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?
