It was my 5th week meeting with a therapist, and the tears were streaming. Again.
I kept telling myself I shouldn’t be this emotional. I had already experienced a lot of healing and each day was getting better. But it was like this flood of emotion came up every time I sat on that couch and was asked to talk about the past 5 years and all of the pain associated with it.
I had never, not once, articulated vocally what had been going on. Not to anyone.
I just couldn’t.
But after finally discovering the resources to heal and taking a terrifying leap to start the recovery process, I knew that (eventually) I had to talk about this outside the walls of that therapy office. Someone needed to hear this, and that was worth the vulnerability it would take.
Before I share my story, I want to preface it with a quote on my high school English teacher’s door which, little did I know then, would become the anthem that I live my life by.
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle”
Everyone. you. meet.
One of the reasons it’s taken me so long to talk about this is the fear that people won’t understand— that they can’t understand. But I’m not sharing this so you’ll understand. The majority of you won’t. I’m sharing this to give you a raw example of the reality that each of us is fighting a hard battle. And for the few of you that may see yourself in this story, I hope it will convey the hope of healing that I searched for for so long.
This is my hard battle.
I remember the day super vividly. It was a Saturday. I was 15. The day I started my period. I remember dribbling a basketball in my driveway and silently vowing that I would never let it happen again; or at least that I would delay the next period as much as possible. This fierce resolution stemmed from messages I had internalized from my peers and my environment growing up:
- Periods are bad
- You’ll start your period later if you’re an athlete and don’t have a lot of body fat
- If you exercise a lot and don’t eat as much, you won’t have to deal with a regular period
And so it began.
I started tracking what I ate. I would sneak out of my house in the middle of the night to run as fast as I could around our neighborhood. I characterized foods in rigid categories of bad and good and created rules that would control me for years. I became obsessively fixated on body; I would constantly analyze the bodies of those around me. I spent hours in front of a mirror at ballet every day criticizing my thighs, my butt, my stomach, and my face.
When I was driving, I was preoccupied with thoughts about food. In class, I would be dreaming about what my life would be like in a different body. When I was talking to people, I was comparing my body to theirs and wanting to escape my own skin. Journal entries from that time are filled with words of self-loathing and hopelessness. I restricted, I binged, I exercised excessively, I set extreme weight loss goals and then I repeated the cycle, driven by shame and a relentless battle for control.
My therapist once described eating disorders with this analogy: You’re being pulled by a current down a river, trying to keep your head above the churning rapids but taking on water and about to drown. Suddenly, you feel something, it’s a log floating on top of the water. You grab hold and cling to it fiercely, like you’ll never let go. After a while, the water calms and you see your friends on the shore, calling out for you to swim over to where they are. Your arms and hands are cramped from gripping the log but you refuse to let go. “You don’t understand, this log saved my life.” Your friends try to convince you that you’re fine now and you don’t need it. But you simply can’t let go.
The rapids were my life. It was perfectionism, pressure, unrealistic expectations. It was wanting to belong, wanting to do the right thing for God and for my family, wanting to be the best, fear of falling short. Those were the rapids that were pulling me downriver. And as I struggled to keep my head above water, I found my log. I found my eating disorder.
I came by it honestly and once I found it, I wasn’t ever letting go. It gave me a sense of control over my life. In the short-term, the quest to be thin was invigorating and addictive. In the long-term, it caused me to spend nights crying on my bedroom floor, wanting to disappear, filled with bitter shame and wondering if I would ever be normal again.
This lasted for years. I was approached a few times over those years about my weight. When I had gained weight, I was approached by someone close to me with concern. When I had lost weight, I received subtle but unmistakable positive attention. Those well-intended people had absolutely. no. idea. They had no idea that they were subscribed to a fat-phobic culture that evaluates health based on appearance. Since I didn’t get the chance to say it then, I’ll say it now. She hears you—that 8, or 12, or 15, or 25 year old girl who is already dissatisfied with her body—she hears you. She sees your before and after picture on social media. She hears the way you talk about your body and dieting. She hears you. And the message she’s getting is that her worth is tied to her body, that smaller bodies are valued over larger ones, and that manipulating her size will make her happy.
