My Story

This covers sensitive topics, so please read at your own discretion.

My name is Erika, and I'm 19 years old. Over the course of my high school years, I had two decently large problems: self-harm and an eating disorder.

Right when I started high school, I remember being extraordinarily stressed. I was overworked and had no time to myself. To add to that, I was a competitive swimmer. Swimming practice added to school just pushed me over the edge. I had seen a lot of other people self-harming, so I figured I would try it to see if it would work.

I did it once then decided the world was over and started screaming about it as if it were something to be proud of. It certainly wasn't. I seemed to feel like I was a part of some exclusive club, and I was constantly thinking about it. Even today, I still feel the urge when I'm really stressed and overwhelmed. As a matter of fact, I recently had the urge. However, it's been over two years since I last self-harmed.

The one thing that I remember about that depressing time was that it felt great when I would self-harm, then afterward, I would feel horrible. I was filled with regret and shame. It would let me feel good for a minute, and then I would come crashing down. I became really addicted to the high, and I finally understood why everyone found it so hard to stop.

I forced myself to stop by getting some bracelets. I made myself a promise, and I've kept it thus far. Those bracelets really helped. This was in 2016.

Then, after I gave that up, I started hating myself even more due to my weight. I had to quit swimming, so my body had a hard time adjusting to the changes. I went on a diet and took it too far. I became anorexic, and it consumed my entire life.

I wasted months obsessing over exercise and calories. I stopped writing during this time. I wasn't human anymore. I weighed myself ten, twenty times a day. Numbers consumed me. Calories, kilograms—everything was counted and measured, and it all haunted me. I would stare at myself in the mirror and pick apart every single perceived flaw.

One day, my kidneys started to hurt so badly that I could barely move. I went to the doctor, and I took numerous tests that resulted in the simple answer: I was exercising too much. I had been running too much.

At the hospital, I saw a girl. Our eyes locked. She knew I was anorexic, and I knew she was, too. It was just this knowing. It's like how you know that a certain person is nice just by looking at them. It was only a second, but in that one second, we acknowledged how we were both part of the same club. I liked the feeling, and that terrifies me today.

Looking back, it all scares me.

It was absolute hell. It's still with me, but I feel more comfortable in my own skin now. I still have my bad days, but I'm so much better today. I feel like I survived. Sure, I regret those days that I cried myself to sleep when I could have been talking with my friends or reading contentedly. Though I do understand now that I would not be the person I am today if I hadn't gone through these things.

What I want to say is this: things do get better. From everything, positives can be taken. I've taken what I can from my past, and I've made my peace with it.