“You’re FAT. UGLY. WORTHLESS. You don’t deserve food. You deserve to die.”
I remember the first time I believed these things.
I was ten years old. My adoptive father, whom I called Dad, had just finished harshly laying his hand upon my not-yet-finished-growing head. Tears were streaming down my face as I ran to find my mom. I remember her comforting voice as she brought me in, close to her chest.
You see, my father had anger issues, along with many medical issues. He would get angry about something then take his anger out on me, his “favorite daughter.” I was a daddy’s girl in a most disturbing way. He would hit me or call me names, and I, as a people pleaser, would do anything to make him like me.
Years passed and, after a few years of the physical, emotional, and verbal abuse I was trying to enjoy life, just as I always had. Those lies didn’t matter to me. In fact, I’d totally forgotten about them. They just happened to pop up out of nowhere, March of my eighth grade year (2012).
I started comparing myself to others. My food intake decreased drastically. I started isolating myself, only to dig myself deeper into depression. My pain started showing up on my wrists and moved around to several parts of my body. I was miserable, but I thought everything I was doing was completely normal. I was embarrassed to eat in front of others, fearing that they’d look at me and think, what a pig, she’s disgusting, she’s fat. I constantly counted calories, making sure I didn’t eat over 700 calories a day. I’d exercise before and after meals at home, and wouldn’t keep down what I did eat. My life was a secret. Nobody knew me, nobody knew who I REALLY was. I cried myself to sleep, holding a razor in my hand, thinking I needed to punish myself for everything—for eating, for breathing, for existing.

Everything went from bad to worse on December 13th, 2012. I remember it clearly, like it was yesterday. I’d left school early to go to a counseling appointment. My counselor and I were just chatting as usual, but then the topic of suicide came up. I hadn’t spoken to anyone about that before. But as she asked me questions, such as how likely was I to act upon my suicidal thoughts. The answers weren’t, per say, healthy, so she told my mom to immediately
take me to ER. I was crying so hard, I didn’t want to live at all. By this time, the nerve in my left arm was all messed up, and scars covered the entire part of my body. In the ER I got asked all these questions—blah blah blah—and it was finally decided, by the ER doctor, that I needed to be hospitalized.
I didn’t care anymore. I was just like, “ Do whatever with me before it’s too late,”if you know what I mean. To me, the hospital stay was one of the best things that ever happened to me. To my mom, it just made me worse. I was in there for Christmas, which was very hard, but when I got out, it was awesome. About seven days after being out of the hospital, I relapsed—hard. I didn’t get hospitalized again but I was struggling a lot.

A few months later, my parents sat me down with my sister and told me about this residential treatment place up near Chicago called Timberline Knolls. Demi Lovato had ended up there some time or another. It sounded like a fair enough idea for me, so we got in contact with them and then we waited and waited for them to tell us that there was an open bed.
On May 31st, I spent some time at a friend’s house. I was all excited because when my mom picked me up, we were going to get a movie and watch it together, because it was only us for the weekend. I was all pumped when my mom picked me up, but she wasn’t so energized. She told me that the people from TK (Timberline Knolls) had called. The day I was going to be leaving to go into treatment was the next day. So, sadly, I didn’t get to watch a movie that night because I had to pack for my stay. My mood totally changed from excited and happy to scared, worried, anxious, and sad. Not the greatest day ever.
I stayed with TK for only about a month. Except for the fact that I kept being sent off to the hospital. I was sent to two different hospitals in three weeks, which is not long at all. I had a hard time adjusting to everything, but when I got to the second hospital, my perspective on everything changed. I wasn’t as depressed all the time. They helped me be able to figure out why I was doing everything and what the triggers were, communication skills, and educated me on food, self-harm, etc.

I haven’t been in a hospital since then, but have continued with my outpatient therapists. I’ve been trying to get better, and I know that I can because I know and have God with me. There’s no healing without Him and although there are still struggles, urges, and temptations, I know I can make it through all of this because I am trying. I have hope and trust that I can get out of this, so I will. I’m not in the perfect place right now, but I’m in a much better place than I used to be. I wouldn’t be anywhere different unless I had the support of my friends and family. I am unashamed of my physical scars. Even though they may never go away, I know that each one has a story, and I thought that it was time people know my story.
My story may be rough, but it's made ME stronger than my addictions.