As we come to the end of National Eating Disorder Awareness Week; I can’t help but reflect on last year.
Over 29 million Americans struggle with a diagnosable eating disorder. This number doesn’t include the people who suffer from a complicated relationship with food that doesn’t meet diagnostic criteria. They have the second highest mortality rate of any mental illness.
I can tell you that most people actively in a disorder know these facts. They’ve seen the statistics. I am different, they think. This will work for me. I can do it right. And it does “work”, if working means controlling your body into oblivion and losing weight. But it also works to change the way your body functions.
For me, my hormones were so out of whack that I had the ligament laxity of a heavily pregnant woman. My joints were even more Jell-o then they usually are. My hips hurt constantly. No pain, no gain; right?
I’ve been getting better for a long time. Healing is an interminable process. For many of us, it’s necessary to take the whole of our lives. This part is what I’ve only come to realize in the last year. The Lord has put incredible people in my life who serve as my guard rails; keeping me from straying off the path of recovery. They’re the people who take my hand and gently explain “That would not feed my toddler. It is certainly not a meal for you.”. The ones who love me enough to say “No” when I express that I think I can try some additional fasting.
My favorite fictional recovering addict explains it best.
“I'm an alcoholic, I don't have one drink. I don't understand people who have one drink. I don't understand people who leave half a glass of wine on the table. I don't understand people who say they've had enough. How can you have enough of feeling like this? How can you not want to feel like this longer? My brain works differently.” (The West Wing)
The NIH has discovered that the brains of animals who engage in eating disorder behaviors are dysregulated and wired differently. All this to say: I thought there would be a day I didn’t need help. When I could let my guard down. When I could take one drink and not take ten. But each time I tried, something slipped. I went a little too far and the counter in my brain had to start again at zero.
At the time of this writing, I have been relapse free for more than 365 days. Was I tempted at times? Intensely. Did I do everything but take the final step? Sure.
But each time I didn’t go down that path; when I looked at the photo memories and said “You weren’t prettier; you were sick”; when I rolled my eyes and ate dinner full of loathing because I made a promise to myself and to those I love; when I realized I don’t have to earn love or respect through discipline or thinness—those are the truest moments of my recovery.
And all a year is, is a series of moments. 525,600 in fact. (I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.)
NB: Recovery is possible. If you think you or a friend might be suffering, please check out resources here. You are so loved and you deserve to be whole and happy.
Love the West Wing reference! Such a great scene
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