You are more than your body. The capacity of your worth cannot be defined by your weight.
I created this blog nearly three years ago as an outlet to voice my fears and gain constant strength during my ongoing recovery from an eating disorder. As time has gone on and my rants have turned old pain into new insight I have been able to learn not only about myself, but come to understand the disease that dominated my life. While I know ED will always be a piece of me and his presence is a strong element of my past I also know I am in control now.
Living my life for myself and my happiness alone I have come to a questioning period. I find myself asking how to help others defeat the ED that haunts them, as well as feeling frustrated that there is no cure or quick fix to eliminating eating disorders altogether. If I can force my frustration into my work I am hopeful that somehow I will be able to direct other young girls in overcoming their personal battles.
So I ask you this, how do you define your own beauty? And further, what keeps you from seeing yourself for who you are in the mirror?
It’s no secret that ED can quickly control every aspect of your life. Those who suffer with ED’s presence can attest to just how easily their mind becomes the mind of the eating disorder. The conversion is almost seamless, a transition that completely changes who you are but leaves little memory of the take over. At least looking back this is how it feels for me- a hostile kidnapping that left me certain I had always thought and acted the way my starved brain told me to.
Remembering the years with my ED head in control can almost feel more painful than living them. In reality and from what I do vividly recall I am sure this is not necessarily the truth. Memory and the misery of those lost moments are both painful in their own ways. While I was at my worst I was also beyond doubt numb to life, this blocked most physical pain during my lowest year. However, emotional and mental instability didn’t fade so simply. I may not be able to recall conversations or events in detail due to suppressed and detached memory, but overall feeling persists from that time in my life. Roughly speaking those years are a haze of tears and anger. Anger at my body, myself, and almost anyone who questioned my well being; anger that acted as ED’s protective shield from me ever getting the help that I needed. I try to picture my sick days and an overwhelming feeling of sadness encompasses me, it’s a different sorrow than I feel now when I am overcome by the guilt of my actions; I know this sadness well as it was the cloud that clung to my body throughout my illness. Beyond being aware of the trapped and losing feeling I had during my roughest months there is not much detail I retained. This is why I choose to summarize the time as misery of lost moments. The pain of my harsh memories is what keeps me running from my eating disorder today.
I spent a few hours the other day trying to remember my first date with an ex boyfriend. Not because I missed him or because I think the date was anything spectacular. The truth is I don’t know if it was an amazing or awful date; I am not sure if it was even on a weeknight or weekend, if it was lunch or dinner, a movie or a night out. I can’t remember even the tiniest piece of what we did together. I don’t share this gap of recollection to say my life was meaningless when I was sick, quite the opposite, at 20 when I was supposed to be making lifelong experiences I can’t even remember how my college boyfriend told me he loved me. The hours I drilled my head for answers a couple days ago is not a rare attempt. I sometimes find myself waking up from a vivid dream and wondering if I actually lived it. Or I will be in the middle of my day and have a flash of a movie or joke and contemplate if I had seen or heard it before. My anorexia became partly lasting amnesia and the broken memories I am left with will always leave me wanting more.
I struggle to express just how lost ED reminders make me feel. The absent awareness that overcomes me when I can’t piece two years of my life together. Minutes can speed by as I apply more focus trying to recapture the name of a restaurant my friends and I would frequent, or the title and plot of a book I wrote a final paper on. I come up empty and the blank slate of my memory is enough to frustrate me to a near breaking point. I tend to try not to cry- ED has taken enough from me, he is not worthy of continued tears after my years of recovery. But keeping in my own disappointment and grieving of memories I can’t hold onto will lead to more anger. Do I let it all back out and scream for sanity or do I continue to refuse the damage that was done?
