I didn’t own a mirror in my first apartment.

It wasn’t some sort of personal political statement—it was just never a priority for me. I was 17 and had just moved away from home in Botswana to Cape Town, South Africa. I was living alone for the first time in my life. I had to skimp on a few things, and my own reflection was one of them.

Looking back I realize choices like those were a symptom of the neutrality I had towards my appearance at the time.

Like many other people, I liked to shop, dress up, and feel good about the way I looked. I loved my body, but I also took care not to fuss over it too much. I knew it was the only body I had, and that I had to be good to it for it to be good to me.

Part of this attitude may have come from the fact that I never had to practice restraint growing up. I ate what I wanted, when I wanted. I genuinely enjoyed the taste of unprocessed carbohydrates, fruits, vegetables and just about any food that was considered to be good for your body. Food was a pleasure, but one that I didn’t dwell on too much.

I gained more than 30 pounds within my first six months in Cape Town.

My apartment block was approximately two minutes away from a huge shopping mall with an equally huge food court. Finding myself drowning in school with little time for anything else (including using my gym membership or preparing wholesome meals), I fell into a less-than-healthy lifestyle. The flippancy with which I had always approached body issues soon gave way to concern. The ridges formed by rib against skin vanished under soft flesh, and silvery stretch marks began to appear on my growing thighs. My face became so round that I barely recognized myself.

This is when I really became aware of my body. Before, I hadn’t needed a mirror to see my reflection every day because I knew I existed in a way that was acceptable to most people, and therefore to myself. Now, I wasn’t sure my new body would be well received.

When I went home for a short vacation after my first semester, I experienced a lot of taunting from family and friends. I dreaded going out, facing the wide-eyed amusement and sting of comments on how big I was becoming, how I had “lost” my “lovely figure,” and how I should try some miraculous diet and exercise regimen they had heard about from a friend of a friend. Suddenly, my body became a source of shame. I often retreated to the safety of my bedroom, where I agonized over every extra inch and poured over research about the smallest number of calories I needed per day to survive. I read testimonies on the internet from people who had achieved apocalyptic results from one extreme diet after the other.

Now struggling in a body I had come to hate, food had all my attention, and my attitude around eating and exercising shifted from apathy to an unhealthy obsession. I spent exorbitant sums of money on healthy food options, I used my gym membership more often, and every couple of days I would step on the scale, always disappointed at what I felt was a measly reduction compared to the amount of effort I was putting in. And that’s when I would fall off the wagon. With every loss not being what I hoped it would be, my head rang with panic, and only junk food could shut the noise out.

My yo-yo dieting continued this way for another year, until one day while walking home from my part-time job as a boutique sales assistant, I walked into a liquor store.

I had never been much of a drinker; at that point I’d only gotten drunk twice in my entire life. Both times made had me feel like I had no control over my own body, which I didn’t like. But on that day, I walked in, and with the help of a wine section sales assistant, I chose a bottle of white wine. When I got home, I got into bed with my laptop, fired up a movie, and drank all of the wine straight from the bottle. I passed out soon after and woke up the next day with a blurry recollection of my evening, a tongue that felt like sandpaper, and a head that weighed a ton. I also wasn’t hungry for anything—uncharacteristic for a religious breakfast eater such as myself.

I started to have nights like that more often—two or three times a week I would buy a bottle of wine (and sometimes two), drink until I couldn’t stay awake any longer, and wake up feeling sick, but completely devoid of an appetite. Unlike many people who crave greasy food when they’re hungover, I barely felt hungry after drinking. I started to drink alcohol on outings with friends, too. On lunch dates, when my friends ordered towering burgers with cheesy drool and creamy bowls of pasta, I’d nibble on the bread basket or a small portion of fries and drink cocktails the entire time.

By that point, I already knew exactly what I was doing, I just never wanted to admit it to myself: I was consciously using liquor and its resultant hangover effects to stave off hunger.

Before long, I was losing more and more weight. Every morning when I looked in the mirror, I felt like my “old body” was making its way back. And even on days when I had a particularly bad hangover—the room and everything in it slanting from how dizzy I was, throwing up bile while my quivering hands clutched the sides of my toilet seat—I truly felt like I was in control.

But this wasn’t under control.

