Tag: anorexia

your struggle is real. your struggle is valid.

if you’re reading this in the united states, you are most likely aware that thanksgiving was celebrated this past week. if you’re reading this in the united states and struggle with an eating disorder or disordered eating, you are most likely very aware that thanksgiving was this past week. on thanksgiving i found myself having a conversation with some friends from treatment about how this day is extra hard for us, with festivities centered so much on food, and (usually) well-intentioned relatives making comments about our bodies or our eating habits that are more hurtful than they probably realize. i shared my fears of having to hear about how “healthy” and how much “better” i look, of meticulously planning out my plate and still not knowing what kind of comments i’d get, if it’d be “thats it?!”, “not enough”, or “you’re eating that?!”. i talked about how i was afraid i shouldn’t be eating that morning, or maybe not even the day before.

even though i had all of these fears that i’m fairly certain none of my other family members had, and even though the majority of these fears did in fact become realities, i was convinced i didn’t deserve to be a part of this conversation. i worried my eating disorder wasn’t real or serious enough to warrant me being a part of this conversation with people that i met in treatment for a diagnosed eating disorder about the struggles i was undoubtedly facing in that moment. comparison is a huge part of eating disorder culture, both in the recovery community and in people who are in the depths of their disorder. “so-and-so is sicker than such-and-such because so-and-so has been in the hospital for their disorder 17 times and such-and-such has only been in outpatient treatment.” or “so-and-so looks sicker than such-and-such because so-and-so is at a lower weight.” i’ve always had an excuse as to why i was more of a such-and-such in these situations and less of a so-and-so. when i was at my lowest weight i wasn’t “sick enough” because i wasn’t in the hospital. when i was in treatment i wasn’t “sick enough” because i’d been eating more right before my admission than i had been at other points in time. when i was throwing up six times a day i wasn’t “sick enough” because i looked “normal” enough for no one to notice.

i hate to admit it, but i’ve caught myself passing this judgement onto other people as well, as sort of a way to comparatively validate my struggles, “this person never went to treatment, and are able to say they’re fully recovered and refer to their disorder in the past tense. i don’t think i could ever do that, and i especially wouldn’t be able to without higher-level treatment, let alone no professional intervention at all. therefore, my disorder is real, serious, and valid, and theirs isn’t.” thats where i now know to stop myself. my disorder is real, serious, and valid, and so is theirs, regardless of how different they may be. butterflies and gorillas are both inarguably real animals that definitely exist, but they’re also definitely very different from one another, yet this does not make the butterfly any more real than the gorilla, or vice versa.

another issue with this type of thinking is that the only reason many sufferers have never been in a higher level of care, or even any level of care at all for some, is because treatment for eating disorders and other mental health disorders isn’t the most accessible thing in the world. i’m sure many people do recover on their own, but i’m also sure many who “recovered on their own” are still struggling but have stopped- or never even began- seeking help because they were aware that some insurance companies and some practitioners wouldn’t take them seriously because they were at a higher weight or because they were male, or maybe they knew their insurance didn’t cover any reputable mental health services at all. maybe they didn’t even have insurance. regardless of if inpatient is the optimal level for you and your disorder, or if outpatient (or iop, or php, or res, or whatever else) is a better fit, you deserve to be there and get the care that is most beneficial to you. you deserve to be informed about different treatment options and have access to them.

outside of treatment, people who struggle to any degree at all with their eating, deserve to be respected, avoid hurtful comments, and have the love and compassion of their loved ones communicated effectively, as opposed to in ways that can actually be harmful. most of the general public, at least from what i’ve seen, is not very well-educated on the subject of eating disorders and disordered eating. they don’t understand how their comments on our bodies can be damaging when they’re just trying to help, or show concern, or maybe compliment us on our “progress”. i don’t expect family members to ever fully understand, as how can they, if they’ve never suffered from this illness? but, it would be awesome, not only for me, but for other people who struggle with their eating, if our friends, family members, and acquaintances could be informed enough to avoid the uncomfortable conversations, the conflict, and the unintentional additions to our already persistent battles.

fall

as summer ends and fall approaches, the kids go back to school. i’m currently in the midst of a rather long hiatus from formal education, as I focus on healing myself and saving up money and resources to resume my studies. however, this time of year always makes me eager to learn in one way or another, as my friends head back to their universities and the internet and my television are both flooded with back to school ads. i have always been a super big fan of lists, so here is a list of some of the things i want to learn in the near future.

