As a young kid, I was never overweight.  I never struggled with weight problems, I never cared one way or another what people thought of me when they looked at me, and I never compared my body to others.  And I certainly loved my food: peanut butter, chocolate, bologna, you name it.  I didn’t care if I spent a day without exercising or if I had ice cream twice a day on some occasions.  Sure, I despised the fat on my stomach, but it was no big deal, it was natural.  As I grew older, I slowly began leaning toward the healthier food and I grew an acquired knowledge of proper nutrition and how important it was to exercise.  I began an exercise routine and balanced that, school, and proper eating pretty well at first, taking an hour-long walk every day,  limiting my sweets and expanding my vegetables and tastes for new foods.  Then I became obsessed with my exercise and walking.  I was convinced that it shrank my waist and measured myself every time I got back from a walk to see how much skinnier I was, when I really wasn’t that quickly.  With walks and healthier eating, I lost ten pounds in a few months (ten pounds that I didn’t need to lose) and didn’t even realize it till I weighed myself on a whim.  I felt great about losing the weight for some reason, it gave me a sense of control and being fit and healthy, but it was only precursor to worse things.  I started restricting needed food between meals and fell into eating the same foods over and over for the two meals I made for myself: breakfast and lunch.  Eventually I restricted food from meals, eating a ridiculously miniscule amount: little did I know how I was destroying my body.  At this point, I exercised obsessively; biking miles every day in any weather circumstance, and grew weaker and weaker.  I was underweight, depressed and miserable, but I had myself convinced that if I started eating again I would get fat and ugly and nobody would like me.  I think back on myself back then and feel so ashamed at the way I snapped at my family and parents and denied there was a problem, when there was and it was growing.  I counted calories like my life depended on it and never let it exceed 900 a day.  It was the most awful experience of my life.  One day I went for my bike ride before I had eaten my tiny breakfast.  I was feeling fine until I was almost home and then had the most awful pain in my intestines.  It was crippling and felt like something was burning inside me, and I was forced to stop and get off the bike.  I felt like I couldn’t breathe and I was gasping for air as I dialed my Mom on my cell phone for her to come get me.  I was crumpled beside my bike on the side of the road, clutching my head, trying to weather the spasms of pain in my gut.  When my Mom got there in our truck, she helped me up and tried to get me to the passenger seat.  I passed out twice on the road on the way to it.  When my parents took me to the ER, they diagnosed me Anorexia Nervosa and told me I had to go to the hospital.  I was 24 pounds underweight, extremely malnourished and constipated.  I had no idea what had happened to me and I spent 25 days in the hospital gaining weight and getting much needed nutrition, rest, and therapy.  I had destroyed myself physically and mentally and to this day I’m still recovering from the devastating effects of my anorexia.  It really is a horrible and serious illness that takes months to years to overcome.  But now, I am determined to kick the disease out on its rear and I fully support and encourage others suffering from anorexia nervosa and other eating disorders to do so also, however you can.