What good is my story if not shared?

I hesitate to write this.  I have sat at my computer for nearly an hour deciding whether or not I should write this.  I have debated writing this many times before.  “This” is personal.  But I have chosen to share because I know this is something many of us deal with, whether it is you personally or someone you are closely connected with.  And my hope is these words might help in some way.

I struggle with food.  Growing up, I found food as a comfort and friend.  When I felt like I didn’t fit in, didn’t have friends, or even if I was just plain bored, I often turned to food to “cure” those ailments.  I am sure many of you can relate.  After a bad day what do we want?  Usually we want chocolate, a cookie, a drink, a favorite meal.  Food is powerful.

During my teenage years, food remained my “weapon of choice” against unwanted feelings and insecurities.  Except at some point, I began using food as a “weapon” in a different way: I made better choices.  I decided I would eat less of those foods that I knew weren’t good for me.  I decided I would keep track of what I ate in order to, hopefully, create better eating habits.  Things were going so well.  I was healthier, I had more energy, and (best of all) I received praise from those around me. 

There wasn’t a morning I woke up and decided, “I’m going to become obsessive about this,” but somehow, during the years following this originally healthy choice as an adolescent, things spiraled out of control as my body seemed to melt into a weak and fragile frame consisting mostly of bones, sunken eyes, thinning hair, and yellowish skin. 

Even now, it’s hard for me to speak (or write) the words of what I had become: anorexic. 

As I slowly began to realize the terrifying truth that I was sick with an illness I thought only shallow, ignorant, and selfish people dealt with, I began living in a constant state of panic.  I didn’t want to be “that word.”  But even more, I didn’t want to even think about the idea of gaining weight. My life became an endless cycle of attending therapy sessions (where I knew all the “right” things to say), visiting nutritionists (who told me all the things I already knew… and I believe most people struggling with eating disorders already know far too well), and worst of all, going to “weigh-ins” both at the doctor and at home.

The part of this ordeal I hated the most was the way I was treated.  I felt like a problem.  I felt like I was stupid.  I felt like I was bad.  I felt like people thought I was doing this on purpose.  Looking back now, I realize I was being treated the way I myself had previously thought about people who were anorexic: shallow, ignorant, and selfish.

Why did I ever make that judgment?  Who was I to put a label on a wide and diverse group of people dealing with something so terrible and complex? 

Somewhere between crying silently on the gym floor when we had to do sit-ups because my back bones ached from being on the hardwood floor, and seeing my family cry as they worried about me, and being admitted to the emergency room in need of an IV to keep my body going, I realized I had two choices: continue living like this and risk having life at all, or start dealing with this. 

I chose the latter.  It wasn’t easy.  If you would’ve asked me before all of this if I thought I would ever cry while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I probably would’ve laughed at you.  The feeling of standing on a bathroom scale and seeing the numbers go up made me cry, but I knew deep down I should be celebrating.  It was the oddest paradox of feeling like I was losing and gaining control all at the same time. 

When we go through difficult times, it’s nearly impossible to see clearly.  I couldn’t see that things would ever get better.  I couldn’t see that 92 pounds didn’t look good on me.  I couldn’t see how I got into this or would ever get out.  But once we reach the other side of hardships, we start to see all the good that was there during the seemingly horrific time and the strength that comes as a result. 

I see clearly now how loved I was; even though I was embarrassed, ashamed, and annoyed by comments made by family and friends, their intentions were good.  …

(**My mom does not know to this day (but she will probably read this and find out), but I found her journal documenting her experience as she watched me struggle (sorry, Mom!).  I found it while I was still seriously disillusioned by the illness and it broke my heart.  My stomach churned as I realized how terrible I had been to my mom while she was fighting so hard for me.  As wrong as it was for me to read something not meant for my eyes, it did two important things for me: helped me realize I was indeed sick and that I was deeply loved by my mom.  Thank you, Mom.)

… I can see clearly now how my time of struggle can be used to relate to other people and help them as they wade through the scary waters of dealing with the “a” word.  I have a new perspective on judgment; after realizing my wrong perception of who “anorexic people” were, I try my best to withhold judgment of other “types of people,” because chances are, they are not a “type,” they are simply people (like me) who are dealing with something far more complex than I can fathom.

My relationship with my mom is stronger than it has ever been, my perspective on mental illness has been radically changed, and my ability to connect with others on a deep level has been widened beyond the narrow-minded blindness I was previously experiencing. 

I have heard it said and been told that one can never fully let go of an eating disorder and the thought patterns that come with it.  Sure, I look in the mirror some days and feel bad about myself.  Unfortunately, this is something I would wager to guess all Americans feel at some time or another due to a false image of “beauty” presented by mass media.  I find myself dancing a fine line between desiring to be healthy and fearing going back to somewhere I know would be even more difficult to come out of a second time.  I’ve recently discovered CrossFit and have found it to be a wonderful atmosphere of strong, healthy, joyful people.  I am learning now what it means to make my body strong, not “thin,” and how to use food as a means of living, not controlling or coping.

If you have known me for some time, you probably watched me go through some of this.  As much as I tried to hide it, you probably had a good idea of what was going on.  Others of you may have never known or have only known me since I have been healthy again.  I’m not entirely sure what my aim in writing this is.  In fact, this has been something I have preferred to keep to myself for fear of being labeled like I labeled others before I realized how damaging and wrong labels can be. 

But what good is my story if not shared?  It doesn’t define who I am, but has brought about undeniable growth in my life.  If my story can help someone in some way, then it’s worth sharing. 

What’s your story?