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One of my earliest memories is the chatter of relatives gathered at my sixth birthday party. I don't remember much about the decorations, party favors or the cake with six candles. But I remember hearing my aunts and uncles say, "Look—what a cute, chubby little thing—look at those round cheeks!" I didn't remember hearing the affection in their voices, only the words.

That day, that memory, stayed etched in my mind throughout my teen years. When I looked in the full-length mirror, I didn't see a healthy average-size girl with dancing green eyes. All I saw reflected back were thick thighs, large hips and a round face. And even though my parents were loving and caring, I couldn't believe they could really love someone who looked like me. Even though I was a Christian, I felt unworthy to receive even God's love.

During high school, I was obsessed with dieting. Every weekend, I scoured the bookstore at the mall for a new diet book. One week it was a liquid protein fast, which worked quite well until I fainted at my part-time job. Another time I tried to eat nothing but pineapple for an entire week, but my mouth started developing blisters from the acid. I tried expensive diet supplements at the health food store, but didn't lose a pound. With each new diet, I remembered less and less what it was like to just eat when I was hungry. By the time I'd started college, eating had become a test of how long I could go without messing up my diet. Every plate of food was a mountain of calories that would immediately apply itself to my thighs.

I remember an evening when hunger finally overwhelmed me. It was during winter vacation and I was home from college. I'd been on a three-day fast of nothing but fruit juice. I was in my room, under my covers, sobbing.

"Why do I have to go through this?" I cried, drowning in self-pity. My hurt suddenly turned into frustration and anger. I shoved off the blankets and sneaked quietly into the dark kitchen. I opened the freezer and found a quart of chocolate chip ice cream. After I polished off the final spoonful, I found a bag of cheese puffs and downed every last one. After emptying a plate of cold fried chicken, I staggered back to bed, feeling sick enough to vomit. Laying in the dark, I looked up at the sliver of light that the streetlight cast on the ceiling. "I'm sure I just ate a million calories. I am so weak. Tomorrow I will eat nothing all day," I pledged while I pressed my hands against my aching and bloated stomach.

A horrible cycle had begun that night—a cycle I managed to hide from my family. I would starve myself for as many days as I could, filling up on apples one day, or plain lettuce the next. Then when I could no longer take the hunger, I would eat in an uncontrollable fit. With every passing day, I grew more obsessed with my eating habits. My weight fluctuated wildly, depending on how long I could maintain starvation before binging.

My obsession over dieting led me to enroll in a nutrition course at the Christian college I attended. The first day the instructor asked all of the students to write down everything they'd eaten in the past 24 hours. Within 15 minutes most of the class had completed the assignment, while I sat and pondered a blank sheet of paper. In fact, I had been on a cereal diet that week, eating 1/2 cup of dry cornflakes at each meal. Should I be truthful or simply make up something that was more normal? But the sad fact was, I had long forgotten what it meant to eat normally. I scribbled down my intake of cornflakes and handed the professor the paper.

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