  1. I want to learn to take up space.
    • standing at about 5’2″ and weighing… enough, and thats all that matters, but i digress, i still feel an intense desire, sometimes even a need, to shrink myself. i’ve spent the majority of my days feeling as though i don’t deserve to take up so much space in the physical plane, doing all that i could to destroy my body to its most minimal form. i’ve been working super hard to overcome that, and i have definitely made some progress that is too substantial to go unmentioned. i should be proud of myself, but i’m still learning to allow myself to feel that way towards myself. i’ve learned to accept my body for what it is now, but to be honest, don’t think i would be comfortable at all if i gained any more weight. i’ve always felt that as a female it was my role and my design to be little, and cute, small, and dainty. i see other women all the time, who have larger bodies, and they are just as beautiful and just as feminine as their smaller counterparts. for some reason, however, i have a hard time applying this to myself. being small has become a part of my identity, something i feel myself seeking reassurance of regularly, as i try to fit into conversation seemingly as often as possible “I ONLY WEIGH X LBS!!”, be it when talking about what a lightweight i am as far as substances are concerned, who i could/ couldn’t take in a (hypothetical) fight (“i’m stronger than i look !! i know i’m little but i’m strong for only weighing x lbs !!”), or just about any other way i could squeeze it in.
    • i’m very quiet until i’m spoken to, i’m passive, i’m agreeable, i do what i’m told. i’m never the first to reach out. i’ve definitely gotten better about this, as i learn to speak up more than i have ever really felt comfortable with. however, i want to learn to take up space in the conversation without it having to be such a conscious effort. i want to find balance and learn to take up just as much space as god has intended for one person to take up, on all planes. i should be able to take up as much space as i need, be it all of the space, or maybe a little less some days. i deserve to breathe and be comfortable.
  2. I want to learn to just be.
    • i’ve always been the type of person who always has to be doing something. most nights i wake up in the middle of the night in a state of panic, thinking its midday and i’m late for work, or remembering my laundry or dishes that definitely do not urgently need to be taken care of at 3 am, but for whatever reason i think they do. the whole month of my birthday every year, i spend stressing out over the idea that i might not have enough fun. the other day I went to the beach having set the intention of just being there, not doing anything, simply existing at the beach, admiring the crashing waves and the warm sunlight and how it feels on my skin. but the whole time i was there i felt i had to be doing something. i had to read a book, not because i wanted to be reading at that moment in time, but because it felt productive, like i was doing something to better myself. i had to take a walk, again, not because it was what i felt like doing, but because i had to make sure i took enough steps that day. i had to set a damn schedule for when i rotated my body as i laid in the sun, to make sure i got a nice even tan, because god forbid i just lay however feels comfortable for me and enjoy the feel of the sunlight on my skin.

those are my 2 main ones for now, i’m sure i will add more as the season progresses.

fomo

i’m in a weird spot in my recovery right now. when i find myself becoming more accepting of my new, larger body, and when i allow myself to comfortably enjoy what was once a huge fear food without having to compensate, i feel proud of myself. but at the same time, i feel so alone and separate. i see a lot of my friends from treatment still struggling, and several heading back into higher levels of care. i see this and i miss being able to relate on such a close level to their struggles. i miss the sense of community within a treatment center. i feel bad for doing well and knowing they still have to struggle. doing well just seems so wrong for me, like its not something i was ever supposed to do. i feel like i’m still supposed to be in the eating disorder community, but i feel so separated from that now that recovery isn’t my whole life anymore.

bricks

i was never much of a poetry person. yeah i could appreciate a good poem. but a year and a half ago i never would’ve even imagined myself writing one. i found my love of poetry while i was in treatment for my eating disorder, when i was all of a sudden feeling all of the emotions i’d held back for so long, but was still just barely well enough to form a coherent thought or lift a pen. for whatever reason, a lot of my first poems referenced bricks, an object i’d never given much thought to. i hope that maybe by sharing two of my favorite poems about bricks, i can figure out their strange personal significance.

