I used to have an eating disorder. Still do. And no one knows.

It started back a couple years ago in 6th grade, the summer before 7th. We went to Florida with the whole fam for a fun little last minute vacation. While I was there, unfortunately, I came down with a kidney infection along with a nasty burn on my arm from a curling iron, and had to go to the doctor. Of course, the first thing they do is weigh you. Something I’ve never really cared about. I was always skinny until about fifth grade, when I became a little overweight. But nothing crazy; mainly due to hormones. But when they made me stand on the scale, it read out 167. 167. A large number for such a young girl. I looked over at my mother, hoping to find something on her face to console me. The only thing I found was disgust. Those numbers, her face — those are the two things I will never forget in my life. The whole rest of the week I had to take it easy because of the infection, mainly just lying around in the shade in my bathing suit. But I noticed my beautiful, skinny family — cousins, parents, everyone — looking at me weird. I finally noticed why. I was fat. Ugly. Unlovable. This was drilled into my brain as such a young age and it hasn’t even been that long. It started subtle. Not wanting seconds, drinking more water, checking nutrient labels. Then I started getting ‘sick from breakfast’, and my acid reflux got worst, so of course I had to cut out sugar. And carbs. And solid foods. Skipping meals, exercising in secret, accidentally binging, trying to puke it up. This was my life for a year. And now, a year after that, it’s coming back. I initially lost 40 pounds, which doesn’t sound like much, but trust me, I don’t even look like the same person.

But now it’s getting worse. The thoughts, they invade my brain. I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t do anything without thinking about it.

They still don’t know. No one knows. And it’s starting all over again.