It sounds like your family situation has been rough. I just wanted to wish you all the best in recovery. Recovery seems so hard, but I like to think it's possible. And I know that when we reach it, it will be worth it in the end.

As for my story, I don't share it in its entirety often. I've been thinking about posting it since last night when I initially saw this thread, but kept deciding not to. I'm a pretty closed off person. I will often discuss my feelings here, but I seldom discuss them elsewhere. And I very seldom discuss my past at all. As a result, I guess, my past seems like it was another lifetime ago...

In my case, it probably started before I was born. Seems strange to say that, but I'd wager that it's true. My parents came here from Michigan. My dad was wanted in Michigan, I suppose that's part of why they left. That and they had dreams of doing something more. They were heading for California, their car broke down when they stopped to visit relatives in NC. That story has probably been told a hundred times - just switch NC with any other state. It seems everyone has dreams of heading west to California. With no money, they quickly fell into poverty. Dad worked several jobs. Sisters were born. And then dad's past caught up with him. Shortly thereafter, I was born.

I never met my father. I suppose that's why I shrug nonchalantly when people 'apologize' (why do people apologize regarding deaths? That will never make sense to me) for what happened. Of course, as a psych major, I'm VERY aware that the lack of a father did affect me. I only wish everyone else realized it. I can't count the number of times I've heard You can't miss what you never had. Which is a dang shame. Because when it comes to parents. Yeah. You can. Anyway. He was sent back to Michigan, where he was in prison for some time. My mom always tells me that the only time he met me, he had to hold me with cuffs over his wrists. Eventually, probation was granted. Long story short, he came here, and committed suicide.

I don't seek pity over it. Things happen. It wasn't long before my mother met my step father. They married and had a son, my brother. Since this man was the only 'father' I ever knew, for some time, I actually believed he was my dad. Until my sisters - very callously - informed me that he wasn't. As a kid, I took to a stuffed giraffe. That thing and I were inseparable. Looking back, I wonder if my lack of a father had something to do with my attachment to that smelly thing. My step dad was a truck driver, so he was seldom home. And as it would turn out, he had a 'second family' in Michigan. So, he didn't last long, either.

After him, came the man that would live with us for some eight years. I was always a quiet kid. My mom says that I was an 'easy baby', and despite many delays, I was an 'easy kid', too. I pretty much kept to myself. So, in many ways, I escaped the blunt of the abuse, I think. Emotional abuse scars just as badly, though. My mom's boyfriend was physically abusive to my mother, my eldest sister, and my brother. And emotionally abusive to all of us. I don't remember him ever hitting me, but I remember fearing that he would. And to this day, some of his words echo in my head.

We never liked the man. I remember, even at eight or nine years old, resenting my mother for letting him stay. Of course, I now realize that when one is in an abusive relationship, it can seem hard to get out. But nevertheless, to this day, I harbor some of those feelings. My mom was, also, an alcoholic. She was never the angry kind. She was the 'happy' kind. It didn't make it any easier to grow up around, I don't think. Because between the jerk of a man and my mother always drunk, I don't think I ever truly saw what an adult is supposed to act like. To this day, my mom drinks religiously.

In elementary school, I maintained straight A's for the most part. I remembering crying when I got my first C. I had few friends. It's not that I didn't try, most were just put off by me. I became the butt of jokes. I was 'weird' or 'strange'. I had a few friends that I'd trade Pokemon cards with. That was enough, I guess. Upon entry to middle school, I began to slip. That was the onset of my depression.

In middle school, I was the butt of even more jokes. I learned fast that not having friends in middle school made you a social piranha. I did make one. She, however, would quickly become a bully, as well. I withdrew into myself during middle school. I didn't know how to tell anyone what she was doing, and when I tried, no one would listen, anyway. She would manipulate me so easily, though, that I'm ashamed to admit it. She'd threaten to hurt herself just to get me to do as she wanted. She held me at knife point once. She spread rumors - telling everyone that I hit her. Yeah. Me, who hates confrontation, hit her. She was actually the one hitting me, but I kept it bottled in until I began self harming in my 7th grade year.

That was, also, the year that the man who my mom had been living with hurt someone. I was a witness to the crime, and to this day see it in my head sometimes. He was arrested, and she finally dumped him. I have mixed feelings. Because what if it had been one of us? Or her? And she waited that long. Depression hit me hard. I became explosive toward my family. I guess, in many ways, I was just angry that they weren't seeing the signs. Even now, when I try to tell them, my sister will say she seemed so sweet. Yeah. They always do.

In eight grade, I finally got rid of her and moved onto another 'clique'. Shame that the school year was almost over, and high school was about to begin. That was the same year I was taken advantage of. Won't go into too much detail. The whole school heard a distorted version of the story, though. I never bothered to correct them. Perhaps I should have. But you know what they say about hindsight.

