Eating Disorder Recovery: My Unstable Path to Stability

        Three years ago, I went from a delusional state in regards to my health to total awareness.

        At the time, I was weirdly obsessed with HIIT and I was eating less than even a small child should. I had a large binder that was stacked full of underwhelming meal plans and ridiculous diets. I was spending the majourity of my day either exercising or in bed wishing I was. Everything revolved around losing weight for me, and it sucked. It didn't occur to me just how bad it was though until July 1st, 2019.

        I remember that day so clearly. My body was exhausted and I felt sick to my stomach, but I had never missed a workout before, so I forced myself out of bed. Even though I didn't feel well, I ran through all of my normal exercises just fine. It wasn't until I got down to do my floor exercises that I realised I had done too much.

        I'd gone through all of my routine with a dull pain in my chest up to this point. I ignored it all the way through because it was normal when I was moving a lot, so I figured it would just go away as always. But after two push-ups, the pain increased. It turned from a dull throbbing to a sharp, crushing feeling. I ended up collapsing then. This happened a lot, so I decided to roll over to see if lying on my back would help. It for some reason didn't this time. I ended up clutching my chest and twitching around a lot, trying to get some kind of control. It was hard to breathe. I couldn't call out for help. I couldn't even grasp my phone to send out a message.

        I figured that I was dying, or at least going into some type of shock. And I didn't care. I didn't mind that I was going to pass on to another life, nor did I care that I wouldn't be able to finish my workout. I was bothered by the fact that I was probably dying as the result of an eating disorder. I was bothered by the fact that someone would have to call my boyfriend to tell him, and he would never get to hear me say I love him for the final time. And worst of all, I was terrified of the possibility of my sister coming into my room later in the evening to talk to me and instead find me lying there. Eyes open, heart stopped, and body cold. I was afraid of the trauma that would leave for her, or my brother, or anybody else who say my body before it was dragged out of the house. That was what I was thinking about when I passed out.

        I was amazed when I woke up thirty minutes later. I thought for sure that I had died and all my time was up. When I opened my eyes again and I saw my room, I was so relieved. I didn't mind dying, but I didn't want to die there. My body was sore, my heart was beating wildly, my vision was blurry, and I was struggling to breathe. But I was alive, and that felt so good.

        My legs were too weak for me to stand, so to celebrate my almost-death, I crawled myself over my bed. I propped myself against the frame, to make it look like I was just sitting there, and I picked my phone. Then, I called my sister. When she answered, I practically begged her to make me something to eat; anything at all. She didn't know the situation, but she went to the kitchen and got me some food. When she brought it to me, I said that I had overworked myself and was just having a really bad asthma attack. She said she understood, then went back to her room. She never knew the full truth, and she didn't have to, and neither did anybody else. I spent the rest of the day in bed eating whatever was offered to me.

        No one knew about this situation until about a year later when I was sure I was no longer at risk of it happening again. I didn't want anyone to worry about me, so I kept it to myself. But it was that day, because of what happened, that I decided I was fed up with the games my brain was playing with me. By this point, I had been struggling with anorexia for eight years. I had already had enough. I started looking into recovery. I searched around for treatment options, centers, and any kind of advice I could find. That was July first, the start of my journey - aka "the idea".

        A few days later, I left home to stay with my grandparents for a while. It was a win-win situation. They got to see me, I got to see them, and it got me away from the room I was the most sick in. While I was there, I decided to take a short walk to the library. That was when I stepped into the second part of my journey: The action. I looked around for any books I could find about eating disorders. It was a small library, so there was only one book. I grabbed it, took it home, and immediately began to read. Jen Petro-Roy's "You Are Enough" was a lifesaver for me. It got me serious about wanting to change and had so much advice that helped me for months, even years, to come. I took almost all of the advice seriously. July eleventh was when the fog cleared from my head and I was sure I wanted to live.

        The first couple of months were the hardest. I wanted to get better, but I still had the sick voice telling me to keep losing weight. I struggled with my body dysmorphia, I didn't want to eat, I barely got my hunger cues, I was constantly nauseous, the bloat was horrible, I had this constant urge to exercise, and all I wanted to do was cry. Then, September came and broke me. I ran into a series of very unfortunate events - countless deaths, numerous fights, crumbling relationships, a toxic friendship with someone who threatened my life, and to top it all off, I was pressured into speaking to my rapist against my will. It was a very hard time for me emotionally, and I broke. I cut everybody off temporarily and isolated myself. During my isolation period, the uncertain part of quasi-recovery started to become stronger. I could feel myself getting sick again, and decided to run away from my problems. I packed a bag and took solitude at my grandparents house again. For two weeks, I did all of the mental work. I practiced gratitude, I practiced body neutrality, I focused solely on body positivity, and I just relaxed. I ate every time food was offered to me and I was refusing exercise of all kinds. I took care of my body and put all my energy into my headspace the whole time.

