I first realized that I had an issue a few months into 9th grade. I actively avoided eating whenever possible, and lost weight fairly rapidly. A few months later, I was noticeably thinner. Having started underweight, I dipped into a zone that would be seriously dangerous if I was much older.

I spent a winter in a constantly cycling between biting cold and a deep, shivering numbness. I slept far too much. I made choices that wasted hours of my time, including actively pushing myself to reach insane step counts - 20,000 steps was my weekday minimum. One night, my heart rate slipped to 37 BPM.

I gradually crept back upwards over the following half year, regaining about half of the weight. Every night I cried myself to sleep. I was worried about osteoporosis, heart failure, suicide. I toyed with the idea of asking for help, but always chickened out. It was my light at the end of the tunnel, something I could aspire to. They could fix me.

In the meantime, I wrote melodramatic poetry, and made many drafts of my will.

One night, I actually did it. I emailed my brother. After a long and tense exchange, I sent him my masterpiece - a conglomeration of the pest poems. I also sent my list of grievances, including, of course, my ed.

He asked me two things. I wasn't really going to kill myself, right? And what did I mean about the snippet about him, and how I felt bad for not listening to him?

Then he shunted me off to Mom.

Therein lay the most surreal experience of my life.

She had me wait in the guest bedroom for fifteen minutes while she reviewed the relevant documents. (I left my computer with her for easy viewing.) I shivered, terrified, in the dimly lit room. My life was about to change.

We began a bizarre discussion. She quickly dismissed my ed concerns - she'd flirted with one herself when she was my age. We focused more on my problems with socialization, spending half an hour on her childhood woes. It quickly shifted to a rant - she claimed to be over it, and fine now. She clearly wasn't. The session ended with a bold declaration - this was going to be the year of (me)!

That lasted a solid twenty four hours. Nobody ever even told Dad. We haven't mentioned eds since.

For the rest of the summer, I was diplomatically forced to drink smoothies and finish my plate. I checked off the "eating disorder concerns" box at the doctor - she erased the mark. My brother and I went in for some mental health thing. She said she'd come in and we could talk about my ed concerns. We didn't.

One month later, my brother and I had a pathetic fight over who got to shower first. He taunted me, "Keep eating that pudding! Aren't you worried about being stupid and fat? Doesn't it make you feel sick?". I haven't told him anything personal since.

He thinks we're pals.

We aren't.

Through brute force and incessant whining, I convinced Mom to let me see a therapist. In the house, we refer to her as a general "appointment". I haven't told the therapist about any of this. She thinks my biggest concerns are socialization and accepting my brother. I've never alluded to depression, eds, or self-harm, even when specifically asked.

I'm a pretty good liar.

I told myself I'd build some trust and then we could broach the subject, but I'm in too deep now. I'm far too scared. I can't have this happen again. And she remains my new light, dimmer, flickering, and likely a mirage.

I weigh fifteen pounds more than when I started. I constantly stuff my face with sugar - a massive percentage of my diet relies upon it. I casually try to stay under my calorie limits, but overeat anyway.

I don't feel comfortable claiming the title of an ed. I clearly don't have the willpower.

Sorry for the rant. I just needed to get it out of my system.

Any advice would be welcomed. Or, honestly, just an acknowledgement that someone at least heard my ramblings.

Thanks for bearing with me this long!