“Let’s make each other a promise,” my friend said to me when we were just young girls.
“No matter what, we won’t get fat when we grow up. We have to stay thin.”
I nodded my head vehemently, all in. I had already spent most of my life feeling like “too much.” To speak it into existence with a promise was comforting to my anxious mind. Someone else wanted me to win, too. Maybe I wasn’t destined to be disgusting forever.
I woke up at 4:15 a.m. to pull on some black leggings and lace up my Nikes–it was no different from any other day. I worked out at the gym for about three and a half hours, pushing myself well past the point of exhaustion with endless cardio. It was deliriously satisfying to feel so worn out. It felt like my ticket to live another day.
Life was small. I’d go home and shower, forcing myself to wait as long as possible before acquiescing to some egg whites and spinach. Then I’d either go to work or school and try not to think about food. Sometimes I’d be out until 10 p.m., which was frustrating. I had to be up at 4:15 a.m. to workout, after all.
My friends didn’t know what to think. Weight loss is usually praised, but as my waist continued to whittle away, people began to speak up. The speculations were ridiculous to me. I was eating every day and working out. How could that possibly make me anorexic? I was slim because I was disciplined, and no one else understood.
The pressure to be perfect weighed down on me constantly.
I turned in on myself, rarely going out or keeping in touch with anyone. Friendships were exhausting and somehow always resulted in someone wanting to go out to eat, which terrified me. I spent any free time I had buried in a book, exercising, or looking at pictures of food. I’d go on long walks around the neighborhood morning and night, anxious to burn off any calories I had missed at the gym.
Worst of all, I was mean. Mean to myself, and mean to anyone who got in the way of my rigidity or tried to offer help. I had a massive chip on my shoulder–permanently angry at the world and everyone in it.
Every once in a while, my reflection in the mirror brought me joy. A little crack would form in the brick wall of body dysmorphia and I’d see myself as “thin enough.” But the moment always passed before it had a chance to settle. I felt condemned to look at every mirror, every window, every piece of glass and judge myself with merciless cruelty for the rest of my life.
And then, things changed.
It began with Instagram, weirdly enough. When I was fully committed to my eating disorder, the only way I’d indulge in cravings was by looking at pictures of juicy, delicious, greasy food on social media. I did this obsessively and late at night, and it eventually brought me to a very interesting corner of the Internet: the eating disorder community.
People had thrown the word “anorexia” at me enough by this point–I knew what came to people’s minds when they looked at me. But I hadn’t yet admitted it to myself. When I came across those Instagram pages (mostly just very lonely collections of food pictures, acting as a sort of “diary” for the user wading through their disorder), it struck me that my life was lonely. I had shut out all that was essential to living.
However, it was another several months before scary heart palpitations and a late-night trip to Urgent Care forced me to open my eyes: I was killing myself. And I finally didn’t want to do it anymore.
I started treating myself with respect, maybe for the first time in my life. I started to recognize the utter importance of my health and happiness. I started listening to those around me and valuing the wonderful people in my life. Oh, and I started eating again.
This change was difficult in every aspect: physically, mentally, and emotionally painful. I made the stubborn decision to recover without hospitalization—I thought I’d only get worse if I went inpatient. I also knew I couldn’t handle something this massive completely alone, so I saw a therapist frequently during initial recovery.
The first thing to come back was the color in my cheeks. I instantly saw an increase in my energy levels, my happiness, and just the overall feeling of functionality throughout my body, which was really comforting because I struggled with simultaneously feeling huge. Within the first few days I gained ten pounds: my body was screaming for me to feed it, and eager to hold onto everything I gave it.
Yet, the process of recovery didn’t immediately change the way I felt about my body. As the weight continued to cling to me, it became harder to alter my views towards food and nourishment and I became very depressed and anxious. I had already experienced both of these things during my eating disorder, so I was familiar with these obstacles that I had to fight through.
My period came back for the first time in three years, and with it a tsunami of hormones and emotions so powerful and fleeting I couldn’t keep my head on straight. My body felt like it was working overtime to get me back in health, but it also felt like there was no end in sight. Weeks turned into months turned into years, and I only felt worse about myself.
About a year into recovery, I felt lower than ever. I hated how huge I looked in the mirror, and how insecure and anxious I always felt around anyone. I had always been confident and easygoing growing up, but I hadn’t felt like myself in years. I wanted so badly to relapse, but deep down I knew that wouldn’t help me either. The only option I had was to keep pushing and hope for the best.
Eventually I began to recognize how much fuller my life had become, even if that came with some extra weight. I decided that even if I spent the rest of my life being “too much,” at least I was enjoying myself. Time went on and these ideas solidified. This new self-love circled my mind and I began to feel comfortable in not only my body, but also in my mentality. I finally felt freed from my reflection, and I realized I had gone months without judging my body in the mirror. I was too busy living my life again.
The change didn’t happen overnight, but little by little over the course of years that are still playing out. The journey was a tough one and I wanted to quit more times than I can count, but it got easier every single day knowing that I was choosing myself above anything else, again and again and again.
I now prioritize my mental health. This means getting enough sleep every night. Eating foods that are going to fulfill me nutritionally. Doing things that I love because I want to do them. Exercising rationally and with complete awareness of bodily health. Listening to my body’s cues and responding honestly and lovingly. Making time to remind my loved ones how important they are to me. Taking breaks when I need them without feeling ashamed or not good enough. Knowing that I am always, always, always good enough.
I go to concerts and parties and dinners and shows, and I never worry about what the food situation is going to be like. I enjoy time with my friends without watching the clock and lusting for solitude. I love meeting new people, and I radiate positive energy because I’ve given it to myself consistently enough to be able to share.
My eating disorder was cold, distant, infuriating, anxious, and terrified. My eating disorder convinced me I shouldn’t take up any room: I wasn’t worthy, and no one cared to listen to what I had to say. My eating disorder was never me.
Escaping the frigid exterior, the heart of a hopeful young girl burned on and reclaimed her space. And once she’d gotten out, there was no caging her. Never again. Her voice rattled in my mind until it was all I could hear, until we were one again:
We can fix this. It’s not too late.
