I didn’t want to be a twig with knobby knees and sharp ribs. I didn’t want to lose my hair as fast as I lost my friends. I never said to myself, “Hey, let’s have an eating disorder!” I just wanted to be the best. I looked at Olympic athletes and thought, “If I just lose a little weight, I’ll be just as good as them!” Religiously following every health tip online and exercising like I was getting paid a fortune, I not only lost weight and valuable muscle mass, I lost friends, happiness, and freedom.

“Hey! Do you want to go to the pool today?” my friends would say.

“Not today, I have a headache.” was always my response. My heart would pound through my chest. I was terrified; if I left the house, how could I ensure my workout schedule would stay in place? What if someone forced me to sit or eat? Life was miserable, yet I thought I was going to be rewarded in the end. I believed I was becoming stronger with every pound lost.

In September of my eighth grade year, my parents enrolled me in the Emily Program.  I expected treatment to go quickly without a single bump in the road. In my mind, I had no problem at all. I was convinced I was healthy and strong, and assumed the people at Emily’s would agree. To my surprise, that was not the case. I was diagnosed with anorexia and began family-based therapy. My therapist made me stop all forms of exercise saying, “This is serious. You could die.” Yet I never saw a doctor once the entire time I was there. I went three nights a week every week for five months. The only thing I learned was how to lie. I convinced my parents I was fine and the staff were just idiots. I began playing hockey again and exercising like a maniac.  My hockey game suffered terribly. I was petrified at the idea of being thrown against the boards. I was no longer the best, most aggressive player on my team. I was the weak, slow, fragile girl who blamed her lack of success on everyone but herself. After a long, emotional discussion, my mom emailed the Emily Program that I was done. We haven’t heard from them since.

 “I won’t go! I’ll miss so much school! I’ll miss all my sports!” my mind raced, searching for an excuse to stay home. To my dismay, I was given no choice. Spring break 2014 my mom, grandpa, brother and I went on a two-week trip to Vietnam, Cambodia and Thailand. The plane ride was sheer torture. I was positive that sitting for 13 hours would make me that fattest person on Earth. Although the sights were breathtaking and I experienced life-changing revelations, my eating disorder was ultimately in control. Every bone in my body willed those around me to eat and gain weight so I may look “perfect” in comparison. My excuse for hardly eating was always, “My stomach hurts.” Instead of marveling at the beautiful, exotic, night sky, I went to the hotel gym every night for two hours. These two weeks felt more like two years.

When we returned home, my parents confronted me, upset that I had been losing weight rapidly. They took me to my pediatrician who told us to go to the Children’s Hospital Center for the Treatment of Eating Disorders. I wracked by brain for ways to “save myself”.  I thought I could continue my behavior with no repercussions. I was completely wrong. At school the next week my teacher got a call from my mom saying I had a doctor’s appointment and she would pick me up early at 1:00. We drove to the Children’s Hospital in Minneapolis where I was immediately sent to the hospital. I was in shock. I didn’t cry or get upset.  A small part of me, the piece that wanted to live, felt relieved. Subconsciously, the dedicated athlete inside of me rejoiced, I was being saved.

The doctors led my mom and me through the under-ground tunnel, up the elevator, to the sixth floor where I would be living for the next month. I was still in my school uniform; I never got to go home. That night, I had an IV shoved into my tiny, dehydrated veins. I was engulfed in the colorful chords of a heart monitor, the stickers pulling on my flaking skin. At this moment I fully realized I really did have a problem. If I wanted to survive and be an athlete, I had to change. My mom went home and brought back a suitcase full of clothes, blankets, notebooks and pens. She pleaded to spend the night with me in my room, but I told her no. I knew if she stayed, the tears would come, and both of us would be swallowed by grief.

For the next month I stayed in the hospital. Every night, my nurse woke me up twice to check my heart rate. Every day I paced in my room, reading, waiting to go to the dining room for the next meal. Although I didn’t want to eat, I longed to see my friends. There were 11 other girls in the program. My parents came every morning at 11:30 to meet with my doctor, nurse, phyciatrist, and therapist. Slowly but surely I began to recover. My friends came to visit me nearly every day, bringing me gifts like it was Christmas. With the help of my therapist Jake, I was able to relax and accept the fact I was in recovery.  I was discharged from the hospital on June 2nd. I finally felt strong. I knew some bumps in the road were inescapable, but I was confident I would succeed. I realized my eating disorder was just a separate voice in my head. I had the power to listen to it, or drive it out. I was in control. I was going to change my life.