“What do you want to be when you grow up?” Despite the fact that the question was never the same, my answer was truly always the same.
It wasn’t until an icy Thursday afternoon on my therapist’s couch that I had the troubling realization that this was something I had always wanted to be more than anything else: Thin. Truthfully, I had never wanted to be anything as badly as I wanted to be thin and tiny – more than I ever wanted to be smart or funny or popular or in love. Definitely more than I ever wanted to be a doctor or the President.
The endless pursuit of being thin has been the ghost in my closet, the one that got away, the white noise, the only passion I cling to. At 21, I grew so impatient and exhausted by this goal that I revolted against my body and nearly destroyed it in the process – a process that left my throat sore and my back achy, slumped over on my therapist’s couch on an icy Thursday afternoon, succumbing to the crushing realization that the most constant goal in my life had always been a dress size.
I cried, longer and more violently than I had ever done on the bathroom floor, in regret, in frustration, in disgust with myself. I pictured myself as an 80-year-old woman reflecting on her youth only to find that she had been alarmingly foolish and utterly lost about what actually matters in this life. For as long as I could remember, my deepest fears had been that my worth on this earth would be measured by the amount of space I took up, rather than the light I spread around me. Though I had wanted to grow up and help others, the most persistent cause that had planted roots in my soul was about the flat plane of my stomach, the protrusion of my hip bones, and the elusive, mythical thigh gap. Oh and how 80-year-old me would think, how selfish; how silly; but mostly how sad.
I have heard many references to eating disorders as being the “darkest of days” in a person's life. And while my days did feel undoubtedly dark, I remember them now mostly as quiet. Like when you’re about to go under general anesthesia in the operating room, and then, right before you slip into another world, you can hear only the humming of voices around you, and you can’t summon the strength to say a word. It was the deep sleep I tried to fight off, but ultimately welcomed with open arms. It was, after all, my most persistent and unwavering passion. The truth is that even now, in the midst of trying to work my way into recovery, some days the darkness treads lightly behind me while other days the voices scream around me.
Part of my recovery is owning this: if I had been honest, both with myself and with the well-meaning adults who asked, the answer to their question would have been that what I really wanted was to shrink and shrink and shrink until maybe I disappeared – as a third-grader, as a pre-teen, in high school, after college, that icy Thursday afternoon, always. But what I recently learned is recovery is also seeing that even though my priorities have been sadly disoriented, there were some gentle and graceful things I have always wanted to be: a loyal friend, a grateful daughter, a humble leader, a patient sister, an inquisitive learner, a person who truly felt what it meant to be alive. And eventually, this will be enough to make me get up off the bathroom floor; enough to make me stop trying to disappear.
This is the pursuit of being thin is the ex-lover who never stops calling. It is the one who creeps back like a bad habit without me realizing it. It is, at times, the “can’t eat, can’t sleep” infatuation I fear I’ll never truly get over. But then, on good days, it is the grudge I forget to hold; it is the old, manipulative friend that I no longer need in my life.
It wasn’t until an icy Thursday afternoon on my therapist’s couch that I had the troubling realization that this was something I had always wanted to be more than anything else: Thin. Truthfully, I had never wanted to be anything as badly as I wanted to be thin and tiny – more than I ever wanted to be smart or funny or popular or in love. Definitely more than I ever wanted to be a doctor or the President.
The endless pursuit of being thin has been the ghost in my closet, the one that got away, the white noise, the only passion I cling to. At 21, I grew so impatient and exhausted by this goal that I revolted against my body and nearly destroyed it in the process – a process that left my throat sore and my back achy, slumped over on my therapist’s couch on an icy Thursday afternoon, succumbing to the crushing realization that the most constant goal in my life had always been a dress size.
I cried, longer and more violently than I had ever done on the bathroom floor, in regret, in frustration, in disgust with myself. I pictured myself as an 80-year-old woman reflecting on her youth only to find that she had been alarmingly foolish and utterly lost about what actually matters in this life. For as long as I could remember, my deepest fears had been that my worth on this earth would be measured by the amount of space I took up, rather than the light I spread around me. Though I had wanted to grow up and help others, the most persistent cause that had planted roots in my soul was about the flat plane of my stomach, the protrusion of my hip bones, and the elusive, mythical thigh gap. Oh and how 80-year-old me would think, how selfish; how silly; but mostly how sad.
I have heard many references to eating disorders as being the “darkest of days” in a person's life. And while my days did feel undoubtedly dark, I remember them now mostly as quiet. Like when you’re about to go under general anesthesia in the operating room, and then, right before you slip into another world, you can hear only the humming of voices around you, and you can’t summon the strength to say a word. It was the deep sleep I tried to fight off, but ultimately welcomed with open arms. It was, after all, my most persistent and unwavering passion. The truth is that even now, in the midst of trying to work my way into recovery, some days the darkness treads lightly behind me while other days the voices scream around me.
Part of my recovery is owning this: if I had been honest, both with myself and with the well-meaning adults who asked, the answer to their question would have been that what I really wanted was to shrink and shrink and shrink until maybe I disappeared – as a third-grader, as a pre-teen, in high school, after college, that icy Thursday afternoon, always. But what I recently learned is recovery is also seeing that even though my priorities have been sadly disoriented, there were some gentle and graceful things I have always wanted to be: a loyal friend, a grateful daughter, a humble leader, a patient sister, an inquisitive learner, a person who truly felt what it meant to be alive. And eventually, this will be enough to make me get up off the bathroom floor; enough to make me stop trying to disappear.
This is the pursuit of being thin is the ex-lover who never stops calling. It is the one who creeps back like a bad habit without me realizing it. It is, at times, the “can’t eat, can’t sleep” infatuation I fear I’ll never truly get over. But then, on good days, it is the grudge I forget to hold; it is the old, manipulative friend that I no longer need in my life.
Hi,
ReplyDeleteI'm a mental health counselor who struggled with an eating disorder and now helps other people who are struggling with their own eating disorder. One of the things I focus on is helping them to build an identity outside of their eating disorder. I'm writing a book write now and compiling people's personal (anonymous) stories about how the eating disorder became their identity, what they wish people saw about them instead, and advice they would give to someone who's supporting someone with an eating disorder. The proceeds would go to help people in San Antonio, TX get the treatment they need. Would you be willing to contribute by writing something for my book? Will you please also pass this information along to anyone you know? You can contact me directly at akoplin1@gmail.com
Best,
Amanda