        By December, my mentality had improved so much that I began completely cutting ties with people I called 'friends'; people who wanted me to be sick. I was putting a lot of focus into healing and developing a better relationship with my body. I got rid of anyone who was unhealthy for me, I got rid of all my clothes that were too small, and I spent every day just appreciating everything my body did for me. This was partially brought on by all the work I was doing, but it was also because of my mirror. When I started to get better, I covered it up with a mirror so that I wouldn't get triggered by seeing myself. But this day, I wanted to check my outfit out. I took the curtain off the mirror and saw myself for the first time in a long while. I still looked pretty sick, which is expected when you're only five months in, but I also looked human. I looked more human in that single moment than I did throughout all of my years of puberty. I liked what recovery was doing for me. It started to feel real after that.

        In January of 2020, I was no longer involved with people who encouraged my illness. By February, I had completely removed everyone who was bad for any aspect of my health, and I apologised to anyone who I might have been bad to. Everything was getting better for me. My depression and anxiety were lightening up. I felt free from my anorexia. I finally felt in control.

        My favourite day from that year is July 11th. It was my one-year anniversary in recovery. Some weeks before, I found a binder I created that was full of extreme diets and exercise plans. I decided that I wanted it gone - totally and completely. That was my first ever recovery party. I invited my friends and family members on the anniversary day, we started a fire, ate cheeseburgers, and watched all two hundred pages from that God-awful book turn into ash. I stepped into a new chapter of my life: One where I got to be E.D. free.

        Things were good, but life moves in phases. From May 2020 to May 2021, I was going through a lot of conflicts in my relationships, and it had my anxiety and depression spiraling out of control. It made recovery difficult, but I did everything I could to keep myself as level-headed as possible. It took a lot of energy, but I never caved. I wouldn't let myself become victim to my anorexia again. My other illnesses were getting bad, but my view of myself was getting stronger. I was focusing on the fact that I wasn't the cause of all the conflicts, and that my body had absolutely nothing to do with it. It wasn't always easy to keep those reminders in my head, but it helped me stay some type of stable even though the rest of my headspace was crumbling.

        Finally, after an emotional outburst and some poor, impulsive decisions, things started to get a lot better. My relationships started to improve, which meant my stress was evaporating. My depression lightened up a lot, I became more comfortable with myself and my life, and coping mechanisms - such as painting - started to work again. I felt like I had more control over my illnesses, emotions, and responses. If I felt like my mental state was getting bad again, I could work through it and get over it in a calm and healthy manner. A year later, I'm still doing good. The depression lives on, of course, but it doesn't own me anymore.

        I was able to do the same thing with my anxiety. Coping mechanisms, meditation, and some experimental methods have made my anxiety disorder less severe and out of control. I don't have spontaneous panic attacks, which is nice. I can talk to people without overthinking so much that I drive myself into an emotional hole. And best of all, I can fully be myself. I'm no longer anxious about what people may or may not think of me or what may or may not happen if I say or do something. I have the peace of knowing that it doesn't matter, nor does it affect my life. With both my depression and anxiety out of the way, it's become a lot easier to appreciate my complete being.

        It was last October that I realised I don't feel insecure anymore. I still have spurts of insecurity, just like every other human, but it never lasts an unusual amount of time. The time I spend feeling bad about my body is practically nonexistent compared to how often I feel good or just neutral about myself. And when I do have the feeling of insecurity, it's rarely difficult to deal with. Most of the time, I just have to remind myself that insecurity is normal and it doesn't mean there's anything wrong with my body.

        I don't ever think about diets anymore either. Most of my exercise comes from meditative walking, Pilates, and light exercises designed to keep my strength up. I walk almost every day and I want to do Pilates more often, but I'm careful to only do a short workout once a week at most. I don't want to overdo it - a bad habit I still struggle with. I stopped counting my calories, stopped counting my steps, stopped thinking about what I don't like about my appearance, and stopped listening to other people's judgement.

        In terms of social media, I unfollowed a lot of models, extreme dieters, and people who share a lot of food myths. I started following more certified dietitians, eating disorder therapists, people in recovery, people in the body positivity and neutrality communities, and people who support HAES - which means "Health At Every Size" - a movement acknowledging that you can't identify health through appearance. I replaced all the negativity and comparing with education and support.

        I consider 'full recovery' to be the absolute freedom from my eating disorder and the thoughts or habits it comes with. I can't say I have that absolute freedom yet, but I know I am well on my way. Things have become stable enough that I know full recovery is possible, and I know that I am close to it. Here is to three years free, and a lifetime left to go.