me out of there, I hear my name.
! “Come with me.”
Damn, they got me. I follow a woman named Susan through a hallway and into a room covered in windows. She sits me down and it starts. Therapy.

! March 4th 2012 was the day that checked into an outpatient treatment facility. I had decided that I had had enough. My entire high school career had been spent enjoying my time with my friends and the time I spent at school, but there was always my depression in the back of my mind. I wanted it out. I wanted to be able to go to dinner with my friends and not have to worry about what I eat, I wanted to be able to wear a short sleeve shirt, or wear no bracelets on my arms, I wanted to be free. As nervous and unsure as I was that first day in treatment, I am now thankful that I did not leave.

It’s not hard to do, fall into an addiction. All it took was one time, and that was it. When you think addiction, most people think drugs and alcohol, not self harm, not an eating disorder. Through treatment you learn. You learn more about yourself then you ever thought you would. I learned I was actually sick. I learned that I actually had an addiction. Now, I know that even after 5 months of treatment, I’m nowhere near finished. I still have bad days, I still have bad thoughts, I will face this for the rest of my life. The difference is that instead of giving in, I’m getting stronger. You take something bad that happened to you and you learn from it, I learn from it. I continue to learn from it. I wear my scars proudly, and if anyone asks I am not ashamed to tell them exactly how I got them. They show who I am. I am stronger. I am a survivor. I am a fighter.