Amy's story.

Anorexia is like you're running down a hill, and all this wind is going through your hair, and it's exciting. But all of a sudden, you're going too fast and start to spiral our of control. You fall. then you're just sitting on the ground, shocked, with all these bruises.

If you knew me in high school, you'd I never think I had any problems. I was the girl who had it all--a near-perfect GPA, the lead in the school play and an editorial position on the school newspaper. I was also involved in several clubs and activities, like Students for Environmental Action, Student Congress and yearbook. I even had a cool boyfriend--everyone in school said we were "the perfect couple."

I'm also a painter. I've won several school and state art awards. My work has been displayed in local galleries, as well as the Art Institute of Chicago. I've even sold some of my paintings for hundreds of dollars.

My friends saw me as a stable, happy-go-lucky girl--the one everyone went to for help with their problems. But I hardly ever talked to my friends about my problems, mainly because I didn't have any--or at least none I could admit.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to do everything under the sun--and be the best at it. If I got a C, I'd be really hard on myself, much harder than my parents were on me. But by fall 2000--the first semester of my senior year--I was totally exhausted and burnt out. In addition to keeping up my GPA and extracurricular activities, I was under a tight deadline to get out numerous art school applications and put together a portfolio of my paintings. My parents made it pretty clear they wanted me to get a scholarship, since paying for college would be a challenge.

Plus, things weren't so great at home. I'd always had a terrible relationship with my dad. I felt like he ignored me most of the time. He could also be pretty scary. lie screamed at me for little things, like leaving crumbs on the kitchen counter after making a snack. I'd tell him when he hurt my feelings, but he'd just walk away and slam the door. On top of it all, he and my mom were fighting a lot, too.

But the thing is, I didn't want to burden my friends with my family problems because most of their parents are divorced. I felt lame complaining about my bickering parents--at least they were still together.

It was hard to be at school and even harder to be at home. As a result, I began eating less. I'd be too upset to eat at home because my parents were always bickering at the dinning room table. I didn't eat much outside the house either because I was rushing around all the time. Starving myself wasn't my actual goal at first--just more of a response to everything going on in my life. But I started losing weight.

I didn't even realize I was shedding pounds until my friends and family began telling me how great I looked. Even my dad complimented me, which felt so good. So I made a conscious effort to keep my weight down by only eating low-fat foods. Soon, my clothes got even looser. Then I became vegetarian, also cutting out all foods with chemicals and preservatives. I lost even more. I felt I had finally found something I could completely control--my weight. I could restrict what I ate, how much I ate and when I ate. Even though my life felt crazy, I could do this one thing very well and, initially, I got a high from this accomplishment. I weighed myself all the time. Gaining or losing a single pound determined my mood for the whole day.

For a month or so, everyone kept complimenting me. But before long, my clothes were like sacks. By spring, leans that fit perfectly in the fall were hanging off my hips. My mother told me I looked too skinny and that she was worried about how much weight I had lost. My friends said the same thing.

But, rather than admitting there was a problem, I lied. I told everyone--my family, my friends, even my boyfriend--that I'd lost weight because of this winter flu I couldn't shake. Of course, the reason I was sick was because I hadn't eaten much in four months. But I assured everyone I was fine. I made a special effort to eat snacks around friends and family, pretending it was no big deal. Then I'd eat nothing else for the rest of the day.

Looking back, I can't believe I was such a liar. I'd always been a terrible liar, never able to keep a straight face. But I quickly became a master of deception because I didn't want to give up my food restrictions. That's the only thing I felt I could count on.

What's weird is that I grew up totally aware of the dangers of anorexia. My mom taught me all the warning signs of eating disorders and how important it is to have a good body image. I read magazine articles and saw TV shows about eating disorders. I remember watching a movie in health class about the dangers of anorexia. I even hung warning posters around school during Eating Disorder Awareness Week. But I never connected my own weight loss to anorexia. Denial, of course, is a symptom of the disease.

By second semester of my senior year, I had totally stopped listening to my body's signals. I ignored my grumbling belly and hunger pangs. I was exhausted from not having enough nutrients in my body. I barely had enough energy to dance (I love to dance) or do my artwork. It all just felt like it took too much effort. I was always freezing cold because my body lacked the necessary fat to keep me warm. People thought I wore heavy layers to hide my body, but it was mostly because I was just so darn cold!

I knew the calorie count of practically everything, and would typically only have an apple and some water for each meal. A voice in my head kept telling me the less food I let touch my lips, the more stable and safe I would be.

But my body was far from safe. My friends and family kept telling me I was too skinny, but no one could force me to eat. And, to be honest, it made me feel powerful that I could ignore their pleas and starve myself.

