As a child, I had lots of friends and I felt good about myself. I was very close to my family. But when I was 11 years old, my world fell apart. I was sexually abused, my younger brother died and our family moved across the country. I attended a new school where I was severely bullied. It was a year of feeling totally alone and rejected. My worst memory is being beaten up and ridiculed by a group of kids on the school bus. Shortly after, a stranger approached me and asked if I had been in a bad car accident because my arms were so bruised.

This abuse made me feel very insecure about myself. I was afraid to talk to my parents about it. I feared upsetting them, so I justified my silence–things weren’t really that bad. The following year I was at a new high school and found myself being part of the “in” crowd, but still found that my self-worth was quite fragile. I asked a guy I knew to be a bit rude if he would honestly tell me if I needed to lose weight. He said, “Just a few pounds would help.” He gave me the incentive I needed.  The next morning I began my diet.

It didn’t take me very long to lose five pounds, and it made me feel really good. I figured if that made such a difference, another five pounds would be even better. As I continued to lose weight, I gained popularity, friends and boyfriends—everything I craved. I began to equate love with being thin. I became obsessed with perfection, and didn’t dare have anything less than straight A’s. I exercised every day, running as many as 10 miles, doing as many as 1000 sit-ups, and doing aerobics to get rid of any calories I might have eaten. After six months, severe dizzy spells caused me to see a doctor. When he told me I had anorexia nervosa, I thought, “How could someone who weighs 105 pounds have an eating disorder?” People who heard my diagnosis asked the same thing. Some even suggested I didn’t look anorexic.  So I decided I had another area to achieve in: becoming the perfect anorexic.

I became desperate . . . trying to study enough, exercise enough and become thin enough. Usually eating only 100-500 calories a day. Eventually, I felt dieting wasn’t working, so I also started taking up to 60 laxatives a day and forced myself to throw up the few calories I did consume. For the next 15 years I struggled, nearly dying twice. I was under medical observation and involved in therapy during a great deal of that time. Still, on the outside, I worked hard to make it look like I had it all together.

During this time, I met a wonderful person, Cam, and knew him as a good-looking, fun-loving guy who loved God and wanted everyone to be as excited about God as he was. We became friends and I even tried setting him up with my sister. Fortunately, it didn’t work. About two years after we met, my eating disorder was at its all-time worst. I began to black out a lot.  My doctor got some test results, called me at work and told me he was going to hospitalize me.

I couldn’t stand being in the hospital, so after just two weeks, I manipulated the system and got myself released. At home, I worked furiously at losing even more weight. I exercised more than ever, abused laxatives and ate very little—a cracker or two a day and some water—which I would throw up – sometimes till I threw up blood.

I was hospitalized again, this time with heart palpitations and severe dehydration.I was very close to death. To nourish my 82-pound body, I was being force-fed 3,000 calories a day through a tube to my stomach.(cont'd at right)