When my daughter walked through the arrival gates at the international airport on Friday I had to stop myself from crying. She'd been away for three months, the realisation of a dream she'd had for more than five years, but one which until September this year she'd been too unwell to fulfil.

I'd tried to talk her out of going, fearing that being away from the support network we'd spent five years building would send her plummeting back down the black hole from which she'd fought so hard to escape. But at 18, she was an adult and I couldn't deny her the opportunity to try to manage her own health in a country across the other side of the world.

At least this time when the demons started their incessant chatter, she knew she had to reach out, and an emergency flight home meant she was back to a relatively safe environment. However, whether this is enough to get her back into the light again is still to be seen.

For the past four years my beautiful, bright, compassionate daughter has fought to survive the ravages of an eating disorder while living 300 kilometres away from the nearest medical facilities that have any concept of how to support a person battling this insidious disease.

In February, she had a heart attack, and was admitted again to a private facility in Sydney, for another eight-week stay - her seventh over a two-year period. Alone, and scared about the way in which her mind was destroying her body, she had to learn to cope with twice-weekly visits from me, often too tired to do more than sit on the bed and hold her, after a three-hour drive following an eight-hour work day.

By the time I arrived home, my two sons would be in bed, my husband asleep, and I'd collapse, crying again into a restless sleep, wondering how we were going to survive through the interminable hospitalisation yet again.

When she was released, life was no easier. Psychiatrists in regional centres may visit once a month, and none have specialised training in the complexities of an eating disorder. Dietitians with the expertise to help those in recovery tend not to live in places where the scenery may be beautiful, but access to allied health support is sparse.

And trying to find a regular GP for consistent care is like a battle in futility as the doctors tend to come and go with frequent regularity.

So when I saw her frail frame lugging a backpack that could easily have weighed more than she did, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before enfolding her in my arms and whispering encouragement that we'd somehow manage to get through this again.

This time, however, things are going to be even harder.

Waiting lists for private facilities are at least six weeks, there are only two public hospital beds in NSW for those suffering from eating disorder over the age of 18, and the wait can be up to six months.

The NSW government said it had pushed money into community-support programs for eating disorders, but we've yet to see where these are, and whether they're going to be able to help the growing number of young men and women fighting to stay alive while their bodies break down.

While I try to medically manage my brave daughter's condition with the information I've absorbed over the past four years, we'll continue to wait for one of those beds in the private hospital - one of the lucky ones who can afford to do that out here in limbo land, away from the bright lights of the city.