Currently Eating Whatever the Heck I Want (well trying)

I don’t know how to start these things. Do I give a light metaphorical prelude? Do I jump right in? Do I apologize?

I don’t want to apologize.

Food is one of the basic needs of human survival, often the first on the list. It is supposed to be an instinctual need – your body reports hunger and you eat – done. But it isn’t like that for everyone and it wasn’t like that for me. I don’t like using the word eating disorder or anorexia or bulimia or EDNOS. They exit my mouth strangely and leave a bad taste. They are too much of a solid affirmation of what I spent so long trying to deny.

It’s fine, I’m fine.

I’ve struggled with eating disorders since I was 14. I’ve been in therapy since I was 9. I’m not sure if that speaks to the ineptitude of countless therapists or my own will for self-destruction. My parents found out when I was 17 after my friend threatened to tell them if I didn’t. I remember it quite clearly, which is surprising since so many days were reduced to fuzziness. I went over to her house Saturday afternoon and the walk there had made me incredibly tired. After talking for a bit I ended up asleep in her bed for the rest of the day. When I woke I had two options – I tell my parents or she does. They knew by the end of the weekend.
I was officially diagnosed by the end of the month and switched over to specialty doctors. My first nutritionist was awful. My re-feeding was so rapid I completely freaked out and completely regressed. My second was probably a sufferer herself and helped me develop new unhealthy habits. My parents were so uneducated about eating disorders that they saw progress where I was hiding my disorder. Somehow, I was allowed to go to Israel for my gap year after high school and there, I hit rock bottom. I left the program I was attending early. My parents told me later that they barely recognized me when they picked me up from the airport. My therapist was pushing for inpatient treatment which I flatly refused.
I think there was some sane part of my brain that told me if I went inpatient, I would never be able to leave.
We compromised on an outpatient program in the city.
Recovering was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t want to recover. I didn’t want to get better. Every day I had to find a new reason to recover and it was never myself. It was my mom and my dad. It was my sister. It was my friends. It was even my cat at one point. Nobody pets her like I do.
I think I could’ve drowned in the amount of tears I shed there.
Eating food seems so regular. Regularly eating food is a given for most. If I only could’ve stepped out of myself for a moment and seen the tortured eyes with which I looked at a damned plate of noodles. The amount of energy and time and aching it took for a meal that was obviously way too heavy and way too fatty and way too much for a fatty like me.
I’m not exactly sure when I started getting better. Maybe it was when I came to the program the first day kicking and screaming, but I was there. Maybe it was when I met a dietician who was able to tap into my twisted brain and help guide me. I remember one day after I had been there for almost a year, we had a new person in the group, a woman of about 35 who was coming from an inpatient facility and was in complete and utter denial about her disorder. She had excuses for every behavior and normalized all her crazy regiments so flippantly, I was left flabbergasted. I kept thinking how ridiculous she was and how she couldn’t see the emptiness of her life and there was a spark inside of me that said damned if I’m going to become this woman. She was a 35 year old child. She had a job, she lived on her own, but she could not feed herself, couldn’t sustain herself. She had no control. I had no control. What I was doing wasn’t control – it was giving up.

There was no sudden turnaround. It was a frustratingly long road and my pace seemed excruciatingly slow. But at one point I realized that I wanted to recover. I wanted to recover. I wanted to go out to dinner with my friends and not think about every calorie and study the menu online beforehand. I wanted to like my body. I wanted to go to a birthday and eat cake and not feel guilty and bad and disgusting. I wanted to go shopping and not have a breakdown in the dressing room.
I wanted my friends back.
I wanted my family back.
I wanted to start a family of my own.
I started wanting so many other things besides a picture of a girl I had in my mind that was always just out of reach.

I consider myself a success story. I think that’s important. This is my first time talking about this on a public forum. I can count on my fingers who knows about this, but now I have no idea. That’s really scary. I’m scared people will look at me differently and I won’t look like who they expected. I’m scared of being exposed and vulnerable. But there are too many people that are struggling to justify me not sharing the possibility for success. I still struggle sometimes. It’s hard for me to accept my body. It’s hard to indulge in food. It’s hard to trust – but the difference is I do it anyway. I’ll deal with the thoughts afterwards and I’ll try and grow from it.  And every time it’s just a tiny bit easier. I have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I go out for ice cream. I have hot chocolate on rainy days. I go to the gym and leave after just an hour. I go to family dinners and let myself take seconds.
I can honestly say I’ve never been happier. I’m closer with my parents now than I’ve ever been. I have an amazing husband. I have great friends. I’m doing well in college. And still, nobody pets my cat like I do.
I am currently eating whatever the heck I want and it’s wonderful.

 

Merav