I have an eating disorder, and it’s likely not what you envision. At 39, I’m a married mother with children and pets, actively coaching my daughter’s soccer team. On the surface, I appear quite average—not overly thin, but not overweight either—and I laugh often. Most people would say I seem like someone who has it all together, except maybe for my colorful language.
Yet, I carry this burden alone; aside from those I’ve confided in, no one knows about my eating disorder.
The face of an eating disorder is complex and often deceptive. You might imagine a girl who is dangerously thin, her bones protruding, nibbling on crackers, fueled by coffee and reliant on laxatives. Alternatively, you might think of someone who is overweight, a secret eater hiding in her apartment, consuming cake and pizza, desperately trying to shed the weight that stubbornly clings to her.
While those extremes do exist, there’s a vast middle ground filled with self-hatred and shame that affects countless individuals. The behaviors associated with this painful condition vary widely, but many of us share similar tormenting thoughts.
FAT.
I’ll perish if I’m fat.
I’m worthless if I’m fat.
I’m unlovable. I’m repulsive. I’m disgusting.
I don’t deserve to take up space in this world.
It feels shallow, doesn’t it? To risk the joy of my fulfilling life for the sake of vanity. But it’s not merely a choice; it’s an illness, a deep-seated sickness that I grapple with daily.
I no longer induce vomiting—that was years ago, and I’ve convinced myself I’m “recovered.” I don’t obsessively exercise; I’ve moved past that too. Binging is infrequent, though I still have my moments. No more laxatives, scales, or diets. My actions may reflect recovery, and I rarely fall back into dangerous habits, yet the thoughts that plague me are insidious. They quietly destroy me and many others who go unnoticed, suffering in silence with a festering internal struggle.
Every day is a battle, filled with thoughts that feel like daggers aimed at my self-worth. The air around me is thick with anxiety, shame, and self-loathing. I hear a constant loop in my mind as I indulge in any food deemed “off-limits.” “Tomorrow, I’ll start fresh. Tomorrow, I’ll be good. Tomorrow, I’ll exercise. Tomorrow, I’ll cleanse. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow…” But who cares about tomorrow? I am suffocating today, and I can’t silence the chaos.
What do you think when you read this? Do you resonate with my pain, silently wishing for change? Or do you see a frail woman, weak and vain in her struggles?
Regardless of your perspective, remember this: I didn’t choose this, and I have lost the ability to think rationally. The tide of my disorder pulls me under, leaving me adrift without an anchor. Yet, I am a strong swimmer—I will find a way to navigate this murky existence, clinging to hope that a brighter future lies ahead.
Someone once told me, “you don’t know what you don’t know.” I am unaware of what exists beyond this endless despair. It has been so long since I felt the clarity of fresh air, untainted by illness. I don’t know what I don’t know.
I’ve begun therapy, but skepticism clouds my trust in those who claim they can help. The fall from hope feels like a deep plunge, and relinquishing control over my disordered thoughts feels like an impending death. Perhaps within that metaphorical death lies the potential for rebirth, like a child discovering laughter anew.
There is no one-size-fits-all solution to this problem; each person must carve their own path. Maybe I should surrender to the current, allowing the waters to take me where I need to go. This journey of discovery could reveal hidden treasures, vibrant and full of life, waiting to be uncovered.
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Summary
This piece sheds light on the often-hidden struggles of living with an eating disorder, emphasizing that it can manifest in various forms and affects people in different ways. The author reflects on her journey, acknowledging the complexity of emotions and thoughts surrounding her condition while encouraging others to recognize the unseen battles many face.