It got to a point that I couldn't even pretend to be happy anymore. While I was rehearsing for the school play, I got really sick and had to see a doctor. Both he and the nurses, told me I was too thin, but I lied and told them I was going to gain the weight back. "Not a problem," I told them.

Having an eating disorder is so lonely--losing weight is the only thing that really matters. I forgot all about my passions and interests, friends and family. All I had was the ability to make myself sicker.

Still, I scored a scholarship to the Savannah College of Art and Design and went despite my parents' concerns about my health. By this time, I was only 90-some pounds. Even as my bones poked out from under my skin, I could not admit to anyone--including myself--how incredibly sick I was. I couldn't concentrate on lectures. I couldn't remember a thing I had read moments after reading it. Just climbing a set of stairs made my heart race. I was always exhausted. I didn't even want to paint--the reason I had worked so hard to attend Savannah in the first place.

I cried myself to sleep each night, wanting to get better but knowing I was in way over my head. When I would finally doze off, I believed there was a chance I wouldn't wake up in the morning.

One afternoon, while riding the local bus in Savannah, a stranger told me I'd better start taking care of myself. That was the moment I totally broke down. I knew I needed help. I told my parents to come get me. I felt like the ultimate failure.

As I packed, I found a photo of myself at age 15, before the disorder. I was taking classes at an art institute in Chicago, and I was with two friends in the picture. I was covered in paint, and I was glowing because I was so happy--I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. I suddenly realized how unfamiliar those feelings of joy had become to me. I wanted them back. I wanted to live.

My parents brought me home and took me to The Renfrew Center in Philadelphia, a national institute dedicated to educating and treating people with eating disorders and depression. The morning I left for Renfrew, I stood shaking in the shower. I made a bargain with God. I promised to love life again if he would help me get through this.

Those first days at the center were incredibly painful. I had spent so much time lying to myself and everyone else. Then, all of a sudden, I was forced to be honest. I had to see a therapist every other day and open up about my sickness for the first time. I knew I had to be truthful because I had reached a point where I could really understand how bad off I was. I wanted to change.

I spent a lot of time in group therapy, too. I'd talk about how lonely and upsetting the past year had been. Confiding in the other patients helped me begin to heal. It was like wed known each other forever. We'd all been through so many of the same experiences. It was like having a bunch of sisters who unconditionally loved me. I finally felt comfortable asking for help. I could say, "I'm having a rough day. Could you help me?" and these girls would hug me without any questions.

At Renfrew, we were forced to finish everything on our plates. We were weighed every morning to make sure we were gaining weight. If not, we were switched to a meal plan with even more food. I wanted to eat, but I couldn't. My body wasn't used to eating, and it was incredibly difficult. Food came back up my throat right after I swallowed.

My meal plan was increased again and again until I was up to 4,000 calories a day. The food shocked my system. I had no idea how much internal damage I had done to my body. All of my organs--heart, brain, liver--were starving.

But I forced myself to eat and, gradually, was able to keep food down. I kept at it and, much to my surprise, I felt better once my body accepted the food. I smiled for the first time in a year and even joked with the other girls. I remembered what joy felt like.

Patients' families were required to get counseling, too. It was time for my family to deal with our issues. After a particularly rough therapy session, my father said to me, "You don't have to be sick for me to notice you," and asked me to forgive him. He was crying, and I realized I wanted to forgive him. That was huge. I also realized that, in many ways, my anorexia was an attempt to find out if my family, friends and boyfriend would still love me even if I weren't perfect. As it turns out, starving myself was a calculated way for me to get attention without asking for it.

After three weeks at Renfrew (the average stay), I returned home. I now have my own nutritionist and a meal plan I follow to make sure my weight stays stable. Once a week, I go to both a family therapist and my own therapist. Eating still isn't easy, especially since my body was so messed up that I had to eat tons of food to gain even a few pounds. But it helps that I stay in close touch with my friends from the center, and we exchange letters of inspiration.

It's around Christmas now, and I've been in recovery for three months. I know I have a long way to go. Anorexia doesn't just go away. That's why experts refer to "recovery" rather than a "cure." The truth is, 40 percent of anorexics relapse within four years.

I got so used to seeing my body a certain way that sometimes I get anxious about gaining weight. But I'm trying to change the way I look at the added pounds. Rather than thinking, "I'm gaining weight," or getting fat," I think "I deserve to take up space and make a place for myself."

Physically, I'm pretty lucky. My vital signs are good. I sleep soundly and feel calm. However, I do worry that I have done permanent damage to my body. My menstrual cycle stopped during my weight loss. I just got it back but the doctors don't know if I'll be able to have kids. I really want children, so not having them is a sad and scary thought.

