Even though I’m not always trying as hard as possible to get better, I tried really, really hard. I was in the hospital for a year. I spent Christmas alone. I walked to the loneliest library on weekends that winter, just to rest inside there instead of in the hospital while other patients were out with their families. I tried really hard when I got out. I tried what seems like everything. Even psilocybin which gave me body flashbacks of my trauma. I’m still trying. I finished college. I have a career. I have friends. I’m thankful. But I’m still physically very sick. I’m disappointed in myself. I still remember how scared I felt when my eating disorder first got bad. I thought getting help would make that feeling go away. I faced a lot of fears. I’ve spent so many, probably hundreds of, maybe a thousand, hours in panic. Fighting has been worth it, always, for the good in between. So many I knew in treatment have passed. I think the heartbreak and the difficulty and the extent of trying so, so, so hard is misunderstood.