Healing From My Eating Disorder

A few years ago, I was sitting through a stuffy Psychosocial Interventions class at the University of St. Augustine in my graduate occupational therapy program. We were taking turns leading simulated psychology groups with an assigned general diagnosis, and creating group tasks to practice interventions. I was participating as a pretend patient in an eating disorder support group, creating magazine collages about our experience with an eating disorder. As I was uncapping the Elmer's glue stick to paste the glossy cut-out of a scale onto my construction paper, I froze. Suddenly, my nervous system was in hyperdrive. I felt my pulse skyrocket as I became dizzy, shaky, and disoriented.

It dissipated within a few minutes. I didn't understand what was happening at the time, and chalked it up to low blood sugar or stress from exams.

About three months later, I was invited to a Navy spouse "barre and brunch" event. I didn't really want to go. I never felt as though I fit in, and the very idea gave me social anxiety. I pushed myself to go, anyway. I participated in a barre class with a group of thin, toned women whose husbands were deployed overseas with mine. I felt subconscious of my body throughout the class, making sure to outperform all of them and suck in for the group photo.

After class, we proceeded to go to brunch at the diner next door. Sitting in the squeaky diner booth, the bubbly waitress appeared to take our orders. The girl sitting next to me, Riley, proudly placed her order: scrambled eggs with extra cream cheese, extra bacon, and an iced coffee with whipping cream. "Keto!", she not-so-subtly boasted with a smile. She engrossed the group of young women sitting around her of her dieting triumph. She had lost twenty pounds in two months and couldn't wait for her husband to return to surprise him with her "hot, new body". Comparing myself to her I felt immense shame. Why didn't I think of doing keto during deployment?! What was my husband going to think? Suddenly, that feeling arose again. Heart in my throat, blood rushing in my ears. I felt panicked.

What was happening to me? What was causing this? I figured I was over-reacting. It was probably just dehydration or some mild social anxiety.

A few months later, I was laying in bed, scrolling mindlessly through social media on my phone.

Cute dog! *like*

Ohh! Sarah got engaged! *like*

I stopped scrolling at a picture of a girl. She was a beautiful girl in a larger body, beaming into the camera. Something about the seeming radiance emitting from her eyes and into mine caught my attention. I scrolled to the caption, reading about the girl and her journey to loving herself. She struggled with an eating disorder but was now in recovery. She detailed how much her eating disorder had cost her, and the life she had gained, along with weight, in recovery.

I starting sobbing. My dogs looked at me with concern. I cried one of those deep, guttural cries you feel in your deepest depths. I cried, and cried, and cried until there was nothing left. Finally, a release.

I related to that post so much. But why? Did I have an eating disorder? Wasn't that for people in hospital beds weighing 80 pounds? Surely, that wasn't me. So then why did my soul hear this stranger's experience and feel held?

I started looking into different eating disorders: anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, and orthorexia. I took a step back and looked at my life: I had a degree in exercise physiology, a certification in personal training, competed as a crossfit athlete, and only ate an ever-shrinking list of nutrient-dense, calculated macros I deemed "healthy".

My version of "health", which was aligned with our society's model of "health". I was praised for my commitment! I was encouraged by my doctor to "keep it up!" I was sought-after by friends and family for exercise and nutrition advice. I created my entire identity around the idea that I was fit. My entire life revolved around forcing my body through grueling hours of intense workouts 6 days per week, choking down tasteless meals with feigned ease, drinking gallons of water until my eyeballs started floating, and living on a hamster wheel of obsessive, shaming body thoughts.

Harder! Faster! Stronger!

In the rare moments my biologic drive to survive won and I ate something resulting in more calories and, usually, pleasure, I was in for it. I cursed, shamed, and punished myself. Work it off, suck it in. Do BETTER. I hated myself for such lack of willpower.

Fat. Weak. Useless. Lazy.

This was my reality of almost ten years. But something deep inside of me gently whispered, ever-so softly, "please, no more".

Despite its barely audible presence, I felt pulled towards this voice. I knew I needed to make changes. I knew I had unknowingly sunken down the slippery slope of pursuing "health" and was drowning in the depths of an extreme eating disorder.

With this realization, I sought help. The stringent, insurance-determined path to treatment was lengthy and loaded with blockades and judgement. Feeling disheartened and frustrated, I looked for alternatives. A quick Google search led me to a private pay clinic in the area. A woman with a soothing, therapist voice answered the line, promptly answering all my questions until arriving to the cost for treatment. Extreme sticker shock followed. Treatment was going to be $500 per week for a recommended 12 weeks, at least. That's a steep ask for anyone, let alone an unemployed graduate student. My husband sweetly encouraged me, saying, "if this was heart medication that could save your life, we wouldn't even question the cost. You deserve to get better."