Even when I don’t remember my mistakes I know that I can’t hide from them. My body may be healthy now and the scars are buried beneath the surface, but the impression of what was remains. If I let go and lay to rest all my missing pieces I pretend that the loss is okay. When I was first told to get help or when it was insisted that I enter a treatment program I lived in denial. Telling everyone I was fine and that I didn’t need help just prolonged my suffering and the worry of those who loved me. Acting like the hurt is gone and I don’t need help coming to terms now is the same as the contradiction I knew then.
I lost a lot to ED, which is clear even today two years into my recovery. In the end I didn’t lose me, even if I am still finding a couple misplaced pieces.
It’s often easy for me to feel like the hard work is over, I am over two years down the road in recovery so the major strain should be gone. However, it is just when I start believing this to be true that I slip up and find myself stewing in a world of ED. While I may remain strong enough to not dive in and start using bad behaviors, I can’t say my willpower over my mind remains that powerful. For me, slipping into ED mind can be just as negatively impacting as skipping a meal. And lately, my head has not been in the right place.
I could probably spend a few hours rattling off reasons for the slip, blaming everything from missing passion to boredom, but the truth is the trigger doesn’t really matter. What counts after I am set off is how I reel myself back in, and I certainly haven’t been doing a good job at that. Luckily I have learned to trust my body cues for hunger over the years and that is not something I plan on letting ED sweep back in and take away. But physically knowing your needs and mentally can be two different realms. Recently my mental track has been all over the board, and this kind of negativity and deconstructing body image is just as dangerous as actually acting on ED urges. I didn’t used to believe this, that thinking bad thoughts about myself could be a form of ED, I thought it just made me a not confident person. But the truth is there are so many degrees of eating disorders and none of them fit nicely into any box. This is why I know I need to be honest with myself when I begin to self hate.
It might begin with a frustrated look in the mirror or a stiff jaw when I catch my reflection in a passing window, but the attitude is always there. I can see it in my eyes, and those closest to me can occasionally notice the change as well. With tinted ED sunglasses covering my eyes the spiral downward starts. Rejecting outside opinions comes quickly, which shakes me away from any exterior accountability source I may have. Being reality check by someone does little good by this point. Although in desperate moments it is still something I reach out and ask for. Eventually, even though I doubt it, the effort comes down to me. The change has to be made and kept by me.
Most days I lose myself to the anger and sadness. Simply letting myself stew and accepting the day has been lost to ED. I forfeit my chance at happiness for 24 hours because I am too exhausted and disappointed in myself and my body. I give up. I often deny it when people tell me I am strong, mostly because I remember the days like this. But then there are days when I do fight, when my inner combat comes out and there is no denying my own strength. I want 365 days like this. And now, over two years later, I am just starting to believe that I can and will have them.
Very early on in residential the counselors started challenging me by asking me to reframe my thoughts. Sitting with the discomfort in my own skin and eventually turning the negative sentence into something else. It sounded both dumb and impossible at first, then again a lot of their suggestions did. Yet like most things a day of desperation came and I felt like there was nothing else to try, or maybe I was just that bored in the house. I hit a wall and with nowhere to look I inspected all the thoughts that had brought me to this particular breaking point. Of course there were many thoughts and I was not about to try and change them all in one sitting. So I picked one. I believe it was something like “I am a disappointment.” Sitting still for a while I took a baby step and quietly said “I may have disappointed some people, but I am not going to anymore.” True, this was not a 100% reframe, but it was a start. And on the terrible, awful days that’s the most I ever ask for.
Coming back to the present, I won’t deny that I have been especially hard on myself. Both in front of and away from the mirror I have placed myself under severe scrutiny. Until this morning when I woke up exhausted. I didn’t want to fight myself anymore, and I was not about to give in to ED. Which put me right in front of that wall again.
I am not perfect, and I don’t believe I will ever meet anyone who is. But I am also not a failure, disappointment, or someone to be ashamed of. I am simply me, which is a full package of flaws and perfections. Getting ready this morning I thought about avoiding the mirror. I thought about showering in the dark. But I am not going to hide from my life anymore. And I am not going to let every anxiety that crosses my path be crippling. I may have both irrational and rational fears in my life, but whatever they may be they are not me.
