The two most evident effects abuse had on me were suicidal depression and an eating disorder. I became a different person during that time. I did things I would never dream of doing now. I essentially stopped functioning psychologically. And I weighed 30 lbs less than my normal, healthy weight. Despite the (sometimes less than kind) encouragement from those around me, not eating became my coping mechanism. It was one of the few things I believed I had control over.
If you or someone you know is battling an eating disorder, or beginning to show the signs of one, learn how to affect change: or

It's a Wonderful (Imperfect) Life

It’s Eating Disorder Awareness Week, and I wanted to start blogging about it with a really inspirational post, but I’m not feeling particularly inspirational.

I feel tired. Broken. Defeated.

Because I’ve hated my body for as long as I can remember. I remember sobbing in despair while I poked and pulled at my thighs and butt in junior high, painfully aware that I was not as thin or pretty as the popular girls. In high school, I used athletic tape to try—unsuccessfully—to tuck in my stomach…something that was in and of itself a source of ridicule from my friends who even had the nerve to make fun of me about it at a funeral a few years later.

Throughout my 30 years, the eating disorder behavior has at times been there, and sometimes it hasn’t, but the obsession—the self-hatred—has been a fixed constant.

I’m sick of being sick.

I don’t want to care about it anymore…

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