Who Gave Me This Body

who gave me this body?
my soul has always been,
drifting through this universe,
where God put me.
in the beginning of time,
with a purpose, with a plan.

a home was made haphazardly,
with bricks, and a glue stick,
and some feathers.
people saw beauty in this structure,
in the way they saw the leaning tower of pisa,
as they looked on with anticipation,
and awe,
wondering how it had yet to fall over.

i suffocated,
trying to squeeze through the cracks,
as i feared the tower would collapse,
inwardly on me.

but why not let it happen?
let the tower fall.
are bricks not beautiful?
why can't they be scattered,
and broken,
with crusty glue,
and the odd feather or two.
i knew a woman who collected bricks.
who ever dared to tell me
that my pile of bricks
had to be formed into a tower?

The Brick Pillow

every night,
she lay her head,
on her brick pillow.

and every morning,
she'd complain
of a headache

and every day,
her lover would offer
to buy her a new pillow.

and every time,
she'd refuse.

and every evening,
she'd lay back down,
on her brick pillow.

back home

my life is so different now that i’m back home, in my childhood bedroom, after hardly having spent any decent chunks of time here in the past two years. thoughts of the way things once were and the way i thought things would still be often flood my head, so naturally i’ve been writing poems about it such as this one, which i have titled “I miss you”

i miss you.
sometimes i feel like i don't exist
or maybe i just don't want to.
i'm afraid to be awake, 
stuck with the thought of you,
followed by your memory.
i'm afraid to sleep most nights,
knowing we'll inevitably be reunited in my dreams.
and dreams end.
a painful reminder that its no longer real,
and feels like it never was.
everything i did i did for you.
so now i no longer know why,
or even how,
to do anything.
you follow me too close,
wherever i go,
but only when you're many miles away.
i miss you.

a year ago tomorrow

366 days ago, the php program I was in here in my home state had decided they couldn’t do enough for me, and so I begrudgingly embarked onward to the inpatient facility they’d referred me to, halfway across the country. I remember the drive to the airport. It was 4 am, I hadn’t slept a wink, and I was talking a mile a minute, promising my dad I’d eat breakfast before boarding my first flight of the day. I remember him getting my suitcase, which probably weighed more than I did at the time, out of the back of the car for me, and following me all the way to the TSA checkpoint, where we hugged and he stood and watched, to make sure I went through and didn’t back out at the last minute, and to make sure I made my promised stop at the Dunkin’ Donuts that stood feet from the end of the security line. While the man in front of me screamed at the barista, insisting on ordering “a BLACK coffee, WITH CREAM!!!”, I turned around, relieved to see that my father had finally left, leaving me feeling a tiny bit less guilty about the fact that my “breakfast” consisted of only a black coffee (actually black, no cream) and nothing more. I’ve done my fair share of traveling, and have no problem sleeping on planes, usually ceasing to be awake before we even leave the ground. But this was my first time traveling completely alone, and the destination was daunting. Without a single minute of sleep, the hour-long flight to Philadelphia and then the additional four hours before finally arriving in Denver on their own felt a million times longer than any crazy-long transcontinental flight I had ever been on. The highlight of my day was my 45 minutes in Philadelphia, where I somehow found time to use the restroom, take a quick snap of a funny sticker on the bathroom wall, and sprint my malnourished self and my over-stuffed backpack literally all the way across the airport, all while keeping my slightly-too-big Birkenstocks intact and on my feet. Out of the whole day. THAT. Was my highlight. Taking a piss in a crowded, dirty public bathroom and dizzily stepping onto the plane with mere seconds to spare. Yet somehow, this super not-fun day, is without a doubt the most clearly remembered out of these past 366. I arrived at ERC Denver and did everything I’ve done in any treatment facility: make friends, cry at the supplement table a few more times than I’d like to admit, cry in my therapist’s office probably as many times, create some emotional Spotify playlists and give them strange titles, and make some (very mediocre, at best) art and poetry that exists on papers still in a box in my closet. I also, a couple months in, ran away barefoot to go move in with a stranger in Denver, where I was surprised to find myself staying for almost 8 months, still writing shitty poems, working a couple odd jobs, and developing a fond love for this perfect stranger, until one day, he finally tired of me, and so I returned back home, where I sit today, writing more angsty poems and compiling more songs than I’ll ever have time to listen to, to remind me of how I’ve felt, what I’ve done, and who I’ve been in these past 366 days.