High school came. I never really found my place in high school, either. Little fish in a big pond didn't even begin to explain me. I picked up smoking. I picked up binge drinking. I became... essentially the kid everyone's parents warn them about. I got in a fight, which I won't go into much detail about, and was sent to an alternative school. I wasn't the one to hit first, but my record contained the self harm, the depression, etc. So, of course, I was the one considered 'mentally unfit' for regular school. Alternative school did not fit me. I did not fit in there. That's when depression really hit. Because I had already felt as though I didn't fit in anywhere, now I felt even more lost. I was surrounded by juvenile delinquents and the worst thing I had ever done was finish a 6 pack to myself. Transportation, also, became impossible. I pretended to be adjusted. For my family's sake. But soon, that all fell apart. My math teacher treated the entire class like dirt. That's putting it nicely. And one day, because of her, I came home and just lost it.

Soon, I dropped out. It all seemed pointless. We were at least lower middle class by this point, though. I had grown up in poverty, but without that man around, my mom was able to find her own. She was maintaining a well paying job with a card company. That company went bankrupt. And before we knew it... life goes full circle. We were in poverty again. I was attacked by dogs that same year. Everything as I knew it was falling apart. I had grown comfortable in our house, I'd grown comfortable with my life. I was still depressed, but less so. We had to leave that house. We ended up moving back into a trailer. Not even a nice trailer. But one of those trailers that no one wants to live in.

I think the major defining point was when my dog passed away. She was pretty much one of the only two close friends I had left. She and my other dog were the thin strings I was hanging off. After she passed, I lost it. I started binge eating. I mean, I would literally binge - not just overeat. I'd hoard food in my room and at night, I'd eat it all and not realize I'd done it until I was left to clean up the mess. Depression became unbearable.

We did what we could to make money. Eventually, my siblings all got sick of it. My sisters married. They got out. My brother started showing early symptoms of bipolar disorder. My mother would complain about him. Deep down, I sympathised with him. His explosive anger was hard to deal with, though. It always ended in him crying in his room, but the anger was scary. In any case, he eventually got out, too. Leaving me... hauntingly alone. I finished my education, am current in college, but I feel abandoned, almost. I feel like I'm my hamster... on a wheel. Except, this wheel isn't even spinning. At least hamsters have a spinning wheel when they're going nowhere. My wheel is broken, so it won't even spin.

My life spun out of control, and soon, I found myself giving up binging. Except then, I wasn't eating at all. Or, rather, relatively small amounts when I did. I was convinced that I could do this forever. Live off coffee and diet coke. Of course, deep down, I knew I couldn't. But it kept the depression at bay for a short while. Until it all came crashing down and I wound up more depressed than I'd ever been before. The doctors mislabel me, I think. Because I wasn't honest with them. I inadvertently lied. Besides, I'm too poor to afford the medication they tried to put me on, anyway.

It used to be that I felt relatively comfortable socially on the internet. Now, on some spaces of the web, I feel less so than in real life because of cyberbullies I had to deal with. They essentially ruined my image to friends (both real life friends and online friends). They outed me as transgender. They lied about me, distorted my words. And now, there are exactly two places I feel comfortable online: Here and another psychology forum.

Anyway. The past year has probably been the hardest year of my life. I have been through a lot, clearly. But nothing - I mean it nothing - compares to the misery (I actually want to use an h word, use your imagination) that is an eating disorder. This is literally a physical, mental, emotional, psychological nightmare. Finding help has been tough. I've tried. A lot of places push me away (no insurance) or put me off as long as they can (my previous therapist did a visit ever 2 months. yes months). I was told I can go into crisis at that place. But for someone as deep as I am, that's like a slap in the face. So, since February, I've been doing my best to get by between visits to a therapist. I've had a few appointments, most of them, they call me last minute to cancel.

I'm trying to focus on college, but it isn't easy. My mind bounces between obsessing about the eating, to worrying about all the people I've pushed away, to thinking about how lonely I am, back to the eating. I admit that I've turned to binge drinking again. And I confess that I often take Zzquil or pain killers just to get a decent night's sleep. I made an attempt last autumn. I don't speak of it often, most people don't even know. I suspect that's part of why my liver enzymes came back so high when I was at the hospital for stomach pains. They diagnosed me with gallbladder disease. That misdiagnosis is common when you don't fit the... typical image people have of someone with an eating disorder. Although, they did see gallstones that were worrying in the ultrasound, the doctor said none of them explained why my stomach would be hurting so much. Deep down, I knew why, but was afraid to say. Afraid of not being taken seriously, because no one has to date. Not even my old therapist.

And that's it, I suppose. I left some things out. I tend to do that. Memory comes and goes, to be honest. Mine was long, too. I would wager a lot of ours will be, though.

s to everyone.