Recognise that you have a balance of darkness and light. It is necessary to have this precious balance. Never compare your darkness to someone else's light. You cannot have night without day, nor can you have the moon without the night sky.

*TRIGGER WARNING: Eating disorder (anorexia nervosa)*

Last year, I met someone who gave me comfort at the time when I needed someone to hold me. She told me she cared about me, and convinced me that she knew how to make everything happy and good again. She got inside my head, and made me sick. She took my life with both her hands and steered it in her direction. She moulded my body with her hands, and flattened and hardened the surface. She made my organs weak, and my brain became a blob of clay. She thought for me, spoke for me, and acted on my behalf. I was tired, lethargic, irritable, and sharp, but she convinced me that I would only be happy if she stayed in control. It was her way or no way. I was a puppet, and she was my puppet master. All she had to do was wave a hand for me to dance around for her. She manipulated me, she starved me, and she nearly killed me. The scariest thing of all was when it was time to stare her in the face and learn her name: Ana.

In January, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder called Anorexia nervosa. I was detrimentally underweight, had dangerously low blood pressure, critically low heart rate, no iron, protein, calcium, magnesium, or vitamin D, low bone density, I had no energy, I was pale, my hair was falling out in clumps, I constantly felt faint, I felt bloated after every mouthful, I stopped menstruating, I cried at every meal time, I was put on every kind of vitamin supplement, I never drank water, I lied, I cried, I collapsed, I wanted to run away, I wanted to end it all. My doctor was completely surprised as to what energy I was surviving on. I was taken out of school. I was bedridden. I cried even more, and I had never before hated my life that much. To this day, I am in a rehabilitation process on an out-patient bases.

Rehabiliation is a push and pull process. It's a struggle. One day, you're conquering the world, and the next day, you're losing the war. One day, you can see the sun, and it feels like the warmth is emanating into all corners and crevices of your body. The next day, it feels like the cold is seeping into your blood, and freezing your heart. It is not a straight and narrow road. It twists and turns, filled with road blocks, potholes, and monsters creeping out of alleys and crawling out of drains.

Recovery is not something you can measure on a spectrum, which is something most people don't understand. Anorexia is not a physical disorder with mental side effects. It is a mental disorder with physical side effects. This means that the anxiety and the controlling voice inside my head takes out its frustration on my body. I've gotten to a safe weight as of now, but that does not mean I have recovered. You can't look at me and say I'm better. Because I'm not. I'm far from better. My relationship with food is far from healthy. I have a deep-rooted fear of food. There are some foods I don't know if I'll ever be brave enough to eat again. Looking at a plate of food, or something like a protein bar, makes me want to cry. The more I think about eating it, the more my body seems to get bigger and bigger, until I promise myself that I won't eat it. That promise gives me a sense of peace. But where does it end? When I stop eating for good? When my organs fail and I die? My rehab is focusing on the food space, and being okay with eating normal portions of food. It's about restoring normality (which, to me, is insanity) in my life about food, and reminding me that food is necessary for growth and development. This seems like an arbitrary idea to me, and it's a struggle I am going to have to live with.

Someone once told me that the brain is a muscle, and I have trained it to think a certain way. I must now learn to train it to think differently. But let me tell you something, it is the most tiring, emotional journey I have ever had to endure. It's painful, and it makes you question everything you know about yourself. How did I get here? Was I born to be like this? What's the point of everything? You begin to feel as though nothing matters.

I try put on a brave face most days. I tell people that I am still plodding along on my journey, which I am. A large part of me, however, is telling me to stop walking. It's telling me that my efforts are futile, and ignorance is bliss. Essentially, it's telling me to quit. These are the days when I feel most depressed, when it feels like the cold is never ending, and when it feels like I am falling into a deep, dark hole. All the breath is knocked out of my chest, and my breathing goes ragged, and my head hurts, and all I want to do is sleep for ten years. Or forever.

However, there is also this side: I want to have a child one day. If I am denied the right to have a child because my eating disorder has rendered me infertile, I won't be able to live. I want to live to be an actress, get married, and have a family of my own. I want to teach my baby how to walk, talk, read, laugh, and how to live life happily. I want to pour my life, love, and energy into someone. I want to live to be happy and free. I want to bake brownies with my child, and be able to eat them with her without counting the calories. I want to take her to the movies, and eat popcorn without forcing it back up, or devising ways to get rid of it. I want to bring life into this world, and in order to do that, I need to be able to look after myself. I need to build my love and strength for myself. I need to ground myself, and learn to be healthy again. Only I can repair myself. Only I can make myself new again. This is easier said than done, but maybe this is my purpose.

This is something I always need to remind myself whenever that evil voice of my eating disorder is telling me I can't do it.

I've got news for you, Ana: I can do anything.