For a little bit of context, I used to be a loud, outgoing kid, hungry for knowledge, I liked having photos taken and I loooved food. I didn't use to eat in excess but I guess I had a slower metabolism than most kids my age, and I wasn’t particularly active due to some heart problem I was born with. The weight was showing a little, but then again, I wasn’t obese, I wasn’t unhealthy I was just a little bit heavier than usual

The problems started in 2014, the year that marked my existence 

My first day in Preparatory grade* (in Romania we have this grade between preschool and first grade, and in the majority of cases the children enter it at the age of) was the day that started the downhill spiral. I was 6.

I still remember it like it was yesterday, I wore a blouse, it wasn’t tight but it also wasn’t loose. At some point, out of a sudden, a kid in my class abruptly poked my belly and then promptly burst out laughing. I was dumbfounded, no one had ever laughed at me like that before. I was confused, and when the teacher asked the kid why he had done that, he said that he found it funny that my fat stomach moved like that. I wanted to cry. That was the first time I had ever felt insecure about my weight.

Of course I’d been called “chubby” and “plump” by my family and their acquaintances even before then. I never took it too seriously though, I suppose, I didn’t know how to, actually. I never really felt as if something was wrong with me up until that cataclysmic day, that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Fast forward a few years, I was in third grade. I was 9. The self-esteem issues continued to grow.

I was constantly sucking in my stomach so that I could look like the other girls. I had always thought that they were prettier than me and I wanted to be like them. At the same time, I had started to hate having photos taken. The only thing I could see were my chubby cheeks and flabby stomach.

Shortly after, the bullying started. I got hit and ridiculed for being awkward, I really was just self-conscious. Some of the nicknames I’d been given back then were “whale’’, “barrel” or “ugly fatty”. It stung being called that every day, but I still didn't entirely believe what they were saying, because my parents kept on telling me that being smart was all that mattered and that I was pretty in my own way.

Three years later I was in sixth grade. I was 12. I’d started starving myself.

You could say that years upon years of snarky mean remarks would get to a person at some point, right? Evidently yes, especially to a child. Sixth grade was when I had finally reached my limit and thought to myself that I despised always being left out, ignored and belittled and that I should take things into my own hands. I didn’t know what I was about to get myself into.

At first, I started skipping one meal a day, the school lunch. I kept at it for a few months and at some point I’d gotten used to the hunger. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Then thee quarantine came. At that point, I was at home with my parents all day so I had to eat whether I wanted to or not. I was in a frenzy, I didn’t know what to do, I was scared I’d grow even larger. Eventually, I’d found a solution: making myself sick. It was horrible. I did it so often that my teeth had started to rot from all the gastric acid that was mixed with the food I forcefully made myself throw up.

Before I knew it, summer had come and quarantine was lifted. I started getting mixed up with the wrong kind of people. That was when I hit rock bottom. I started starving again and this time I wasn’t skipping a meal or two, I stopped eating for days. The most I’ve gone without food was four days, four entire days. My head was spinning and I could barely stand up without falling over, but I was happy. I was skinnier. It still wasn’t enough.

The compliments started to pour in and I wasn’t left out anymore, but it still wasn’t enough. I wanted, no, I NEEDED more.

My hair started falling out in clumps, my bones were poking through my skin. I couldn’t sleep. I was holding on by a thread. It STILL wasn’t enough.

The compliments started to turn into disgusted looks accompanied by words such as “look at that sack of bones”. I broke down. Never in my life have I ever cried so hard.

With that came the questions “who was I doing all this for?” “what was the purpose of all this anguish?”. After that came the realization that it was ME I should’ve done it for. That I should’ve done everything for ME, not anyone else.

Until this moment came, two years had passed. I was 14. I was still sick, I was still struggling. I started eating again.

Progress is never a straight line. There are ups and downs and moments of peace. There were times when seeing myself gain weight back would send me spiraling and the urge to starve would reappear and there were moments when I was happy, eating things I thought I’d never eat again such as chocolate and chips.

After I started to gain weight back, I came clean to my parents. To say they were shocked would be an understatement, but they were supportive in my journey back to health.

Now I am 15 years and eight months old. I can finally say I am healed. Yes, I may still have moments of doubt and yes, I may never go back to the way I was before it happened, like a piece of paper once crumpled can never be the same; but I overcame anorexia. I survived.