I just wanted to say that if you are someone going through an ED relapse, or struggling more than before, or struggling more than you “should,” I see you. If you are someone who feels guilty for relapsing, or guilty for struggling because of all the time and energy that everyone put in to make you “better” again, I see you. If you feel like you are letting people down, I see you.
We don’t owe our recovery to anyone but ourselves, and everything we are is good enough.
Written February 2020:
I’ve been skipping lunch a lot more than I should be recently. Not accidentally.
This past week I did not bring lunch to my club meeting. It fell on a Thursday, one of the days where I miss track practice, so I felt like I didn’t really need the food. Or maybe like I didn’t deserve the food. I knew it could be spreading the wrong message, but I sat through the whole meeting hoping no one notice, or that even if people noticed that no one would care.
The idea of “deserving” food does seem really wrong and (kinda) gross to me, but I can’t really help it. Some days, I feel like I’ve earned all the meals I want: those are the days when I complete a kick-ass track workout, or where I had eaten a light dinner the night before, or where I had seen myself in the mirror and deemed it “acceptable.”
Other times, I don’t find myself quite as deserving: those are the days where I decide to skip my run because I am too tired, or where I try on five different shirts before going out because they all make me look bigger than I want, or where I feel like people don’t really see me as attractive or thin or athletic.
Being deserving plagues so many aspects of my life, even outside of food.
Sometimes, I question how deserving I am of friendship, considering how introverted I am, and how I feel like I bring everyone down all the time. I question how deserving I am of love because I feel really sad a lot of the time.
Sometimes when stuff just really sucks I feel like I deserve it even if I don’t.
Being deserving, or not deserving, of these things is really silly obviously, but it is hard to remember that when all the dilemmas are going on inside just my own head. Sometimes I don’t feel like I have anyone on the outside to validate me, or to remind me that I am deserving, or that it isn’t even really about being deserving at all.
Written July 2017:
I was supposed to leave for camp three days after i was diagnosed with an eating disorder. I told my friends, family, and practically anyone who asked about my summer. It became apparent after that Wednesday appointment at the UCSF Weill Institute for Neurosciences that I would not be able to attend. People didn’t trust me. I don’t even know if I trust myself.
This left me in an inescapable and confusing predicament. I had to make the decision between lying or telling the truth, or searching through that hazy in-between of the two for something I found comfort in. This is easier said than done.
I’ve been plagued with the stress of interaction, small talk, being who I am. The feeling you get when caught up in a lie, begging your words to work their way out for you. I feel this way every second of every day. I dread speaking to the next person, wondering what they will ask about my plans. Wondering how I will respond.
I’m sick of making excuses.
Written October 1, 2017:
My friend said that in health crisis it’s hard to find that perfect balance between having high hopes and simply remaining positive. Again and again I’ve gone to the doctor, expecting a celebration, expecting a congratulations. And again and again it’s never enough. I’m supposed to eat without resistance, but resist enough so it doesn’t look easy. I’m supposed to be fully weight restored so I can run as soon as possible, but I shouldn’t gain too much weight every week.
Through and through, after triumph and defeat, I have given up. I’m not sure what this means yet, but I don’t want to waste more time fighting for something that I’m never gonna have. This is my letter of resignation. Congratulations, anorexia, you fucked me over. Hope you are satisfied.
Written August 8, 2017:
Today, on August 8, I got my period back. After months and months of starvation and pain, and confusion and hurt, and weeks of work with seemingly no reward, I have something to celebrate.
The average woman dreads the day her period comes along, bringing cramps, moodiness, and a reminder of the struggles of womanhood. But not for me.
Today marks a newer, healthier beginning. With balanced hormones, and a working body. With enough fuel to support me and make myself happy. I have been searching for progress in these weeks of recovery, but felt empty, seeming to only move farther and farther away from my distorted image of a perfect me. But within this evening I have found proof that i am getting better. I’m not struggling for nothing. And I am so damn close.
Written June 23, 2017:
The hair on my arm rises
More than it should
I choke on my own breath
I can only take in so much at a time
Across from me sits a girl
Drowning in the smell of pens
And rubbing alcohol
Eyes deep set
Fingers barely enclosing her phone
Hair hangs low over her face
Body shape one
With a story already written for it
I shouldn’t be the one to judge
But I do
I am one of them now
I think to myself
The girl gets up
Her walk as hollow
As my bones
Her stride as slow
As my heart
Called away for something unknown
And known too well
I wait my turn
And pretend instead I am waiting for someone else
An illusion created before my eyes
I don’t need help
It all washes away
Swept up by the flood
That is the sound of my own name
Being called
Written August 14, 2017:
Why was I always counting. My entire world a math problem, solution always just out of reach. Just another pound away, another bone exposed, so close and presumably too far to accomplish anything. Counting how many meals I had today, counting down the hours until I could trick myself into eating again. I was always waiting for something to happen, for something to change. But nothing ever did. Not for the better, at least.
It was only until the doctor counted the beats of my heart, few and far between, counted the minutes as my body slowed down, the months passing since my last period, that I realized it needed to stop. for me, counting is killing. This is a habit that must be broken. But it is easier said than done.
I had two pieces of pizza tonight, one scoop of ice creme. Four slices of a nectarine. What does it add up too? Nothing. I must start over.
Written July 19, 2017:
It didn’t come out of nowhere, to be perfectly honest. I was shocked, but I didn’t go through that phase of denial people do when told that there is, in fact, something wrong with them. The feeling has always been with me, every time I stepped onto the scale, every time I refused a second scoop of ice cream or worried about my next meal. It was a deep feeling I continuously pushed down because no one wants to admit that they are “that person.” I didn’t think I was. I didn’t think it should define me. I was a good athlete. Good student. Pretty good friend. I had my shit together. Today I learned that, along with all that, I am also anorexic.
That’s the first time I’ve said that word. It terrifies me. But I think that’s part of all this.
My Fast 