My freshman year of college is when I hit an all-time low. No one knew that behind the ballerina taking 18 credits was a broken, wounded soul. I didn’t want to be seen. I avoided walking on campus during busy times. I didn’t eat meals around people. I wanted to disappear. My days consisted of logging everything I ate, running, biking, going to ballet, and doing insanity workouts until my body and mind were so weak that I couldn’t think straight. And then I would binge. A lot. For a long time.
I started to feel unsafe with myself; anxious, panicky, depressed, and utterly hopeless. Somewhere along the road, I had gotten it into my head that I was sinning against God. As I prepared to go on a mission I got so close, so many times, to telling my church leaders because I didn’t know if this affected my worthiness to serve a mission. But I still hadn’t told anyone and my shame thrived on secrecy. It got to the point where, worthiness aside, I didn’t know if I was mentally and physically well enough to serve. I knew something was wrong with me, but I still didn’t admit that I had an eating disorder. When I would research it, I would find articles about anorexia and bulimia, but never anything that quite matched what I experienced.
Because no one talks about binge eating disorder.
So I’m here to talk about the eating disorder that no one talks about.
Here are some myths you may have heard or believe about eating disorders:
Let me dispel those:
My recovery started in that therapy office in the spring of 2017. And I still go to that office, along with group therapy and appointments with my dietitian nearly weekly. Those women have saved my life in more ways than they’ll ever know.
Dr. Corinne Hannan taught me self compassion, an idea that was so foreign to me and felt so impossible to put into action. She helped me unravel the painful experiences of my youth and find the courage to say SCREW IT to the ED voice in my head. She introduced me to body acceptance and this quote that still brings me to tears:
“And I said to my body softly, ‘I want to be your friend.’
It took a long breath and replied, ‘I have been waiting my whole life for this.’”
Lauren Absher, RD taught me the concept that revolutionized my relationship with food: Intuitive Eating. She helped me repair the broken trust between my body and I. She taught me that I have unconditional permission to eat. She helped me face my fears with foods I had demonized for years.
Group therapy has taught me about vulnerability; the painful, brave power of vulnerability. It has taught me about empathy and validation. It has made me more curious. More driven. More gentle. More educated. More understanding. More empowered. And above all, it has taught me to "be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle”.
I am still fighting my hard battle. Just recently, as it happens regularly, those old demons came back, and I wrote this poem.
12 May 2019
How can I ever love her?
The girl whose body I hated, tore apart, rejected, demeaned, and belittled for so long.
The girl who I would avoid looking at in the mirror.
The girl I never thought would be worthy of love the way she was.
The girl who I would beat up every time she binged, failing yet again.
The girl who would do anything to hide her body and not be seen.
The girl I wanted to love, so badly, but couldn’t.
How can I ever love her?
Slowly, gently.
Day by day.
Bravely.
Yes, I can love her.
That is the most important break-through I have had in recovery:
1) an understanding of God’s unconditional love for me and
2) MY unconditional love for me.
Pure, unconditional love has healed me and empowered me more than anything else.
My body is a miracle and a gift. Instead of fighting against it, I’ve decided to be its friend. That decision has been the most difficult yet liberating decision of my life.
For years, binge eating disorder was the eating disorder that no one talked about. It thrived on shame and the shame thrived on secrecy. And I had had enough.
For most of you, this was just a raw example of the reality that each of us is fighting a hard battle. But for the few that may have seen yourself in this story, I hope it conveyed the hope of healing that I searched for for so long.
This was my hard battle.
A plug for the resources that have saved me:
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This place:
This book:
These BAD-A** women on instagram:
These articles:
This podcast:
This BYU devotional:
For anyone wondering how to best support someone with an eating disorder:
If you want to talk more about this, please reach out to me. I do not claim to be an expert, but I promise to lend a listening, empathetic ear. You don’t know what I would have given 3, 4, or 5 years ago to talk to someone who understood what I was going through. You don’t have to fight this alone.
Love, Christine
