“And I said to my body, softly: ‘I want to be your friend’. It took a long breath and replied: ‘I have been waiting my whole life for this.’”
My Story
I remember overeating after college basketball games like it could make me feel good enough. I remember filling to-go boxes from the dining hall like it could fill the loneliness of my dorm room. I remember dark spirals of using food to comfort my discomfort caused by using food for comfort. I remember recognizing weight gain for the first time. I remember eating only whole foods and exercising religiously to prepare for the Pi Kappa Phi lake formal. I remember allowing my empty stomach a handful of popcorn that day. I remember feeling so proud of my toned body and the Instagram approval. I remember thinking I would simply maintain that physique forever and live blissfully.
I remember berating myself for being weaker than hunger. I remember meticulously recording weight, body fat percentage, calories, macros, sugar, and sodium in spreadsheets. I remember putting a Renpho scale on my Christmas wish list. I remember developing plan after plan under the belief that I just needed to control myself. I remember feeling honorable in my restriction at the beginning of each and then crashing to disgrace when appetite inevitably imposed its binge day. I remember cutting my net calories to 1000. I remember getting four pounds below the holy grail high school weight and trying to hide myself in baggy clothes because I felt bigger than ever.
I remember listening to a podcast about how to stop binge eating while binge eating. I remember a time without dieting that lasted until my friend’s mom commented that I had filled out, intending that as a compliment. I remember not eating for three days. I remember thinking that I was limited to being either painfully hungry or painfully fat. I remember minimizing concerns from others about my eating. I remember not going to second therapy appointments. I remember not keeping food in my apartment for fear I would eat it all. I remember making my life small because I wanted to be small. I remember eating at four fast food restaurants in one hour. I remember screaming at what seemed to be a monster in the mirror. I remember hating myself. I remember feeling like a prisoner in my body. I remember wanting to die.
I was referred to eating disorder treatment after six days in a psych ward. Opening up through hundreds of intake questions about the struggle I had held close triggered a panic. I gasped for breath and trembled in my car on the way to day one. I clutched my purse across my chest in the lobby like a shield. A therapist sat calmly by me as I convulsed and despairingly protested the emotional torrent. My ego seemed to be fighting against perceived threats of uncertainty and inferiority. It surrendered under the persistent force of seven-hour treatment days. I gained enough weight to clear the mental fog. I quit compulsively exercising. I smashed my scale. I recognized the absurdity of my thought patterns by hearing them spoken aloud by others in group sessions. And finally, after five years, I saw the way out - acceptance.
I left treatment four months ago and would like to report smooth sailing ever since, but I am still in turbulence. I detest what I see in the mirror. I respect what I see in the mirror. I look at a photo and cringe. I look at a photo and smile. I dress to cover my insecurity. I dress to express myself. I don’t know how to feed myself. I can trust my body. I subtly restrict. I eat when I am hungry. I use food to postpone discomfort. I allow discomfort. I exercise for appearance. I exercise for its own sake. I have a nightmare about gaining weight. I accept myself in the morning. People say you never fully recover from an eating disorder, but I refuse to believe that. There was a time when I felt no shame in being me. I can again be free.