Head aching, vomit covering my fingers, I pushed my body up shakily from the toilet. Quickly, I made my way over to the sink to clean myself up. It was then that I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Flushed cheeks, teary bloodshot eyes, and blood pulsating through my head were all I could see, feel. And for the first time, I asked myself, “What am I doing?”

It becomes almost robotic. Stuff my body with as much food as it can take in, then force it all back up. Brush my teeth. Wash my hands. Repeat. It seemed to be a cycle I could never rid myself of.

My struggle with Bulimia began when I was 15. With high expectations, sadness, and self-hatred weighing me down more and more each day, binging and purging made it all better. As cliché as this sounds, it filled an empty space in my heart. When the issue of bulimia is discussed, people’s reactions are usually along the lines of “There is no way I’d be able to purposely throw up my food or get addicted to it.” Yeah. I thought that too. But the first time I did it soon turned into another. Then another. Before I could blink it was out of control, and I was often purging 2-3 times a day. For the longest time I convinced myself that it was okay. That it was just a method I used to keep my weight under control. But it was so much more. There came a point that this disorder was my best friend. When I felt my parents hated me and my friends forgot that I existed, it was always there, providing me with relief, comfort, and a brief rush of euphoria. It didn’t even matter that my parents yelled at me and threatened to send me to a therapist for it. As long as I still was able to keep the habit, all was well. I was determined to not let go, but when I started noticing that more of my hair was falling out then usual and that my throat and stomach ached frequently, I began to get a little scared. Soon after, I realized that it wasn’t really helping my depression; it only made me sadder.

My parents eventually decided my eating habits were beyond their control and put me in therapy. One of the first things my therapist worked on with me was my depression, which was a major cause of the bulimia. After months of talking and learning coping skills, she finally put me on antidepressants, a common treatment not only for depression, but eating disorders. The medicine did make me a lot happier, but it took a while for me to let go of ‘mia’. Quitting was a lot harder than many would imagine. Every time I felt like I overate, a little voice inside my head would say, “You have to get rid of the food. If you don’t, it will only make you fatter.” Very often, I gave into the internal pleas and reverted back to my old habits. But the less and less I made myself throw up, the more that voice faded away. The part of me that knew what I was doing to my body was physically and emotionally unhealthy became stronger. I was finally in control.

On occasion, I still have a relapse and my friend, ‘mia’, attempts to sneak back into my life. But I just continue to remind myself of how far I’ve come and how much I don’t want to go back. I suppose I’m still recovering, but I sincerely believe that all my distorted eating habits will eventually become a distant memory.

I’m so fortunate to have received help when I did, because I can’t imagine how much worse it would have gotten if I continued on that path. I know there are others who are currently struggling with the same issue. I know they’re so deep into their eating disorders, they probably don’t even want help. But they need it. It’s an extremely physically and psychologically damaging addiction. I pray that all teenagers battling bulimia find help, love, and kindness. After all, it’s not a sin. It’s simply an illness. And I have faith; faith that anyone can beat it. Faith that they will be able to, once again, find beauty in life and beauty in themselves.