The Reality of Eating Disorder Recovery

It’s National Eating Disorder Awareness Week, and to honor my journey and the journey of the millions of other brave warriors who are currently battling or have battled an eating disorder, I want to write about a part of that journey that’s often overlooked: recovery. I find it rather shortsighted that in media portrayals, literature, and even treatment, recovery is rarely given the attention and recognition it deserves. It’s arguably the most important—and, in my experience, certainly the most challenging—aspect of overcoming an eating disorder, and it’s also the stage that many of us will be in for years or even the rest of our lives.

My recovery began six years ago when I discharged from my second—and final—residential treatment center. Prior to then, I’d been under the spell of my eating disorder; although it was destroying my life—and came close to ending it a few times—I was convinced that it was my identity. I was scared of who I’d be without, scared of having to face the real world outside of the sterilized psych wards that had become my second home, and scared of what would happen if I let go. It took over two years of near-nonstop treatment for me to reach my breaking point; to become so fed up with the substandard quality of my life and so frustrated that my friends and peers got to live theirs while mine felt stalled in time that I was finally motivated to choose recovery over perpetual relapse and commit to getting better. What many would likely see as a simple decision was anything but that to me at that time as a victim of an exceptionally illogical mental disorder.

The following years—what I now consider the “early days” of my recovery—consisted of, in the words of my therapist, many “f-in growth opportunities.” I’d take a small step forward, only to take two large steps backward right after, as I struggled to reestablish trust with my body and relearn how to eat intuitively. I’d also returned to school after being homeschooled for close to two years and that meant I had to deal with the various social and academic stressors of high school, as well as navigate the diet mentality and body- and weight-obsession that pervaded not just my school but society as a whole. I was simultaneously bombarded by flashbacks of my “sick days,” which I then viewed in a strangely nostalgic light, and constant reminders of my trauma of enduring starvation, suicidal ideation, self-mutilation, over half a dozen hospitalizations, three runaway attempts, and a whole lot more when I was only thirteen. I was exhausted and exasperated all the time, and I had an overwhelming urge to give up on innumerable occasions; to turn my back on recovery and retreat to the safety of sickness.

I think what most people who haven’t battled mental illness or addiction struggle to understand is that recovery is constant. All day, every day, I was fighting for my freedom, and that certainly took its toll on me. In order to protect myself from my triggers and prevent serious lapses, I had to train myself to constantly be vigilant. In order to maintain mental wellness in a society where mental health is rarely given priority, I had to tirelessly advocate for myself and ask for what I needed, whether that be in school, at work, at doctor’s appointments, and so on. And in order to stay in recovery, I had to develop resiliency in the face of the diet culture that dominates modern-day society. In a world where it often seems as if everybody is obsessed with eating and looking a certain way, resisting the urge to revert to restriction is understandingly immensely difficult.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up because it did get easier. Very slowly, and with a few unfortunate slips along the way, but I nevertheless began to notice—to feel—improvements. Eating, while not quite second nature, became less rigid and more natural, and the anxious thoughts that used to scream at me whenever I sat down for a meal gradually grew quieter. Today, I very rarely hear them anymore. My body image improved and so did my ability to not let comments about diet and weight impact how I felt about myself. The biggest change, however, came when I was able to not only accept the unique individual I was but wholeheartedly embrace that person too. In doing so, I found my identity beyond my eating disorder: as a writer, as an advocate, and, in the years that followed, as an athlete, as a vegan, and as a queer woman as well. I realized I was so much more than a specific number on the scale. Furthermore, I realized I actually liked myself and the parts of me I’d once tried so hard to suppress.

This has been one of the greatest gifts recovery has given me. No matter how challenging it is at times, no matter how often I’ve wanted to throw in the towel, it is always worth it and always so much better than my days of being entrenched in anorexia. I want to stress this point: recovery is brutal, but when compared to being enslaved to an eating disorder, a serious and sometimes fatal mental disease, for years, decades, or even a lifetime, it is well worth the temporary pain to have the chance to one day be free.

Six years of recovery later, I’ve started to see glimpses of freedom on the horizon. It’s frustrating because you can think that you’re close—as I did this past summer—only to then have something totally out of the blue derail your progress. For me, that something was an injury—well, three injuries, one after another, that have resulted in constant discomfort in my knees and an inability to run—one of my go-to coping skills—for over six months. To most, this would be an irritating inconvenience; for me, having gone through what I have, the physical pain manifested into emotional angst, triggering body dysmorphia, disordered thinking, anxiety, and depression to a considerable degree and forcing me to work extra hard to stay in recovery. As a result, I’ve had to put many of my future plans on hold so I could prioritize my mental wellbeing, which sometimes meant simply getting through the day. I’m not out of the woods with my injury yet; however, I’m optimistic I will be soon and I’m still in recovery, despite the many times when I feared I couldn’t stick it out; that the mental and emotional anguish was too much to bear.

This is not the first time in recovery that I’ve dealt with a temporary setback, and it may not be the last. Recovery, like life, is unpredictable, and that, for a control freak like me, is the hardest part. Ironically, it’s also the part that I believe has built the most strength and resiliency in me. I joke that when I’ve overcome my eating disorder for good, I’ll be set to deal with life’s various grievances and shortcomings, because far and few will rival the hell I’ve endured in battling anorexia and recovering from it.

If you’re in reading this and are in recovery yourself, I encourage you to keep at it. Life does get so much better; it has for me, and it has for the millions of other brave people who have weathered this unrelenting storm and come out on the other side. If you’re not in recovery but know someone who is, I hope you’re better able to understand how challenging it is and sympathize with their struggles.

When I was thirteen years old, I lost my life to anorexia. When I was fifteen, I slowly started to rebuild a new one. Now, at twenty-one, I’m far from perfect but, despite some—okay, many—ups and downs, my life is better than it has ever been, and I have hope that it will only continue to improve as I continue to heal.