My Eating Disorder Story
I recently went to the beach by myself. (And, yes, I was socially distancing.) At the end of my stay, I decided to take some pictures of myself at the beach. Horrified at the results, I quickly deleted the awful, bloated pictures of me and drove home. I then took pictures at my apartment where I carefully angled my body to fit my expectations for what it was supposed to look like.
And then I thought, Emily, you’re better than this. Don’t let your body dysmorphia win. Don’t slip back into old body checking habits. You’re surviving through a pandemic! It doesn’t matter if you gained a few pounds. You’re strong. You’re healthy. You’re resilient.
Here, I am including a picture I took of myself at the beach as well as the manicured version at my apartment taken just thirty minutes later.
I’ve wanted to tell my all-encompassing eating disorder story for a while now. Every time I try to write it, it never comes out right. It still isn’t coming out right. But I must start somewhere, and for those of you who have struggled with an eating disorder or are currently struggling, here is a trigger warning for pictures and language centered around losing weight, body checking, and negative body image.
I was only eight years old when I decided to start hating my body.
Eight years old.
It was at my eight year routine physical check-up that the doctor told my mother that I was overweight for my height.
I was seventy one pounds.
I remember feeling horrified. Seventy one pounds. That sounded like a lot. I figure skated and played softball to stay active. But I had been eating more pasta than usual. I just loved pasta so much. I didn’t realize that it was going to make me fat.
From then on out I was not allowed to have an exorbitant amount of pasta. From then on out, I was hyper aware of my body. How it fit in my clothes. How my tummy protruded. How it compared to my peers’ bodies. I wanted a different body.
Several years later, at my fourteen-year physical, I slouched, covering my body as best I could with my arms, while I sat naked on the table. I was ashamed. I weighed in at 116 pounds at only 4’11.
The doctor said to me, “Look at you. You are so self-conscious.” It felt like she had just diagnosed me with a disease. I had a case of self-consciousness.
Although I developed a negative body image at a young eight years of age, I did not actively try to lose weight until after that fourteen-year physical.
I decided I needed to get in better shape after feeling like I was going to pass out at high school softball conditioning practices. I was the slowest person at the beginning of the winter season. My mom suggested I try running to help me feel better at practices. (Mind you, my marathoner dad had tried getting me to run for years up until this point. But I had decided that running was not for me. I simply was not a runner.)
Alas, I started running. It hurt. It hurt a lot. My lungs burned. My legs ached. But I was determined. I built up from half a mile, to a mile, and then to two miles all by myself. I started to calculate my meals, eating as few as 600 calories throughout the day. By the spring season, I became the fastest at softball conditioning practices. I felt energized by my speed. I felt like I could take on the world.
At my fifteen-year physical, I weighed in at 104 pounds and was 5’3. I had lost twelve pounds and grew four inches since my last physical. My doctor commented positively on my “figure.” I felt so proud of myself- of my work. I felt so in control.
However, she was concerned with how much weight I had lost in conjunction with my growth spurt. She asked me flat out if I was anorexic. My mother was in the room and said to the doctor tentatively that I was not eating enough. I thought to myself, “Oh no, my cover is going to be blown.”
I blurted out, “I eat enough. I’ll eat more. I honestly didn’t realize I wasn’t eating enough. I’ll start eating more! Don’t worry!”
I went home and started eating peanut butter sandwiches as snacks. My weight climbed up to 110 pounds and then plateaued. I didn’t consciously think about my weight for an entire year.
It wasn’t until my junior year of high school where I became hyper aware of my body again. It was in that year that I decided to quit softball and instead start running cross country. I was running so much on my own that I might as well start competing. I became incredibly close with my team. We were unstoppable. I fell in love with running and I was so happy and grateful to have such close friendships. I had never had such close friends before. They felt like my people.
However, there was a darker side. Like in many cross country teams, there was a glorification in being lean. A lot of us would drop in weight during the season. It was something to be proud of. One of my teammates insisted on following a strict diet as well as regimented rituals that would ensure that we would race well and stay lean. I personally loved the rules as well as the consistency. It felt so familiar to me. My favorite pastime was following rules. However, at the time, I didn't understand how this mutual obsession around racing well and staying lean would end up hurting the both of us.
I dropped down to 102 pounds during that season. I was ecstatic, however a bit concerned. I didn’t consciously try to lose that weight. I felt out of control. It scared me that my body was losing weight all by itself.
After the season ended, I acquired my first injury. (This is most likely due to the fact I did not take a rest day.) I felt an increase in anxiety from being barred from running for a significant amount of time. I convinced myself I would gain weight if I didn’t keep running. This is where my heavy restriction began anew. As I cycled through injuries over the years, my relationship with food became more and more toxic. I continued to restrict and work out more and more. I was terrified of gaining weight.
I was terrified of changing.
I was consistently invalidated by well-intentioned coaches as well as trainers. At first, I felt angry and frustrated. I was screaming for help. Why weren’t they helping me?
Later I learned that there just wasn’t enough information about eating disorders that was accessible to coaches and trainers. After all, it technically wasn’t in their job description to deal with mental illnesses. I have since learned to forgive them.
