I’ll never forget the words that changed my life. The words that changed the perspective I had of myself. The words that led to a six-year struggle with anorexia and depression.
“I finally got the abs I’ve always wanted and look at you with all that belly fat.”
The word “fat” was punctuated by the same person pinching my stomach trying to show me just how “fat” I was. The giant hoodie I was wearing didn’t help.
Regrettably, I was too bewildered to respond. I don’t know if a response would have made a difference; my friend could have repeated their statement to drive their point home further or apologized, which I doubt. My lack of response and inability to stand up for myself became a recurring topic in my subsequent years of therapy. Even after all this time, I’m still working on it.
My mom believes she knows what day the comment occurred because one night after dinner I didn’t want dessert, which was out of character for me.
I was never an overweight child; I was a fit, athletic 15-year-old at the time. I practically lived outside, either on my bike or the back of a horse.
Mom always kept healthy food in the house and cooked every night, but we still ate dessert. She has never uttered the words, “I’m going on a diet.” Instead, she said, “Everything in moderation.” Have a couple of cookies, just not the entire sleeve.
My dad routinely worked out, showing my brother and I the importance of physical fitness. When we were young, he used to take us in the jogging stroller or out on bike rides, some of my fondest memories. Dad also encouraged us to play sports; it didn’t matter which ones, but he understood the value of them.
Unfortunately, growing up in an environment that emphasized health and well-being was no match for the comment. It completely changed my life. Then Dad received orders to Naples, Italy and the ensuing isolation led me to a downward spiral, and I rapidly lost weight. I began to analyze everything I ate and drank and how it affected my body. I would look at myself sideways in the mirror, pulling my shirt taut to see if my stomach was flat or bloated. If I became bloated, whatever I had consumed was put on the “bad food” list.
It wasn’t long before I began to exercise excessively. I’d ride my bike to the gym, work out for several hours, go home and exercise in my room before I went to bed. I researched how many calories certain activities would burn everything from weights and biking to everyday mundane tasks like brushing my teeth. These behaviors soon led to calorie counting. At my worst, I consumed approximately 300 to 600 calories a day and tried to burn it all off and more. Before I became anorexic, I was a healthy 5’4” and 113 lbs. In less than a year, I was a gaunt 87 lbs. I took dieting to the extreme.
I lived in baggy clothing during those anorexic years, ashamed of my body, and wanting to hide it from everyone including myself. The clothes made it difficult for Mom to notice my skeletal frame, until one day when she walked up to me and grabbed my bicep. Well, the little that was left of it.
She said, “I think you’re anorexic.”
An accusation I flatly denied, although not fully comprehending what she meant. I couldn’t possibly be anorexic.
“No, Mom, I’m fine.”
We sat in the bedroom where she implored me to tell her what was going on. Something was wrong. What had happened to cause a happy, healthy teenager to become a shell of her former self?
I blurted out the comment I had been repressing for the last eight months. It felt good to talk.
After some tears and hugs, I found myself on computer Googling “signs of anorexia.” As I clicked on link after link, the realization that I fit every symptom was overwhelming. I broke down in tears, wondering what the future held.
Over the next month, we were preparing to move back to Washington, D.C. By this time my parents knew I had a serious problem but were unable to get me the help I needed. They tried everything they could to get me to eat. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as simple as “just eating.”
When we made it back to D.C., Mom scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist at Ft. Belvoir Army Hospital to admit me to the adolescent behavioral health clinic. After sitting in a cold office answering a multitude of questions, the psychiatrist told us I would need blood work done before I could enter a treatment program.
While getting blood drawn, I recall telling Mom I didn’t feel well.
She asked, “You don’t?”
Before I could respond, I passed out.
When I awoke all I saw was darkness. It was a frightening experience for my poor mother and myself, as I am not prone to fainting. This episode, directly caused by my eating disorder, was a big warning sign.
We were then told to go to the ER where they would try again. It took two IVs, a couple of heating pads, a blanket, and six attempts to get the blood drawn finally.
Even after all this, I was adamant about the fact I could take care of myself, nor did I need anyone’s help. It was a serious situation, and I didn’t want to admit it. I was in denial, and denial makes the recovery process harder, something I quickly learned as I entered treatment shortly afterward. Little did I know, this was the beginning of a six-year struggle, a battle against my eating disorder. None of us fully comprehended what lay ahead of us.
You are brave. You are beautiful.
Your raw words are giving others strength. Love you.
You wouldn’t know by meeting you today the struggle you have had. You seem the picture of health. You are a beautiful, strong woman and your story will no doubt help others. Wishing you all the best.