If there's one mistake competitors make, it's putting their trust in a coach who promises show-day results at any cost. An overzealous training plan can wear down a person's metabolism and lead to a metabolic disorder. I was not about to let that happen. After inquiring about competition coaches at my own gym, I was connected with 5% Nutrition sponsored athlete Noelle Rockwell.

As a woman who has faced just about every health issue out there -- metabolic damage, pituitary failure, hypothyroidism, cervical cancer, going through menopause three times by the age of 30 and hormone replacement therapy -- she knows a thing or two about taking care of one's self in extreme circumstances.

"I get so many abused clients damaged from this sport," Rockwell says. "I've been there myself, and I know the feelings of self-hatred, embarrassment, humiliation and fear of failure when you've exhausted all means of dieting and exercise. I've lived that, and it's personal for me. That's why I do this."

Given my unstable past, it was important that I worked with someone who doesn't screw around when it comes to the health of her athletes, and her openness about her personal fitness journey allowed me to put my trust in her. "I'm fairly blunt and I don't sugarcoat things," she warned from the beginning. She wasn't kidding.

When I began my training, I was actually in fairly good shape. I was hitting the gym five days a week and ate mostly proteins, whole grains and greens during the week. But come weekends, my inner fat kid came unhinged, devouring bottomless mimosas and mixed drinks, Uber Eats, pizza and, my Sunday ritual, Nutella-filled doughnuts.

I had my reality check when Rockwell asked me to take "before" photos in a bikini. Up until then, I'd relied on oversized sweaters and lose-fitting shirts to hide my forever food baby.

After the first few snaps, I asked my photographer to show me the pictures and when I saw them, I cringed. Months of indulging were obvious around my waistline. My once angular face had transformed into Pillsbury pudginess. That's when my demons made their first appearance. Standing at 5' 5.5" and 150 pounds, I believed it would take a miracle (or liposuction) to transform my potato-esque body into that of a chiseled competitor's.

I was in complete shock when I received Rockwell's feedback: "Your pictures look great." Then came the next jaw-dropper. Her game plan was for me to eat more -- a lot more.

To kick my metabolism into overdrive, she prescribed six meals a day, which meant I was chowing every two to three hours. Every meal contained a protein and a huge portion of vegetables. Two also included a serving of carbs and a healthy dose of fat. (Trading my usual cheesy omelet breakfast for spinach and salmon was a true ugly cry moment.) I toted my food scale everywhere (including to the beach on weekends), so that I could measure every ounce, gram and teaspoon of my meals. Guesstimating food portions was a strict no-no.

Then there were the supplements -- multivitamins, fish oil, digestive enzymes, L-carnitine (a fat-burning booster) and yohimbe (a stimulant that also helps burn fat) -- which required a geriatric-style pill organizer. I was dropping $200 per week on food and pills and struggling to keep it all down. But Rockwell assured me that my lack of appetite wouldn't last long.

After two weeks of forcing myself to swallow cups upon cups of spinach and chicken, my metabolism kicked into overdrive. Now that my body was used to a constant stream of energy, I was ravenous all the time -- just as Rockwell had promised. I couldn't go more than 30 minutes without thinking about food. As my workouts became more intense and my metabolism sped up, my obsession with food worsened.

After just two weeks of disciplined eating and training, I was the slimmest I'd been since high school. Still, my thinner figure came at a price. I could not go five minutes without thinking about food, and by week four, it was physically painful to be in the same room as someone with pizza. My mood swings were out of control --like, I would cut a b*tch for cake and I screamed at a friend for telling me to turn right instead of left at stop sign...

"This is normal," Rockwell assured me. Basically, I was burning more calories than I was eating. My body was shedding fat. And my hormones were out of control.

For weeks, I agonized about a wedding I'd committed to attending with my boyfriend. It was the first time I would meet almost all of his extended family, and I had to be on my best behavior (which is difficult when you're ready to murder your beloved for eating a a French fry).

When it finally arrived, it was every bit as painful as I'd expected: I avoided the open bar, buffet-style dinner and cake table all night and instead choked down food from the premeasured Tupperware containers that I'd smuggled in.

To distract me from the fact that I was one of the few sober people at the party, I hit the dance floor hard. But after almost two hours straight of dancing, my body begged for food and I'd already finished my allotted food for the night. There was nothing else to do but dance through my hunger and exhaustion.

Finally, my boyfriend announced we were heading back to the resort/casino where we were staying for the evening. I couldn't wait to crawl into bed. But instead of going back to our room, we hit the slots with the other wedding guests. Everywhere I looked, posters of mouthwatering dishes taunted me. Even the overwhelming scent of cigarette smoke couldn't drown out the kitchen's fumes. I felt pathetic as I fought back tears and begged my boyfriend to return to our room so I could sleep through the hunger. Without judgment, he escorted me back to our room while I shielded my eyes with my hands the entire time.