When you’re a grownup, you’re supposed to have it all together. You’re supposed to have everything figured out, know what you’re doing and where you’re going, and you’re supposed to be happy. Grownups don’t get depressed or SI or start counting calories even when their friends tell them they are too skinny. Grownups don’t have breakdowns and ignore the phone when it rings.

These lies hang over my head constantly.

I am almost twenty-one and being “cured” is far, far away. Every day is a step, every day is a battle. I have a choice to make each morning that I wake up: I can work to be healthy today, or I can give in.

Most days I’m okay, but the fact is that there is always only so much time before I’m worn down and I give in. I stopped injuring but started a milder way of hurting myself. I try to avoid stepping on a scale, because the numbers shouldn’t matter even though they do. I pile work on myself to try to keep busy and then shut down when I can’t get it all done.

But I’m still here, still going. And today I think about how far I’ve come. Today I think about my own independence, and how even though I’m not cured and probably never will be, I’ve come a long way from the girl I used to be. I miss her, sometimes, but I love the me I’ve got now. And I’m gonna keep on fighting.