«If you carry on like this, you'll die»

I started doing more sport during lockdown. What began as a leisure activity became more ambitious: I trained for an hour a day. As an athlete, I was used to sport, but not to the same extent. School started again and I continued to do sport. A friendship broke up in the summer. This loss really affected me and gnawed at me for months. There were often arguments with my parents at home, but I can't blame them - conflicts are part of puberty.

The nutritional counselling made everything worse. I realised even more where fats and carbohydrates were lurking and stopped eating at all.

These were turbulent months in which I began to doubt myself even more, which I was already prone to do. Even as a child, I was very self-critical. So I continued to fulfil my duties, wrote good grades, was there for friends. And felt the fear of losing myself.

My workouts became harder, the focus on my body stronger. I continued to train and ate less and less. My life was slipping away from me and this was my attempt to gain control. My parents sought help from the paediatrician, who prescribed me therapy. There I was sent for nutritional counselling, which made everything worse: now I knew even more where fats and carbohydrates were lurking. I no longer ate anything at all.

Then it happened quickly. I could no longer stand on my feet, but there was no room in the hospital. Because I was stable enough lying down, I had to go home again. Days later, when I already had a small kidney failure, I was admitted to inpatient therapy. I was hoping for a medication that would help me. I soon realised that I could do it on my own.

I went to therapy every week. There I did what I hadn't been able to do for so long: I got everything off my chest.

The realisation that I was ill came the hard way. The doctors were unequivocal: if you carry on like this, you'll die. That flipped the switch: I started eating. At the hospital, they worked with rewards: If you gained weight, you got screen time or an extra hour of visiting. That worked for me. After four weeks - it usually takes much longer - I was allowed to go home.

I attended school part-time at first and went to therapy every week. There I did what I hadn't been able to do for so long: I got everything off my chest. And I learnt strategies for dealing with my worries and fears - healthier ones than not eating any more. Before the illness, I had kept my problems to myself.

I was seen as the lucky one whose life was perfect. I was less concerned with keeping up this appearance than with being a burden to anyone and not jeopardising the harmony. Part of my recovery was listening to myself more. That was a long road.

I'm doing very well today. I enjoy life and know my limits. I can say: I don't want to - or just: Yes, I do! My therapy is complete. I no longer have an eating plan, but eat the way I used to: according to my mood and feelings.