I had an eating disorder — there, I said it. Only recently, have I gained the strength and courage to publicly articulate into words what haunted me for many silent months. I remember how hard I tried fighting and pretending to be fine, but when my bones started noticeably protruding and fists full of my hair began falling out, putting on a show became impossible.
I have always heard people talk about “rock bottom” in a celebratory, praising way. They attribute hitting this metaphorical misery threshold for their motivation to get better and source of strength to recuperate. This American expression has gained the reputation for essentially becoming the first step towards recovery. The landing on this proverbial rock is credited for being so painfully jarring, that there is no lower place to fall — leaving “up” as the only remaining direction to go. For me, this climactic, picturesque moment never occurred. In my case, it was a slower, more subtle decline into the pits of hell. My ascent to darkness was so gradual, that I did not notice how far off the rails I had gone until it was too late.
One day, something snapped. It was not dramatic or remotely extraordinary. God did not save me, ambulances did not come, and arrests were not made. A hovering light bulb over my head never illuminated, a life-changing dream never came in the night, and not a single tear fell to the floor. Rather, I sat on the edge of my bed on a Tuesday night and quietly stared at my reflection in the mirror hanging on my wall. I carefully examined every detail about my appearance, as if I had never seen myself until that moment. After what felt like an eternity, I humbly whispered: “I need help.”
The next several hours were the hardest. I had more thoughts rushing through my head than the number of people shopping in a mall on Black Friday. I remember going onto my computer, typing “eating disorder” into the Google Search bar, and shuddering at the disturbing images that I was met with. Panic began setting in and it felt as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room. My life as I knew it was over, I was finished, I had lost. The worst migraine unexpectedly hit me like a ton of bricks and I feverishly broke into a cold sweat all over my body.
Almost instantly, I got off my bed and began whizzing around my room like an angry tornado. I ripped clothes off their hangers, tore paintings and posters off the walls, and flipped my enormous desk upside down. Once there was nothing left to destroy or dismantle, I slowly lowered myself to the ground and sat quietly. I looked at all of the damage I had caused and to my surprise, I found comfort. My now unrecognizable room was merely a reflection of myself. I was no longer the organized girl who prioritized her time in bullet journals and dedicated carefully allotted hours to my responsibilities and interests. I had cast the care for my academics aside, ignored the importance of my health, and completely cut off my family and friends. The old me was gone and I suddenly felt like a stranger in my own life.
If I am being completely honest, I remained on that floor until the following morning. I sat in silence trying to figure out where it all went wrong. I tried determining why I allowed it to go so far and why nobody had intervened. Was it an attempt for attention? A desire to feel in control? There are so many moving parts that could be attributed to this, but that is an entirely separate story. I knew that I had to recover, but I had no idea where to start. Foolishly, the first decision I made towards recovery was stepping onto the scale. The numbers that almost immediately appeared onto the digital screen were heartbreaking — 98 pounds.
For anyone who knows me, they are aware that I aspire for a healthy life, mentally and physically. Before I battled anorexia, I was the epitome of health. In addition to having a whole food plant-based diet and hydrating myself with nearly a gallon of water a day, I consistently practiced an exercise regime that involved high-intensity interval training, steady state cardio, and weight training. For my mental health, I dedicated hours every week in order to maintain an overall balanced mind, whether it be through journaling, self-pampering, or merely taking extra naps to make sure I was caught up on sleep. Because I made my fitness journey so public to everyone around me, I felt even more ashamed of my eating disorder. I felt like I failed not only myself but everyone around me. My bruised ego and damaged pride did not hinder my recovery, but it absolutely prevented me from publicly admitting I had a problem to begin with — until now.
But the burden that lifted off of my shoulders once I finally came to terms with my mental illness has been life-changing. First, I told my parents, my brother, and my closest friends. They welcomed my naked vulnerability, handled the news respectfully, and surrounded me with total acceptance. Everyone I opened up to rallied around me in support, impressing me in ways that I never imagined possible. My mom helped me contact my doctor and therapist, where I was able to voice my concerns and organize a plan to avoid it from happening again. I am so grateful for everyone who has helped me on my journey to recovery. Nobody was rude or judgmental about it, which I am so grateful for. I feel so blessed to be absolutely vulnerable and still loved, despite my flaws.
What I am trying to convey to you and people of all ages across America and the world, is that you are not alone and there are always escape routes to take before it becomes too late. If I can stress anything, it is that no one is ever a lost cause or beyond saving — there is always hope. It took me a long time to gain the weight I lost, heal the damage I caused to my mental health, and mend the relationships that were affected by my eating disorder. By no means am I back to my old self, but that is why it is called a “fitness journey”.
Each day is a new opportunity and I actively choose to continue my search for a healthier life. If you are struggling with anything, please do not let the objective standard of “hitting rock bottom” be the only way that you attempt to make a change. The belief that hitting this low will prompt a significant change is unbelievably inaccurate. This unsound ideology may ironically be what keeps you from seeking help sooner than later, when the problem may not be as serious. Whether you are fighting anorexia, bulimia, or any other mental disease, please do not wait as long as I did to seek the help I needed.
Our bodies are our vessels and we need to protect them. Do not let any outside influences fool you into believing that you are not good enough just the way you are. Life is a continuous battle and addictive habits are the coping methods humanity desperately clings to because they provide a sense of control and comfort. By writing this piece to you all, I am letting go of my pride as I remain in my fight for a better life and I hope you are encouraged by my story.