As much as I would love to write about something light and fun, that’s not exactly the first thing that came to mind when I thought about writing something that might be considered ‘relatable’ to some. For me, my eating disorder has never felt like something other people understand, but I’ve been trying to realize more so that it is because I have never tried to explain it to people. I’m not even sure I could explain to myself if I had to. But – I’ll do my best. I think that maybe other people might just feel the same way.
What I call my ‘eating thing’, because I refused to go to the doctor for an official diagnosis of an ‘eating disorder’, started the summer after sixth grade. And for a reason I can’t really pinpoint. I just remember always feeling bigger than all my friends and I hated it. I started working out, swimming laps, running, playing volleyball – things which are good, even great, in moderation – but obsessively, and to lose weight, not for fun. I would portion out my food as far less than the serving sizes. I memorized the calories in most everything in my fridge and my cabinets. I wanted nothing more than to not need food. My mom – the loveliest woman on this planet, I swear – was hurt that she could not do anything for me, but tried so hard to get me to eat. Anything. She would offer to make me food at any time of the day. She nearly forced me to eat dessert, and still will. Double chocolate fudge ice cream, if you’re wondering.
After that period of time, this ‘eating thing’ became dormant. But it resurfaced at the beginning of my senior year of high school. My boyfriend, who at the time I thought I was madly in love with, broke up with me and I was heartbroken. I stopped eating almost entirely. I could not bring myself to take care of myself. I convinced myself I wasn’t hungry. I slept through meals on purpose. Playing volleyball at the time, working out every day, it was even less ideal for my body. Although I’ve blurred out a lot of that time, I remember not eating for nearly a full week. After that, I would eat the bare minimum, and only when my stomach almost twinged. For the better part of my senior year, this went on. A few pieces of granola for breakfast. Nothing for lunch. I would do everything I could to avoid dinner with my parents. I didn’t want them to ask questions or think there was something wrong with me. Then, maybe I could pretend it was normal.
Although it sometimes comes in waves, it has gotten significantly better. I still have days where I skip meals. I will look in the mirror and hate what is there regardless of how thin my friends say I am. I will pretend I’m not hungry when people ask if I want to go to eat. I will look at food and see calories. Or my pants not fitting. I will get angry that there is any amount of fat on my body. Unrealistic right??? I will get defensive when people ask the last time I ate because I’m worried they’re going to force me to. And then…will I eat more than I should? Somehow, it’s based in a constant need for control and a constant worry that I lack control over anything.
Some days I’ll binge and then be so angry with myself that I won’t eat the next day. But I have come to realize that it’s a journey and those days I feel weak in the face of this ‘thing’, this ‘disorder’, I hold onto the fact that it is in no way my identity and it is something to work away from. I can’t change things overnight. I’m lucky to have friends who noticed and continue to look for the signs, because sometimes I don’t. If you ever feel the same way, or have, you are not alone. Know that you are more than what you eat. And you are beautiful.