The month of June had been exceptionally strenuous. After finishing a week of finals, I began my summer with a wisdom tooth extraction. Days of pain meds and restricting my eating to “soft foods” left me weak and sleepy, barely able to walk around or leave my house. Immediately after I travelled to Europe with my family. Traveling had recently been a challenge for me, especially in regards to meals. Not knowing the types of food I was eating, or whether I would like it, or how much exercise I was able to do, always left me in a gray and confusing area to navigate. I hated that some of the joy of travel had been taken away from me, but decided to put eating in the back of my mind.
The result of this month was me, stepping on the scale, and seeing the number light up in the small screen at the top. At first, I almost felt pleasantly surprised. It took me weeks of reflection to recognize this feeling, because in the moment I was so ashamed of it. How could I be pleasantly surprised after all that I had gone through? I had lost 6 pounds in one month, and I was terrified by how easy that was compared to my efforts to gain weight last summer. After a moment, my surprise was superseded by fear and panic. I knew that once I had lost weight, gaining it back would always be difficult. No matter how far along in recovery I was, or how many years it had been since my first diagnosis. I was also terrified because I knew my parents would find out, and I knew how they would react. All the feelings of isolation, exhaustion, and fear that were so prominent an entire year ago slowly expanded in my chest, until it felt almost hard to breathe.
The first person I told about my weight loss was my therapist. Since May, I have been going weekly to see a therapist for depression and low mood as well as my anorexia. She was very understanding, but the concern that was so clearly displayed on her face made me feel defeated. I knew that when it comes to things like this, it is hard for anyone to believe in me, or to trust me.
On the drive home from my appointment, I kept thinking about the different ways I could tell my parents. What explanation would cause the least distress? Should I even say anything? I wondered what they might take away from me, or how I might be punished, even though it would be “in my best interest.” I was upset, because this seemed to be a perfect example of how my anorexia would never become a thing of the past, but rather something I always needed to think about. I questioned if I had really made any progress since my diagnosis, or if this weight loss meant I was back at square one.
However, it suddenly occurred to me that I could use this dreadful circumstance as an opportunity, rather than be afraid of my own mind and self-control. Last year, a weight loss of this nature had catapulted me into an incredibly dangerous and terrifying place, and there was no doubt that I could easily return there without any warning. However, now was as good a time as any to prove to myself that I am not the same person that I was.
I truly felt my recovery in that moment, because I could easily see the option of getting better, of gaining weight. It was not hidden anymore, or shadowed by my illness. I devised a plan about how to regain the weight I had lost, and I did so on my own, without the encouragement of my parents or my psychologist. I began to feel hopeful, especially after that moment of fear when I thought I may still be the exact same girl I was an entire year ago.
I have gained two pounds since that car ride and, surprisingly, I feel good about it.
My Fast 