I was drinking two or three times a week, more than I ever had in my life, and there was nothing moderate about my consumption. A typical drinking night would involve buying a bottle of wine after work, drinking it in its entirety, popping into a bar in my neighborhood for a couple of drink specials, and then heading home significantly wasted. The day after drinking I was often struck by a sudden, hulking sadness, which I convinced myself was a small price to pay for the body I wanted back more than anything.

My oblivious friends and family raved over my increasingly svelte figure. To them, there wasn’t anything concerning about my weight loss. I didn’t compulsively talk about food or diets or exercise, and I hadn’t lost so much weight at this point that it was considered alarming. On several occasions, like after boozy nights out, I would happily indulge with friends in chicken and waffles from our favorite 24-hour restaurant or order from a fast food joint without even thinking about it.

No one suspected that I had an eating disorder, including me.

In my head I wasn’t really starving myself—I was merely suspending hunger for another day or more. Even when my throat felt like a raw, open wound from all the hungover vomiting, I reminded myself that I hadn’t actually stuck my own finger into my mouth to induce vomiting the way someone with an “actual eating disorder” would. When I moved back home, my parents began expressing concern over how often I was drinking. We were getting into arguments over it, so my mother suggested I see a therapist for a more neutral perspective on my behavior. Tired of the fights, and confident that I would be acquitted of my suspected psychosis, I yielded.

The morning of my first appointment, I nervously chewed the skin off my lip in a taxi and flipped through pictures on my phone. When I came to pictures from my 21st birthday, I was startled. I had gone on a three-day binge, during which I survived on very little outside of liquor. I couldn’t believe I was looking at myself in the pictures. I was down another jean size at that point, as small as I had been in my early teens. I looked unwell, and I realized then that this wasn’t the healthiest version of myself, either.

Something changed after that. I began to feel fearful for my health for the first time, and it took no convincing on my therapist’s part to get me to open up about what was going on.

That first session felt like a breakthrough. My therapist let me do a lot of the talking, only stopping me to ask questions which, among other things, prompted me to explore what may have been triggering my bingeing, how I really felt about alcohol, and how I felt about my body now. I was taken aback by how much I knew about myself while talking to him, and how much I had buried my own condition deep enough that I would never have to admit to myself or to others that I had developed a problem.

Finally, I was speaking frankly about it: My behavior was dangerous and disordered. I was now skipping meals in anticipation of drinking, I was drinking heavily in order to induce a hangover which would leave me sick and devoid of appetite, and I had inadvertently developed a dangerous dependency on alcohol.

My first therapy session was almost exactly two years ago, and I’ve attended sessions regularly (at least once a month) since then. One of the most important benefits of therapy has been the discernment it has given me. Through cognitive behavioral therapy, I’m much better at assessing my moods, how I feel about my body on a particular day, and what may have triggered those feelings. In that way, I’m able to stop myself from indulging in destructive behavior.

According to the National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA), about 50 percent of people with eating disorders also struggle with substance abuse.

And while my particular situation may not be the norm, there’s a significant amount of variance in how people experience both conditions.

The part of my story that may be most relatable is that I didn’t consider myself as someone who had an eating disorder. The reality is that not everyone with an eating disorder will exhibit all of the signs and symptoms many of us are familiar with. If you suspect that you or someone you know is experiencing symptoms of disordered eating, visit NEDA’s website for an online screening tool and resources near you.

Today, my relationship with alcohol is just as complicated as the one I have with food.

I still drink, albeit moderately, and I have strict rules about hydration in between drinks, making sure I have a decent meal whenever I do enjoy a drink or two, and being careful not to get drunk.

For the past two years, I’ve been able to maintain a moderately healthy lifestyle and the weight recommended to me by my doctor. But some things never go away, and food still demands a lot of my attention. I still compulsively count calories, worry about the effects of a PMS-induced chocolate binge, fret over whether I have had my five portions of fresh fruit and vegetables, and worry about bloating whenever I have too much salt.

I am still, and will probably always to some extent be in recovery. Disordered eating, like many mental health issues, never really goes away. Negative feelings about my body ebb and flow; some days are better than others, although most days are good lately. I am committed to staying in therapy, because it’s important to have somebody other than myself monitoring my behavior and keeping me honest about any destructive path I might be heading down.

I forgive myself for not being the healthiest person alive and for not being completely happy with my body on some days. I want this body no matter what, and I’m glad I have it.