The Journey Begins - Friday April 27, 2012

I'm at home, typing up the latest of my assignments. My dad comes home early. I stop - why is he here so soon? He goes into the family room and speaks with my mother. I am called to their presence, where I am told the most horrific news of my life:

 'You need to go to the hospital', my mom said. "You are too sick to stay here. You need help. We need you to get better. You are so sick and unhealthy. Please, get into the car. We are driving you to the emergency room".

Ouch. My mind began spinning in circles. Here I was, in my home on a seemingly normal day, and being told that I had to get myself into the hospital. "NO!", I shouted. "I won't go. I can get better. I'll eat, I promise. Just give me a chance. Don't make me go. STOP!"

But there was no point in trying. For months, my parents and sister had helplessly watched me fall into the depths of anorexia, losing more and more weight with each day. Skipping meals. Pretending that I had eaten. Eating very little amounts of food. Holding up my pants because they were getting looser around my hips. Enough was enough. I was going to the hospital - there was no room for any discussion.

So, I got into the car and we arrived at the my pyjamas. I still remember all the weird looks I got as I walked into the ER with my pink and black polka-dotted PJs. I protested to change my clothes before leaving, but my parents argued that there was no time. I was dying, and they knew it.

The ER nurse looked at me and asked, "why are you here?".

"I have no parents brought me here", I said, secretly praying that I would be released and not admitted.

"She's not eating. She is too thin. She is dying", my dad said. No doubt, my parents both endured sharp and angry glances from me. I was definitely not pleased with their decision to bring me there.

The nurse weighed me. '53 pounds' was the number on the scale. She stared at me, her mouth way open. She was probably wondering how I could be living at such a deadly weight. "You are 53 pounds!" she exclaimed. I said nothing. I knew I was thin. Of course.

And so, within five minutes (literally!), I was admitted. I had blood tests done. The results were, not shockingly, terrible. My liver had shrunk. My kidneys had stopped working. My heart was failing - it was equivalent to the function of that of a dying 85-year-old. My lungs were not working properly. My muscles had atrophied. My bones were brittle. My skin was dry. My hair was falling out. In summary...I was playing games at death's door.

I screamed, full of anger at how my parents could have brought me to the hospital. I was frustrated, knowing all too well that I would not be released the same day. I asked the doctor when I could go home. He gave a smirk (I'm NOT joking!), and he said, "you'll be here for a while. You are not going home for a while".

That was the first day I stayed in the hospital. Friday April 27, 2012. I thought it would be a short stay: I'd eat, show them that I could eat, and then go home. Little did I know how long and difficult of a journey I was in for...

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