I'm taking small steps toward my future. I'm attending Michigan State University next semester rather than going back to Savannah. I don't want any major changes in my life while I'm trying to get healthier. But, I do hope to eventually transfer back into an art school. At Renfrew, I was painting again, mostly as a form of therapy. And now that I am eating, my energy is back, as well as my desire to create.

Not all of my old high school friends stuck by me, but my closest friends have. They are thrilled I'm in treatment. I feel terrible for all the lies and for shutting them out. As for my boyfriend, he supported me even at my worst, and I consider him my best friend.

My dad and I are still working on our relationship. He deals with his own issues in therapy, and it helps him better relate to me. We hang out at coffee shops, museums or CD stores. I never thought I'd say this, but I enjoy spending time with him. We make time daily to share our concerns.

So far, my life has not turned out at all as I expected. But I'm tons stronger than I thought I was. And I know it's OK, even necessary, to ask for help when you're struggling. So many girls with eating disorders are caretakers, pretending things are fine in their own lives. But if you are suffering, you have to admit things aren't fine. You owe it to yourself to be honest and to be your best.

RELATED ARTICLE: A QUICK GUIDE TO EATING DISORDERS

ANOREXIA NERVOSA 

Anorexia nervosa is a potentially deadly eating disorder. The sufferer intentionally starves herself, and is unwilling or unable to keep a healthy weight for her size, height, body type and activity level. She has an intense need for control and is scared of gaining weight even when extremely underweight.

BULIMIA NERVOSA 

The bulimic consumes large amounts of food in short periods of time--sometimes, thousands of calories at one sitting--and then forces herself to purge by throwing up, exercising or using laxatives. After bingeing and purging, a bulimic feels depressed or guilty. Like the anorexic, she is intensely fearful of being fat. Binge-and-purge cycles damage the digestive system and affect major internal organs, like the heart, which can cause death.

COMPULSIVE OVEREATING 

The compulsive overeater, usually overweight, eats to excess even when not hungry, but doesn't purge food. The overeater eats throughout the day, not just during binges. Health concerns, similar to people with clinical obesity, include diabetes.

WAYS TO HELP A FRIEND YOU THINK MIGHT HAVE AN EATING DISORDER

1 Learn as much as you can about eating disorders before confronting her.

2 Tell her you are concerned about her and suspect she might have an eating disorder. Offer specific observations like, "I heard you throwing up in a bathroom stall twice last week."

3 Suggest she be evaluated by an expert. It's doubtful she'll be receptive but Important that you tell her.

4 Hand her a list of resources: The Renfrew Center, www.renfrew.org; National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders, www.anad.org; National Eating Disorders Association, www.edap.org Anorexia and Related Eating Disorders Inc., www.anred.com; Academy for Eating Disorders, www.aedweb.org.

5 If she gets angry and refuses to talk about it, don't push her. End the conversation immediately.

6 Tell a professional (nurse, guidance counselor, coach, teacher) that you suspect your friend has an eating disorder.

7 Realize you've done what you can. You can't force help on someone who doesn't want it.

8 Also realize telling your friend you're worried, and that you love and support her, definitely matters!

Anorexia nervosa is an eating disorder that involves self-imposed weight loss, most often affecting girls. it is estimated that eight million Americans suffer from anorexia, 88 percent young women, some as young as 5. Girls who suffer from anorexia use food and weight to deal with emotional problems. No matter how thin the anorexic gets, she sees herself as fat and stops at nothing to get thinner.

This is the story of one of those young women, 18-year-old Amy of East Lansing, Mich., who wants to share her experience in hopes of warning girls about the dangers of anorexia and convincing girls who suffer from eating disorders to get help.

I did this painting when things were really bad. You'd think anyone who created a picture like this would realize she had some issues with her body and food! But, at the time, that never occurred to me. Looking back, I can see this painting has to do with body image, perfection and the feeling of loneliness. Anorexia makes the girl in this painting feel isolated--all alone with her awful thoughts and feelings about herself and her body. It's really hard to look at this. It makes me feel sad for that person. Especially since that person was me.

This is a pillar candle. I drew it in an art therapy class at Renfrew. We had to draw a toot we could use to deal with strong emotions, like fear and doubt. Some people drew faucets they could turn an and off when the pressure got to be too much. Other girls drew roller coasters. I drew this candle because I want to be able to light my way and burn away my fears. The warmness has a calming effect on me when I am anxious. It might sound hokey, but drawing has been really helpful for me--not only for dealing with emolions but in helping me get back into my artwork again.