This morning I released myself from this pressing need to be stressed. I walked away from the mirror with a smile, maybe not because I liked what I saw, but because I wanted to. I want to look forward to things, to feel empowered, to get excited.
And today I told the rest of my thoughts to clear the way, because that is exactly what I am going to do.
You’re more than just a body.
You’re more than your body.
The mirror is only one side of the story.
Dwelling is never deliberate, but it is certainly consuming.
Compartmentalizing life has never been my greatest strength. For a long time I blamed men for this, which is logical when you compare the genders and realize the male brain is impressively better about sectioning things off and storing them. Of course when it comes down to it my maturity and education won’t let me use the simplicity of the male mind for my scapegoat. The fact that I am incapable of sorting away old issues is really no one’s fault but my own, and an inability to forget negative memories also falls on my shoulders. And really even if I was successful in blaming the entire world and avoiding any responsibility, the problem of the past would still exist. No amount of pointing fingers or gender comparison will change that.
So instead I dwell knowing I am fully in charge of my emotions. Just as I am responsible for my actions, and ED behaviors. Similar to the conclusion I reached along the way to recovery when I realized my disease was no one else’s fault. It’s not that I wanted to have someone to blame, but knowing I was somehow was to blame that took accepting. ED is a disease, he is not something anyone ever asks for or seeks out, and I would never say his appearance in my life is my own fault. However, his removal from it was my task. Fighting the disease, finding solutions, and healthy outlets is an outcome that can only be determined by ED’s victim. Acknowledging the sickness was the hardest step I ever took, but realizing I was my cure was a close second.
Understanding is the key to most impossible situations. Because as cliche as the solution may be, or however cheesy the advice, the truth is in my own experience. The key to the impossible is understanding your need, and understanding the role you play for yourself to become whole again. No one else can ever be depended on for your happiness. Just like how you are not in charge of making someone else happy. Our joy is on ourselves, and accepting this means also accepting the task of loving ourselves when there is no joy. The second part of my own advice is something I often choose to forget, letting the responsibility fall to the waist side and waiting for nothing to happening. This is my dwelling, knowing what needs to be done but refusing to step up and do it. Choosing instead to linger in what made me sad, lost, confused, whatever the case, in the first place. I am my own pity party, and I often let the celebration last far too long.
Occasionally it is okay to play the victim, to wallow for a bit when suffering. But then it has to stop. This is an over arching life lesson, you can always let yourself mope some but you can’t live a life of moping. Eventually action has to be taken and steps towards change taken. Perhaps I am scolding myself more than offering advice, the truth is I need to snap out of my own bad habits. I can’t change the years I was sick, I can’t go back and redo what I went through, and I can’t now pretend that it all never happened. I can’t control that, but I can control the amount of fixation time I give to it.
Woe is me attitude never got me anywhere. Sitting alone in bed and going back in time mentally never brought a smile to my face. ED never made me smile. And thinking about him now will only give him satisfaction.
ED consumed me once, I am not going to sit back and dwell until he does it again.
The only victim I am is to myself, and personally I am tired of the pity.
If asked, I wouldn’t be able to list off why I am strong. Despite the last five years of my life I still struggle to see myself as anything but pathetic.
Recognizing what made me weak, frail, and feeble in my disease just reminds me of how much pain I caused. I am tired of playing the victim. That should have stopped the day I started fighting, instead its power still lingers in the back of my mind.
An inability to recognize all the ways recovery empowered me has caused me to step back. I am not sure whether I am certain I am weak due to ED’s lasting and lingering presence in my life, or if I am simply a pessimist who feels incapable, either way I suppose the two notions go hand in hand. I would never want to lose everything that makes me weak; I believe those are often the only things that keep me fighting. But I wouldn’t be opposed to my strengths outnumbering the rest.
