It started slowly. Benignly. With a weigh-in here. An extra glance at the mirror there. But I didn’t give “it” much thought. I was 15, after all. Obsessing over my appearance was—or, at the very least, should have been—normal. But my fascination with, and phobia of, fat was anything but.

It controlled me, taunting me and haunting me. It dictated my dress—and fashion sense—and it told me what I should, could, and would eat and when. I spent my summer in hoodies, dining on baby food and black coffee. It also consumed my thoughts. I was obsessed with numbers: on the scale and in my mind. With my weight, my waist, calories, and pant size. But that’s because I was sick. I was struggling with body dysmorphic disorder, or BDD.

Of course, I didn’t know it—not at the time. As I mentioned, I was young. Very young. Being self-conscious seemed par for the teenage course. Plus, I didn’t know any better. I wasn’t seeing a therapist, psychiatrist, or other mental health professional. There was no one to diagnose me. There was no one there to tell me this wasn’t okay. But by my senior year, I knew something was wrong.

I found a licensed counselor—to speak to about my mood, not food (or my weight). I spilled my (proverbial) guts weekly, talking ad nauseum. Without conviction or restraint. And I learned I was struggling with depression. I was one of two million teens. But before long, it became apparent that there was more. My mental health issues were deeper and darker than I was willing to admit, and in 2004, I was diagnosed with body dysmorphic disorder. Well, BDD and EDNOS, or eating disorder not otherwise specified.

Here’s what I learned from my experience, and what I want others living with this condition to know.

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