My Fast

        I’ve never just been there. For the past three months I’ve been closer, farther, healthier, calmer. Not done. Not ready. It feels as if I’ve been suspended in midair between my fears and my dreams, yet they are both the same thing at once.

        It sounds fractious, but it is hard when you are never enough. And it feels like that is what I am. I’m never enough for my psychologist, because I don’t know the right answers. I’m never enough for my parents, whose weekly weigh-ins always result in a frown, the slight tilt of the head, and a condescending “you are getting there.” But mostly importantly, I’m never enough for myself. I keep failing to perform one of the most basic tasks humans are ever asked to do. Babies eat, old people eat, blind people, crazy people, all people. And I can’t do it. What does that make me?

       I’ve been “closer” forever, and it seems like things will stay that way. I’ve learned that sometimes feeling confident in yourself isn’t victory enough, and that other people making your decisions isn’t comforting, it’s terrifying. I feel pressure from all ends of the universe, and they are continuously colliding in the pit of my stomach. It makes me nauseous.

In the distance, where it seems the entirety of my life exists, I can see a girl who looks just like me. But she isn’t who I am. This girl is in control. She doesn’t know what it’s like to live with what I do. Because she is strong. I am weak.

I run as fast as I can to reach her. I can almost feel her t-shirt in the palm of my hand. But without warning, she disintegrates, and I am left with nothing. Not close enough to reach, close enough to see.

Just closer.

        I thought losing weight would make me faster.

        Spring of 2017 was the end of my freshman year track season. I was ending my training with a final 3200 at Meet of Champions in Edward’s Stadium, a race only few from my school were ever able to qualify for. The yellow track shone brightly on that beautiful day, cloudy and cool: perfect weather for a PR. My smile was equally bright at the fact that I was there, alongside state and national champions, able to represent my school and finish off the incredible season I was having.

        It seemed, however, as if everything dimmed once I finished; I was ten seconds off my PR, and I could barely hold my arms up or walk off the finish line. I was 5’5 and 98 lbs, and my physical state can be described quite simply: very, very bad.

        When thinking about the long, gruesome story of my eating disorder, the phrase “it all started with a diagnosis” sounds like a blatant lie, a secret. In truth, my problem began long before I even realized it was there, the entirety of which I cannot tell without a considerable buildup. Because in truth, that’s all it is, a buildup. A network of circumstances, decisions, and ideas that all fit together in this horribly perfect way. So it is all I can do to start at the very beginning.

        At the beginning of my track season, only a few months prior, I began training at a healthy weight for a girl of my age and height. I was eating well and had gained a considerable amount of weight back since my previous cross-country season, in which I had been slightly light but had not given it much thought. That being said, after the first couple of races, I noticed that the times I was hitting were not meeting the standards I had set for myself. Rather than attributing this to my lack of training, I came to the conclusion that returning to the weight I maintained during cross-country would enhance my performance.

        I thought losing weight would make me faster.

        Two months later I had lost twelve pounds, far exceeding the original weight goal I had given myself. But my times were so fast, and that reward seemed to supersede the feeling of the bottomless pit in my stomach and the rush of panic I felt every time food was mentioned.

        After my race at MOC, I sent my coach a text explaining how my performance was impacted by my inability to strategize and use pacing to my advantage. Despite the season being officially over, I began running the next week.

        During the first few weeks of the summer, every day felt like an eternity to me. All I could focus on was eating, constantly counting and recounting the number of calories I had consumed, the number of hours since I last ate. In truth, I am unsure how long it would’ve continued like this had it not been for my parents, who, after hearing me complain about the strange amount of body hair I had grown, and the fact that I hadn’t gotten my period, decided to set up a doctor’s appointment at the UCSF Eating Disorder clinic. “I don’t have an eating disorder!” I told them when I heard the news, refusing to admit anything to myself.

        “We know,” they responded. “We mainly just want you to see a dietitian to help you get in enough calories to match your workouts.”

        And that was the narrative my family told, even months into my treatment. There was no mental problem, purely ignorance and an inability to intake as many calories as I was expending.

        That all ended with my official diagnosis in July, after I failed to remain on the “i-don’t-have-an-eating-disorder-i’m-just-too-light” treatment plan my pediatrician had set for me. This diagnosis set the precedent for the most challenging moments of my life, for when dealing with anorexia, the only way to erase your fears is to realize they are real, and to approach them head-on. There was no way to avoid gaining weight. No way out.

        Recovering from an E.D. takes both physical strength and mental fortitude. I felt alone and watched over all at the same time. But through my recovery I have learned how strong I truly am, and I hope others suffering in the same way can see that within themselves as well. Don’t be afraid of your power. It is beautiful.