One year ago, on July 19th, 2017, I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa by my psychologist in San Francisco. The diagnosis fell on the same week as my family’s beloved beach vacation to Stinson Beach, which is usually a time to appreciate friends and food and to love each other. I was taken into San Francisco on that foggy Wednesday morning to attend one of my routine check-up appointments with my doctor. Until that point, no official diagnosis had been made; rather, my family and I were under the impression that I was simply underweight with no mental illness. I stepped on the scale, my psychologist told me to guess my weight, and I felt my stomach sink when my guess was over three pounds heavier than I actually was. In truth, I hadn’t gained weight since my last appointment, which was around a month prior.
I hoped nothing would come of this after my psychologist asked to talk to my parents “alone,” and I walked out of his sickeningly blue office and into the waiting room. I tried to fall asleep, wishing that I wouldn’t have to wake up and hear what the adults had to say.
Against my desires, I was woken up, taken home, and told that I officially had an eating disorder. I was told that I couldn’t go to sleep away camp, and I was told that from now on I would have to come back to this office every single week to get checked on. All those thoughts whizzed around and bounced off the walls in my locked bathroom upstairs. My parents banged on the door, insisting I come out. Sometimes I wonder if they thought I was going to kill myself.
I remember the first lunch I ate after my diagnosis, back in Stinson Beach. A PB&J with two chocolate chip cookies. I remember exactly how my dad put it all on the plate for me, and how I couldn’t protest or even suggest something I wanted to eat more. I had to accept that this is what is was going to be like, probably for a really, really long time. I remember feeling as if I was perpetually stuck in a haze, unable to really see or enjoy anything. The rest of my week was tainted with texting and calling my friends, trying to explain something I didn’t really understand.
A full year later and I’m sitting in the same house in Stinson Beach. It is an ordinary day for everyone but me. The fog is slowly rolling out over the ocean, my parents are drinking coffee, and everyone is gathered around the counter where I ate that dreaded PB&J. In a way this makes me feel alone, enforcing how overlooked eating disorders really are. I can still see the traces of my anorexia everywhere, continuously overshadowing who I am. But more overpowering is the feeling of peace that I can sense, because I believe I really am okay, and I really am getting better. It is hard for me to believe I will ever be perfect, but I can confidently say that I’m a different person than I was 365 days ago. I’m prouder of that than I am of any other superficial successes that have come my way.
If you read this, thank you for hearing me out. And thank you for your love. I didn’t navigate this year on my own, and I’m grateful for that every single day.
My Fast 