Today’s guest blogger is Kayla (know as @discoveringkayla on Instagram)! Her story coincides with today’s theme: bullying and its relation to triggering eating disorders. 

I had always been the odd one out. I was a bit different than the other kids, and I didn’t make many friends. No one liked me very much, and I was often singled out and bullied. I never knew what it was like to be accepted, and that became normal. I was in fourth grade when I began thinking something was wrong with me. I was terrified to wear short sleeves because I worried they made me look overweight and disgusting. I was constantly trying to rid myself of physical flaws, drawing blood at times.

I began hitting myself from anger without even realizing it was wrong. I truly believed it was normal for people to inflict pain on themselves when they were upset. It would be years before I would begin to understand that it wasn’t okay—it wasn’t healthy.

The bullying was on and off from elementary throughout high school. My family decided to switch to homeschooling and switch churches at the beginning of middle school. I never felt accepted at my new church, as it was apparent that no one truly accepted me. Once, my friend told a group of people she couldn’t hang out with them because she had already made plans with me, and they flat out asked why she would want to hang out with me.

After a couple years at that church, my dad’s work decided to transfer him back to California (where we lived until I was seven, before we moved to Arizona). As much as I didn’t feel accepted in Arizona, I still thought of it as home, and the thought of moving was a heavy weight for me. I made a series of poor choices that summer before moving which ended up with one guy toying with my feelings until he got sick of me and dropped me. Another guy convinced me to send him dirty pictures, and when I did, he proceeded to call me a slut. The blame does not rest solely on his shoulders. He should not have objectified me, and I should not have succumbed to it; I wanted to be wanted, and I lost myself in that desire.

In the months that followed moving, a couple more guys toyed with my feelings and emotions. I regret ever allowing them to, but at the time, it seemed to solidify the idea that something was wrong with me. I started cutting. Shortly after, the kids at my new church began bullying me, and I would constantly leave youth group in tears, believing I was a mistake. There was a point when they wouldn’t even look at me; they would find new ways to call me stupid. I truly believe they didn’t know it was wrong, and the leaders refused to tell them. I started down the terrifying road of restricting and purging. The cycle of eating, purging, cutting, restricting began.

After awhile, I sought help, with no luck. The leaders at church did not take me seriously; instead, they brushed it off, and I didn’t stick up for myself. I started treating my eating disorder, self harm, and depression as though they were no big deal.

My dad approached the pastor of the church after a year and half of on and off bullying. I started attending another church prior to that because I couldn’t handle it. The pastor openly refused to acknowledge the problem. He insisted the bullying was all in my head simply so he could ignore it without a guilty conscious. He asked me and my family to leave, saying that if we left so would the problem. Brilliant logic, huh? I spent countless nights sobbing. I blamed myself; I was disgusted by myself.

After summer camp at my new church (that church, which I’m currently still attending, was undeniably a God-sent blessing), a string snapped. I was cutting nearly every night. I stopped eating and started purging and over exercising. I dropped X pounds in a matter of a few months, and people were getting worried. My mom confronted me about my weight loss and self harm, which ended in a disastrous scene. I refused to acknowledge I had any problems.

My church’s winter camp rolled around and with the help of two dear people on my support team, I chose recovery. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the story ended there? I chose recovery, but I was not committed to it. Two weeks later, I was poorly assessed by a counselor and was sent to a psych hospital on a seventy-two hour hold for suicide watch. After I was discharged, I spiraled downhill. Losing another X pounds within two months; people were terrified. Every morning as soon as my family woke up they would check to see if I was still breathing. My heart was giving out, and I was clueless. I was lost in the fantasy of anorexia.

I denied I had a problem for years until I was finally sent to a treatment center. I was there for a month (it would have been longer, but my insurance pulled me out too soon). I started intensive outpatient treatment (IOP) where I stayed two and a half months. In all honesty, IOP did not help very much at all, but the girls I met there will be in my heart for a long time. God has worked in truly incredible ways, and I cannot ignore that.

In the months between discharging from IOP and now, I have had many ups and downs. I’ve had my share of lapses and relapses, one resulting in a suicide attempt. I still find myself getting discouraged, but I know God is good. I’m so much farther than I ever was last year. It’s almost been a year since I was sent inpatient, and I am incredibly blessed. I say that a lot, but it is so true.

Find more of Kayla over on her Instagram and on her own blog: www.discoverkayla.wordpress.com.