I don’t want to be perfect or invincible, I am not delusional. No one can be completely unbreakable, but a break from my own criticism would be welcomed relief.
I want to believe again. Believe I am a fighter, I am in control, I am capable. I want to know more. Know that I am not always to blame, that fights aren’t my fault, that I am not accountable for anyone else’s emotions. I want to see everything. See myself the way someone who loves e does, see how it is possible to change, see all the options for my future. I want a lot of things, and I worry nonetheless. Instead of being motivated by all of the things that I want and can pursue in my life I let myself get bogged down by the worry of failure, inability, and reality. I worry that I want too much, I expect too much, a combination that can only lead to disappointment. But how long can anyone live if a fear of inadequacy is always lingering on the horizon? How long can I allow myself to feel unworthy of the life I once fought so hard for?
Prior to admitting myself into residential I never would have believed I could desire food again, even more, consume it without guilt. I would have never trusted someone who would have told me that there would be time when calories weren’t my main priority. And now that I have reached this place where food is not my dictator I should be celebrating. Instead I am hesitating. Hesitant to accept the fact that I chose to fight and that I won. Hesitant to know things can be okay and I can be happy. Hesitant to know I am stronger now than I was then, and what happened once doesn’t have to determine my life.
It’s no secret that a life with ED made me weak. He took away everything I trusted, including my own voice. I was too weak to hear what my body needed or my family when they pled with me to get help. I was too weak to look in the mirror and acknowledge a problem, or even see one when doctors pointed to the facts. I was too weak until I finally listened. And slowly I kept hearing more, seeing more, and knowing more. One day I didn’t just stop being weak, but I did stop being fragile. I took care of myself and although I still have breaking points I know I am not ED’s girl anymore.
Years of my life I may have adorned the weak label easily. But that doesn’t make it permanent. I don’t have to be blind to what I overcame; acknowledging that I am strong is just another slap in ED’s face. Finding my own ability makes me even less attractive to the disease, it knows I am not weak enough for it anymore.
In the last five years I have had many days where getting out of bed in the morning felt impossible. Simply thinking about it was enough to exhaust and convince me to lie back down. There have been points in my life where the morning struggle has been a part of the daily routine, times when it was no problem at all, and days when I agreed with my depression and stayed put. It has been a long time since I felt the pull to remain in bed.
This morning brought back vivid memories of a habit I’d hoped I’d outgrown. Waking up at 6:20 am I effectively avoided the call of my alarm until 7:30 am, an entire hour lost in thoughts of self hate. And my body wanted an hour more, really it wanted the entire day. A request I nearly gave into, the pull was so strong. Somehow the thought of disappointing others ruled over my self pity and I was able to pull myself into the shower. The strength to get ready, and yes on a day like this morning it does require quite a bit, limited me to wet hair and a ponytail. Not my most professional look but one I would have to work with. I was getting myself out the door, and in the moment that kind of felt like the most important thing.
Eventually I made it to the office, and a slew of calls kept me from settling into a thought heavy funk right away. Of course once downtime caught up to me so did my worried thoughts. Which led to suppressing tears of frustration for the remainder of the afternoon. The kind of angry emotion that digs deep into your chest and clamps down until you acknowledge its presence. Emotions tend to hold on tight to me during these days, especially when I am attempting to avoid confrontation with them. Thinking about the root of the problem or the source of the pain doesn’t tend to be my response when the day begins trapped in exhaustion and minimal motivation. In an ideal world these types of days would be filled with avoidance and distraction. However, that never seems the case. So perhaps I should adapt and learn how to process my feelings.
Bottling things up was what placed me into ED’s grasp originally, and I am sure he would jump on the opportunity to thrive again. His eagerness to see me discouraged is nearly enough to motivate me away from my own self pity. So far I have been successful at keeping every tear in. Refusing to acknowledge their desire to spill over has caused a fair sized stomach knot but also kept me relatively sane. I cannot lose myself to old habits simply because I lost the energy to fight for one day. Or because I lost the energy to think adequately.
