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    • hannahcrazylibellulea

      My eating disorder reached its peak shortly after starting college. I lied to people on my floor so I could use their scales. I spent hour after hour running on treadmills instead of studying. I ate alone. I skipped meals. I read article after article about the horrors of trans fats, the freshman 15, and eating excess amounts of carbs. I thought I was the epitome of health, but it made my life a living hell. On my worst night, I remember simultaneously watching a food documentary, looking up nutrition facts for my dining hall online, and logging my excessive exercise for the day—all the while being absolutely starving. I was so sick and stressed and exhausted that while I was hanging out with one of my best friends at school later that night, I couldn’t take it anymore and spilled everything to her—every skipped meal, every time I ate vegetables instead of ice cream, every mile I logged. She hugged me while I cried, told me that she had been where I was, and promised me that no matter how hard it seemed, things were going to get better. It was the first time I felt like I wasn’t alone dealing with what I now know to be an eating disorder, and gave me the courage to talk to a therapist on campus about my problems. My friend was right—sometimes it’s the hardest thing in the world, but it gets better.

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