(Warning: kinda gross) In 2013 my mental health was baaaaaaad. I was very depressed and anxious and wouldn't stayed in my room as much as possible - often for more than 24 hours without food, water, or even a toilet, just because I felt too anxious to leave my bed.

I also started restricted calories obsessively and would get really bad anxiety if I ever ate over 600 calories in a day.

Despite all of this, I thought I was doing really well. I'd actually lay in bed and think, "Things are going well. I'm really coping. This is fine. Everything is fine."

One night I actually decided to be social so I went out to my university night club with a few sort-of friends. I obviously hadn't ate much that day so I got super drunk super fast. I was then starving so bought a huge portion of chips covered in baked beans and cheese (British drunk food is amazing, guys).

I got a cab home and the whole journey all I could think about was how many calories I'd consumed. As soon as I got home I ran to the bathroom and without even thinking about it I made myself sick into the bathroom sink.

I then heard my housemates come home and they were all in the kitchen chatting right outside the bathroom door. The vomit was going nowhere because it was huge chunks of food that wouldn't go down the drain.

So I had to scoop up the fucking vomit with my hands and carry it across the bathroom to the toilet to get rid of it.

That was when I finally accepted I maybe had a problem.