By my sophomore year of college, I had developed a laxative addiction and made it a rule for myself that I could only eat the equivalent calories of which I could burn off in a day. For example, if I only burned 800 calories, I was only allowed to consume 800 calories. (This does not at all include BMR or basal metabolic rate which determines how many calories you need to essentially lay down and breathe all day.) I "body checked" incessently to make sure I still had a thigh gap. I couldn't go anywhere without doing a quick body check. First ankles, then knees together. Did my thighs touch? Nope. Great. Here is an example of one of my body checks during that time.
My laxative abuse and starvation led to frequent vertigo attacks. My head would spin and spin and spin. After telling my coach about it, she told me to drink more water. Her dad got vertigo sometimes. I, again, felt very invalidated. How could she downplay a potentially serious illness? Then again, at that point I was hiding my eating disorder behaviors very well. I was a master liar. She couldn’t have known how wrapped up in my eating disorder I really was. After all I was the fastest and leanest that I had ever been! I looked like a “real” runner.
However, I was suffering. I was sick. I needed help.
After reading Rachael Steil’s memoir, Running in Silence, I made the first step in changing. I wrote to Rachael and said,
"You give me hope that I can know worth in myself besides running, thinness, or being 'perfect.' I realized that recovery can be worth it. Because I think you're worth it, no matter what size you are, what times you run, I think YOU'RE a beautiful human being. YOU are worth it, even when you couldn't see it when your eating disorder was ailing you the most. I was always rooting for you throughout the book. And then I realized... why can't I root for myself?"
I checked myself into therapy and was diagnosed with EDNOS or Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. Meaning, I had a fun cocktail of all the different kinds of eating disorders. When asked to describe how much of the room I was sitting in was taken up by my eating disorder (during my intake appointment), I realized that my eating disorder thoughts took up the entire room. There was no room for anyone or anything else… not even me.
I remember sobbing, feeling exhausted, traumatized, and confused, and still thinking to myself deep down that I was not skinny enough to have an eating disorder. I was then admitted and assigned to a dietician as well as a behavioral and a reiki therapist.
My dietician recommended a blood panel.
When I went to my college’s wellness center and asked them for a blood panel due to my eating disorder diagnosis, they told me that I wasn’t thin enough to be anorexic and that a blood panel would just be an expensive way to tell me that I was merely iron deficient. (Mind you, at this point I only ever got my period a few times a year, which despite what some doctors say, is absolutely not normal!) I left the center sobbing feeling totally defeated. When I went to the local walk in, I was pricked several times with no avail. They sent me home. I couldn’t get my blood tested anywhere it seemed.
It wasn’t until I checked myself into Walden Behavioral Care in the summer of 2017 that I finally got my blood panel done. It was discovered that I had a dangerous amount of magnesium in my blood. This was directly caused by my stimulant laxative abuse. My clinical team helped me to slowly wean off laxatives as well as begin to eat what seemed like an astronomical amount of food. I was advised to take the upcoming fall semester off, and if not that, then take my junior year of cross country off.
I did not listen. If I took a semester or a season off, I was going to fall behind. I would not let myself rest.
As if in response to my stubbornness, I acquired chronic back pain at the start of my junior season. It was debilitating in every way. I couldn’t run or walk or just simply be without pain. In turn, I didn’t feel I deserved to eat if I couldn’t move. I fell in a depressive rut. Although I didn’t lose any weight from this period of restriction, I had lost myself. I had forgotten who I was if I wasn’t skinny… if I wasn’t a runner.
It wasn’t until I studied abroad that next semester that I began to truly recover from my eating disorder. When visiting my ex-track teammate who was a German foreign exchange at my high school, I reached an epiphany.
As she and I caught up in her hometown, we realized that we had shared many similar experiences. We had both ran competitively and studied the same subjects in college. However, we both suffered injuries and heartbreaks, from loss of identity to struggles with body image. She said to me, “My injuries have made competing very difficult, and I feel that I have gotten fat, but that’s okay, life goes on. I will heal.” In that moment, I realized that I too needed to adopt that mentality, truly adopt it. If she could do it, so could I.
I needed to forgive myself, I needed to forgive myself for not molding to the image I was trying to force it into. I needed to forgive my body for being in so much pain. Hating it for being in pain wasn’t going to make the pain go away. I needed to let go. My friend was right; I was going to heal. It was going to be okay even if it wasn’t okay now.
I released myself from the need to be perfect, the need for control.
It was okay if I wasn’t rail thin.
It was okay if I didn’t run.
I was still worthy.
I am still worthy.
I am proud of my body and my recovery.
I am tenacious.
I am resilient.
A couple of “imperfect” pictures of me isn’t going to change that.
If you or a loved one is struggling or are simply looking for more information, I am linking the NEDA website and Rachael Steil’s (the author of Running in Silence) website as well as several hotlines!
Remember, wear a mask and be kind.
With love,
Emily
https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/
· National Eating Disorders Association Helpline: 1-800-931-2237
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