The day before I turned 21, I was admitted to the hospital for the first time due to my eating disorder. I had reached a crisis, though it wouldn't be my last. My friends had celebrated their 21st birthdays with a drink and a cake, surrounded by friends. They did shots of vodka and tequila.

I got to do a shot of Ensure.

It was the first of many miserable birthdays, of foregoing my own cake, or throwing it up, or throwing it out. Cake was fattening. I didn't deserve cake.

Since that day, exactly seven years have passed. I am now 28. And today, I finally celebrated my 21st birthday.

I worked my usual long, hellish day. Then, some co-workers and I did our usual weekly Happy Hour outing to a local bar. I ordered my iced tea and some chicken tenders, and we sat and chatted and played with the new iPhone that someone had. We discussed bowling and housewarming parties, skunky beer and old school Atari video games. And then I went home.

For most people, this would be normal. Not even a blip on the radar- a night out (even a birthday night out) with friends.

But for the past eight years, my life has been anything but normal. I've spent several birthdays in treatment or in the hospital. I've gone months without seeing a friend. I've gone months without venturing into a restaurant. Years without eating something fried. Now, I am older, healthier. Certainly not recovered, but certainly hanging in there.

And now that I'm 28, I finally got to turn 21.

I am one week away from graduating with my second master's degree.

Today, I ordered cheese to go with my Subway lunch.

Second master's degree, people. And here I am, blogging about ordering cheese on my sub for the first time in almost a decade.

I NEVER order extras. It's one of the hardest rules I've had to break. No extras (with calories). Why would you knowingly, voluntarily put more calories on your food?

Because...wait for it, wait for it...it tastes better that way.

My friend was ordering the same sandwich I was, and she got cheese on hers. As always. She said that the cheese really added to it. So I took a deep breath and when they asked what kind of cheese I would like, I said "provolone."

And I ate my sandwich and survived. I don't know that I really enjoyed it- it's too early to say.

But one week before I get my second master's degree, I finally ate cheese.

As I was sitting at the keyboard and trying to decide what to whine about today, I realized I was hungry and went and grabbed my evening snack to munch while I wrote.

That's when it hit me: I was hungry therefore I ate. I have a food plan that I'm following, but even so.

I don't think people without eating disorders (or without an up close and personal knowledge of them) realize how much work and effort and blood, sweat, and tears has gone into that simple act. Before, when I was listening to the sweet nothings Ed was whispering into my ear, I would have thought I was strong if I didn't eat. Now I realize that not eating will just make me more hungry.

My first therapist (with whom I have many issues, but who has also provided me with at least a little insight) said that "Starving doesn't make you special; starving just makes you sick." I just deluded myself into thinking that avoiding food was what made me stand out from the crowd. The side effects of my illness (emaciation) made me stand out physically, but I was sick, not special.

Yeah yeah, I know I'm special, but not because I used to be anorexic. I did truly think that losing weight would make me special, would bring me to that magical pinnacle of perfection.

Perfection my ass.

Gaining weight- deliberately gaining weight- is grueling. I found out yesterday that I'm not as close to my target weight as I had thought. Which is both good and bad. First I thought "Geez...and if I'm fat NOW..." I feel like I've been turning into a hog. I'm going to give birth to piglets! Crap! Now it's a little more reassuring, that most hog-lettes don't weigh what I do, that my gain has been slow and steady. I still hate it. Mentally and physically, I feel like I have been just battered from head to toe and then dumped in the clothes dryer for a spin on extra high.

Yet still I eat. I have to. The only way out is through.

That really sucks. I'm eating my way out of anorexia, and I'm sick and tired of it. I hate this disease. Anyone who says it's a choice is off their rocker. You'd choose this? Good grief.

I have a poster on my wall behind my kitchen table that says "Recovery happens one meal at a time."

True, that.