I’m going to tell you about a part of my life that I often keep private. The part that often gets lost in the dozens of physical illnesses that mask my mental illness.
I’ve struggled pretty significantly with anorexia for 16 years. At 19 I got injured and the surgery to fix my legs caused a cytokine storm in my body that killed my gut organs. I now live with an ileostomy, two feeding tubes (one for meds and one to drain anything I take in orally – liquids only).
For the last 16 years I have lied. I have lied to my family, my team of providers, treatment centers, professionals, friends, and mostly to myself.
I’ve said “I’m fine” when I was drowning in suicidal ideation and sinking in quicksand from depression. I’ve nearly died dozens of times from starving my body of nutrients – not in order to look thin, but in order to kill this body that felt like it betrayed me when I was sexually assaulted by different men in my life as a kid.
I’ve been asked directly if I’m infusing 100% of my IV nutrition. And I point blank say “yes,” even when I’ve only done 25%. I am on Total parenteral nutrition (TPN) due to my paralyzed gut. It’s broken down nutrition that goes directly into my bloodstream through a central line in my chest.
And all those times I lied to the people who were genuinely worried about me, I felt horrible for lying to them. And during the months and years where I saw my body as fine when it was emaciated, I felt confused about my reality.
How can you have confidence if you can’t understand your reality? People said I was emaciated yet I saw a totally healthy human. People asked if I was okay and I lied, to hide my vulnerability. I had no confidence because I was lying to myself.
As soon as I had worked through enough of my trauma as necessary, nutrition became easy. My weight didn’t matter as much. The scale hasn’t been stepped on in months. I can have mature adult conversations without feeling myself being pulled toward thinking about dying or food. I am not as anxious as I used to be. It’s not because I suddenly recovered and am infusing 100% – It’s because of 16 years of intensive therapies of all types, and finally being honest with myself and others.
I told my family I had been struggling, but now was doing 100% of my infusions. I told my team the reason I never gained weight was because I was silently and secretively not running my nutrition. I told just about anyone who would listen. I didn’t tell them for accolades or pride; I shared for accountability. My brain can easily drop back into denial, seeing my thinness as healthy, seeing restriction as not a risk, and beginning to lie to myself and others.
The first signs will be irritability, weight loss, and stories that don’t make sense (aka lies).
I don’t want my life to be a struggle with nutrition and my weight. I want more from life. I want to be passionate about what I do, who I spend time with, and feel confident enough to walk up straight with my head held high, because I know I am impeccable with my words.
Since recovering from anorexia, I have gained confidence in reaching out to friends from long ago to rekindle relationships. I’ve sat at the dinner table and conversed with others while they eat their food and I drink a soda. It’s not perfect, but I have the confidence to do so now. I no longer hide in my room when friends come over for dinner. I am more authentic to myself in every way now that I’ve been honest with myself.
I’ve kept the promise to feed my body for 3 months. That’s the longest amount of time I’ve ever gone without restricting my calories. And even though my clothing feels tighter, I’m just continuing to feed my body because I have enough confidence to change my body, be seen as different, and not be crushed by someone telling me I look like I’ve gained weight. They mean it kindly, but it hurts my soul to hear that I look “better” or “good” or “healthy.” I’d much prefer to hear “you look like shit.” because that’s how I’m feeling on the inside. But I have enough confidence now to not care what others say about my body.
Photo by Thomas Kilbride on Unsplash
