When I Finally Admitted To Myself I Had An Eating Disorder
This piece has been in my drafts for a very long time. I wrote it for myself and never really intended for anyone to see it, but it’s World Mental Health Day, and I want people to understand why WW was a toxic experience for me and I had to stop. I am lucky to now look back on my behaviors and agree that my relationship with food was rocky at best. The steps I have taken to recover has saved my life. Below is what I wrote to myself in early 2018. I’ve added some updates, but regardless, the moral of the story is: you are not alone and you can get through it with resources and support.
Recovery
It was a Sunday morning in 2017 and I woke up to the sound of my alarm at 7 a.m. on the dot, fumbling with the phone to silence the annoyingly upbeat siren ringing in my ears. My head throbbed and my body ached, making any sort of coordination like a toddler walking in the dark after a nap. I stretched in my bed, briefly free from the jail of my own malicious thoughts. They were as blissful as they were fleeting.
I can't believe I binged again last night. I'm a fat fucking piece of shit. What is wrong with me? Why the hell do I keep doing this to myself? I deserve to die.
I tried to reason with myself that it was a new day, and I'd never binge again. Only problem is, I've had this conversation with myself more times than I ever wanted to admit. I posted an old photo to Instagram of a lunch I had earlier that week — you know, since posting a photo of a loaf of bread, cookies, pretzels, fries, a burger, and ice cream wasn't really ~my brand~. I hid my pain and anxiety behind an enthusiastic caption, boasting about my healthy eating choices and low-cal diet products. It was a new day, a new start — I was determined to eat healthy and load up on veggies and lean meats. Can you guess what happened?
Not even two hours after declaring myself an unlovable, worthless pile of trash, I laid on the couch — bound by an uncomfortably full stomach and a wave of depression and guilt. I cried for hours. I hated everything about myself. The idea of walking out my front door felt as daunting as a marathon. I didn't have the will. I didn't have the energy. I didn't have the body people expected of me. The only thing I did have, was food.
On that Sunday in August 2017, I did what I never imagined myself doing. I didn't need help. I could fix what was happening to me. I just needed the willpower. Wrong. I somehow got out of bed and went to my first 12-step meeting. It was a strange experience — I felt so uncomfortable with the idea of saying my feelings out loud, of going to a church, of admitting I was powerless over food. The meeting started with a serenity prayer and I thought about leaving right then and there. I felt completely out of my element and immediately regretted my decision — but my therapist told me to go, so I stayed. A qualifier shared their experience of strength and hope, and I was amazed about how different I was from the speaker — and yet, we were the same.
The rest of the meeting consisted of three-minute shares from people around the room. I've been to many Weight Watchers meetings (which often feel like group therapy), but this was another level. Boundaries are forgotten, judgement is cast aside, and raw emotions radiate. I sat in silence, listening to the familiar pain and suffering among fellows. There was time for one last share, and without planning to, I raised my hand. "Hi, I'm Arielle, and I'm a compulsive overeater and restrictor."
And I broke. Shattered into a million pieces. It's amazing my vocal cords were capable of speech because I felt suffocated by fear. I don't even remember what I said, I just know that I released a lot of thoughts I never had the courage to speak out loud before. I hated feeling so vulnerable. I hated that I shared my weight loss story with the internet and lived my journey so publicly. I hated failing in front of hundreds of thousands of people. I hated admitting I had a problem.
A lot of behaviors and experiences led to this profound realization. I didn't wake up one day and say, "You know what, I think I might have an eating disorder." There were so many signs, so many cries for help...but I ignored them. Looking back on it now, I had been struggling with this disease for years — maybe even my whole life. I honestly believe I had been doing weight loss the healthy way, attainable and slow, but then a shift occurred. I published an article online about my weight loss, and everything changed. The attention and positive reinforcement I received fueled the fire and ignited my motivation. I was determined to look the best I ever had, feel the best I ever had, and be the best version of myself. I was convinced that I wasn't restricting. I was convinced that I just needed more willpower to "get back on track" after a horrendous binge. I was convinced bringing my own meat and dressing to a restaurant was normal. I was convinced I was better off skipping social events so I wouldn't have to encounter food desires. I was convinced that even though I tried to make myself throw up, the fact that I didn't meant I was fine. I was convinced that I had finally reached a place of self-love, and that it wasn't conditional or dependent on my weight. What I didn't want to believe was that these behaviors were a giant red flag, warning me of the impending doom I was bound to face.
It's now October 2019, and once again, everything has changed. My biggest fear when I originally wrote this piece almost two years ago was gaining weight and becoming worthless. What's ironic, is that I DID gain weight, and I am now the happiest I have ever been. I've maintained abstinence since April 2018, I’m in the most loving, respectful, and beautiful relationship, and I'm more comfortable in my body now than I ever was when I was thin. Getting to the place I am now wasn’t easy, and I never could have done it without the support of my therapist, registered intuitive eating dietitian, friends, and fellows. Never in a million years did I believe I would achieve food freedom. Everyone has their own recovery and timelines, but if I can scream anything, it's that you're not alone and it won't be like this forever.
Thank you for reading.