I have to wonder why. After all that was the one question that haunted me the most throughout residential and has continued to pop up in the most disheartening moments. Why am I not good enough? Why can’t I feel in control? Why do I need this? Why did I do that? Why me? Ask yourself why enough and you’ll quickly become the biggest pity party on the block. Anything can start to sound horrible with enough self deconstruction.
I wish I could look in the mirror to find my clarity. A reality check. Or even a smile. But I know that’s not the trick to getting me mentally and emotionally out of bed (I may have done so physically hours ago but my heart and my head are still catching up). Since this means is not the answer I am further defeated by the notion of looking elsewhere.
Do I ask a friend for help? E-mail my therapist? Or perhaps run back to bed the minute the day is done? All of the above? The last seems like where things are headed. If only crawling back into bed had the magic of beginning the day again. Relive emotions enough and I am bound to have a better outcome, right?
For now I am just trying not to care. Not because I actually don’t care or because I can’t, I am trying not to because I care too much. I learned that fact about myself at five- I’m sensitive- and that may be the most consistent trait of my lifetime. The one side of me that never wavers (unfortunately) and the first thing I would change if I could.
I may not be in bed today, but the idea is certainly a welcomed notion.
Everyone is a fighter. We all just tend to fight for different things. Or we fight battles we don’t even know are happening. For some, they realize exactly how much everyday can be a struggle. And for others fighting is put off until it feels effective. No matter the case or the person there is always something to strive to, work at, or overcome.
After my recovery started to feel easier and then less of a burden I assumed I could stop fighting. I could put down my armor and shake up the tension. For the most part this kind of release did occur, but to some extent I also knew to keep a shield near by. In spite of everything I experienced and all the stories I had witnessed – or maybe because of these things – I knew that ED doesn’t just put down the gun and walk away. No, he prefers to fire off cheap shots when you’re least expecting them.
I stopped trusting my eyes along time ago. I knew when I would look in a bathroom mirror the nice things I had to say were minimal and the echo inside my mind was powerful. I learned to filter my ears. Somehow paying me a compliment became a tricky obstacle course. Someone telling me that I looked fit, cute, and healthy, was transformed into a foggy and blanketed way for them to tell me I had gained noticeable weight. Unable to accept words at surface value became my motivation. Why don’t I deserve a short and sweet gratification? Why is it that good intentioned words must always have a double meaning, but only when they’re said to me? Unless there was some gigantic conspiracy taking hold of all the kind people in the world I knew who was to blame. ED. He wasn’t satisfied with me just distrusting my own eyes; he wanted me to question my ears as well. I now couldn’t see nor hear anything of worth.
That feeling of loss never goes away easily. Loss of what to say when I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. Loss of what to think when someone compliments me. Loss of control over my own negativity. All of these things ebb and flow. Luckily I have the empty days, which I refer to as such only to say they are days when ED leaves me alone. These days, the carefree and thoughtless meals, remind me to fight (or at least just to hold on) when the bad days come. They don’t necessarily make the bad days any better but they certainly prevent them from getting worse. Knowing how life can be, how days can feel, always puts things into perspective.
For a long time I didn’t know who I was and when I thought about who I wanted to be that also came up blank. Knowing who I should be is what makes the battle having meaning.
I may not always be able to smile when I see a picture of myself. I certainly get triggered to tears still when an unexpected picture emerges. But I do know how much value to place in those things. Of course smiling at my own reflection is a priority, but until I get to that point all I am really going to try and do is hold it together when a picture feels like it can shatter me. Maybe if I get this part down I won’t keep drowning in ED nightmares.
Today might feel like a bad fight, but tomorrow may be a nothing day. Hopefully it all balances in the end.