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.

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.

the habit of self-destruction

these past few days, this poem that I wrote has really been resonating with me. things have never really gotten easier, I just started doing them anyway. every day is still a struggle, which often leaves me wondering why. why is it so hard? why do I want to give up and do things that I know are no good for me?

I smoke cigarettes
I used to tear open my skin
I've detached myself from my body,
and sold it,
for money and for drugs.
Was I trying to get rid of it?
And give it up entirely to another?
We don't jump off the plane
on our way to vacation,
or dive out of our cars,
as we drive down the highway.
So why should I abort my vessel?

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.