I stood in front of the bathroom mirror in a small Italian restaurant on a hot evening in July.  I was wearing my new silver earrings that subtly brushed my collarbone. My hair was swept up in a bun and meticulously sprayed for security. Although my make-up was perfect and my outfit was brand-new, I never felt so ugly in my life.  As my family and friends waited in the dining room, I began to cry.

I could feel the hard jeans pressed against my skin and began to regret the bowtie pasta I had just inhaled.  That was the first time I took matters into my own hands and purged. With beads of sweat forming on my forehead and my hands shaking out of fear and surprise, I looked in the mirror once again and never felt more beautiful. 

My bulimia started off slowly with only a couple of purges a week. Because I had just moved into an apartment and bills were delinquent, I saved money by eating less. I still cannot pinpoint a specific instance or reason that I became obsessed with this control of my body. 

Perhaps it was when I would run on the treadmill daily, only to find that I had hit a weight-loss plateau. Or maybe it was when I carried the most weight in a picture with all of my friends at the beach. My doctor would later tell me that it was an obsession to be perfect and stand out because of an absent father. But deep down I knew that it was choice I had made, a decision that would later turn my entire life up-side down.

My doctor would later tell me that it was an obsession to be perfect and stand out because of an absent father. But deep down I knew that it was choice I had made, a decision that would later turn my entire life up-side down.I had always heard the stories about deaths from eating disorders, but I genuinely believed that I had everything under control, and this was not bulimia. After all, I wasn’t binging and then purging, I was just using it as tool for when I felt a little too full. I still stuck to my normal diet of healthy foods such as wheat breads and whole grain cereals. The difference was that I was beginning to see a difference in how I looked.  

I began to have problems concentrating in school. My hair was falling out in large masses, and I often felt dizzy. Another one of my biggest problems was with my boyfriend of two years. I suddenly found it hard to trust him, love him and even touch him.  

I began to feel this void. I had the feeling that I was always missing something or had left something on in my apartment after leaving. I was never secure, never comfortable. 

To solve these mounting problems, I turned to my secret escape that had become an addiction. Although life was spinning out of control, my refuge was always behind the bathroom door. I settled into my own routine, and it began to feel normal.  Before I realized it, I was purging five or more times a day.

I thought that my addiction was an escape from my problems when, in reality, my problems were because of my addiction. I hit rock-bottom one morning in December when I was rushed to the hospital. My family and boyfriend stood helpless as they watched me curse the doctors in the ICU for saving my life. Why couldn’t they have just let me die?

Although this disease tore me apart as a person, it also made me stronger. I was able to rebuild myself into a better person.I was moved to a treatment facility where I was on a 24-hour watch. I could not bathe, use the bathroom or sleep without someone standing over me. My bulimia had become so severe I was unable to digest saltine crackers. My family came to visit during group therapy and would leave as I cried for them to take me home.

After being released from the treatment facility, I moved back in with my parents for a short time. My weeks consisted of group therapy, individual therapy, and nutritional counseling. I had ruined many of my relationships with some of the most important people in my life.

The road to recovery was intense and lasted over six months. I learned that bulimia is not only an addiction, but it’s a disease. During my battle, I was not myself and did things that hurt my family and friends. On top of dealing with the illness, I had to cope with severe remorse and deep grief for the things that I put my loved ones through. In the end, I learned that it wasn’t me that did these terrible things; it was the disease. 

In my recovery group, I heard stories just like mine, women that had ruined their relationships, daughters that had hurt their families. I learned that bulimics are everywhere around us. I also learned how to forgive myself and deal with the physical and emotional consequences of my disease.

I still struggle daily with the temptation to purge.  It’s my cocaine, my escape. I am recovering and mending broken relationships and healing the wounds that I caused with my actions. Although this disease tore me apart as a person, it also made me stronger. I was able to rebuild myself into a better person. I know that if I can survive something as life altering as this, I can climb any mountain and cross an obstacle in my path.