Mind numbing screams pierced my eardrums, the noises of pain and fury emanating from the room adjacent to mine reverberated through my mind. Her episodes invaded my dreams and occupied my waking thoughts; fear dominated my every action. That was life with Claire...and I was blessed to live it.

At the time, I despised every second of it, opening my eyes in the mornings to debilitating anxiety. In retrospect, those terrifying days and scarring nights saved my life and paved the path for the journey that made me the person I am today. I didn't just live with a psychotic girl, though. I underwent grueling treatment for anorexia with her.

Not many people are lucky enough to have parents who love them unconditionally and are willing to do anything under the sun for them, fortunately, I am. There was a period, I'm ashamed to admit, not long ago, that I despised my parents for leaving me there. How could they give up on me like that? How could they abandon me? It wasn't until as recently as freshman year that I began to realize, they weren't punishing me; they were saving my life from a deathly illness that had dropped my weight down to 82 pounds on a 5 foot frame, isolated me, stunted my growth, and even stopped my heart.

It's expected that once a patient is released from an inpatient facility, they are cured. How I wish that were true. Recovery is complex, it doesn't mean simply gaining weight and eating again. It means facing your issues head on, going to therapy, eliminating negative habits and thoughts; it means challenging deep rooted ideals and expectations, and it means letting go of perfectionism.

For me, recovery meant 2 long term inpatient treatments, 4 hospitalizations, hundreds of hours spent with therapists, tough love of parents who couldn't stand to see me hurting myself, and often defiance. It wasn't a process where once I decided I wanted to be healed, I was. One morning I would wake up and want nothing more to be a normal teenager, and the next I'd be cursing the very thought of pushing through another day. Endurance, determination, and the support of parents who refused to give up, got me through.

At first, watching the scale climb, 10, 20, 30 pounds was nerve-wracking; but 100 times more uncomfortable than rebuilding my body, was rebuilding my mind. Rejoining my peers at a school I had been in and out of all year was a petrifying thought, everyone knew what had been going on, and the eyes bearing into me, whispers passed in classes, those initial weeks, were brutal. Emotionally struggling through the viscous gossip was difficult, but more heartbreaking in my mind. was the loss of people I considered my best friends. At 15 years old, after 3 years of the drama, they had gotten sick of it. Honestly, so had I, but I had been fighting this too long to expect them to still be there.

I flung myself into a variety of clubs and sports, seeking a place where I could belong. Looking for friends that I could share the high school experience with and a title I could identify with. A softball player? A swimmer? A soccer player? A runner? I may have tried nearly every sport my school has to offer, but it finally dawned on me, I don't need to “be” anything except the person I am. Now healthy, athletic, and involved in the community. I may not be “popular” or have a ton of friends, but there are a few people I can truly count on, mainly my family, and that's good enough for me. I've learned from this experience, and still am. I found my calling in helping people and mission work, while I may not always be Miss. Confident, I am coming to accept myself for who I am.