The worst thing about being hungry all the time is how angry you get. Now, I jokingly refer to that feeling as “hongry,” hunger and anger combined, like when you miss lunch because you were rushing between classes and going to work. But back then, back when I placed myself on a far-too-low-calorie diet, being hongry was just part of my life.

I know exactly why I did it to myself. It wasn’t simply to be thin. Something bad happened to me while I was in high school and it changed my life.

Before, I was one of those “normal” girls, the ones who laughed and sneered when their friends irrationally worried about losing ten pounds. I was happy, not perfectly skinny, but happy. I had breasts and an ass the boys admired—something my thinner friends envied. I took ballet, snowboarded throughout the winter, played soccer and lacrosse, and ran track. After two-hour long sports practices I would come home and happily make myself a turkey sandwich on a bagel; my body worked hard and I knew it needed some fuel.

But then everything changed, and I started to completely ignore my rumbling stomach and weak knees. No more bagel sandwiches for me. In fact, no more bread, cheese, ice cream, nuts, pizza, chips…the list went on and on. I was still playing sports, running and snowboarding but doing so without a nutritious diet. Really, without any diet at all.

I restricted what I ate because it was the only thing I could restrict. I already had great grades, a secure home life, a large circle of friends, and even a loving boyfriend—taking it out on my body was the final option. I felt by being able to make it do what I wanted, I was overcoming the one thing I couldn’t have controlled.

For every pound lost, every bone that showed more, a sense of accomplishment sparked a false sense of happiness. “Yes,” I would think, “two pounds less. This is a good day. Maybe I can even have dinner.” But on the bad days, the days when I didn’t feel in control—those were the worst days of all.

I was miserable, but it was more devastating than that. I would scream into my pillow, drench it with tears. Why? Because I would slip-up, occasionally. Doing things like eating a tiny bowl of cereal, with milk no less, not on my allotted food list for the day. It was like the end of the world. What was worse was that I didn’t know who I was anymore and couldn’t feel emotion. I was numb.

I gave my boyfriend an ulcer during this time. I wasn’t just controlling myself anymore; I was controlling people around me. That was horrific. I knew how depressed I was, how it felt to be alienated from people around me. When family friends began to make comments to my parents who were already grief stricken by my behavior, and when my best friend told me I looked “disgusting,” it wasn’t about me anymore. I never wanted to hurt anyone else, just myself.

Things gradually got better as I came to terms with the difference between control and closure. I finally found closure to the demons I was fighting and with that came a newfound happiness with myself, something I hadn’t truly felt since the ordeal began.

UB sophomore Darci Smith writes a personal essay for this issue in which she explores the debilitating confines of a life plagued by anorexia. A battle that retreats, but never really goes away.