The Weight of Emptiness: A Letter to My E.D.

Published: December 7, 2020

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Dear Eating Disorder,

I wish I could call you an enemy, but to me, you're still a friend, and a very close one at that.

I believe I am not sick, but I recognize the sickness that is you. You, E.D, whisper worries of weight in my ears, that flash through my mind, and eventually rest in my soul after each bite at every meal. However, I am not sick because, in my eyes, I still maintain control over you. I allow myself to drink with friends every once in a while, even if I ate lunch that day. I will not say no to a bite of cake at a birthday party. I choose to run only four miles instead of six despite a big dinner the night before.

In fact my therapist told me today that I am simply "teeter-tottering" on the edge of an out-of-control issue with my E.D. This statement, though sobering, was a relief. I have control. The ball is still in my court, or rather, the fork is still in my hand.

I choose not to eat breakfast. I choose to purge laxatives every other day, stopping only when I bleed. I choose to find joy in flashes of light that blind my eyes after a morning run.

I find joy, yet I don’t feel joy. All I feel is the irony that surpasses every point of logic I muster up to combat you.

Ironic, that what’s eating me alive is the act of not eating at all.

This idea of control is so liberating. Considering what a mess our world is, how cruel people can be, the instability of the nation, how ruthless it all is together, that I have found something that is completely up to me.

The way losing a pound in the time Wikipedia says it takes to lose half of one is freeing. The way repercussions of the hollow echoes my stomach grumbles make as they bounce from the base of my spine to the top of my rib cage at half past 1pm when I haven’t eaten in almost 18 hours, but I promised myself 19 today, is freeing.

The way standing over a toilet, looking at the remanence of my undigested lunch: The half eaten Lunchable, eight grapes, and cup of lettuce, is freeing.

I never meant for it to go as far as it did. All I wanted was control over the way others saw me, believing society’s lie that if I came back two sizes smaller I would appear, in the eyes of those I left, successful. I just wanted “thriving” to flash across their minds when I saw them, not “alone”, “ex of …”, “extra”, the list goes on. It didn't start out this way, but it spiraled one aggressive word from former classmates, one bad self-image day, one pound lost, at a time.

"I am at a great weight for my size, especially compared to her!"

"I could work on my hips, and upper arms too, I guess"

"I'll start tomorrow" "I won't be the girl that gains weight. Freshman 15 won't hit me"

"I want a revenge body, I'll show them."

"I'll run a mile or two a day"

"I'll add an extra mile or two. Four"

"This is starting to work, I'll skip breakfast just this morning to cut out a few extra calories"

"I'll cut back lunch and dinner proportions"

"I'll drink more water right before meals so I feel full"

"I'll make myself sick just this once, I drank too much anyway..."

"I'll take these laxatives so I wake up feeling empty"

"I'll double up on the laxatives since they've stopped working"

"I'll triple up..."

"I haven't weighed this since 7th grade!"

"I'm full. I'm not hungry."

"I'm bleeding"

"I'm dizzy"

"I passed out again today"

"I lost my period"

Isn't this so freeing?

This was supposed to liberate me from my sickness. Rid me of my pain. Instead I’m dying. Withering away at my insides, when all along I believed the world was the one eating away at me.

Ironic, isn’t it?

***

I loved the feeling of being cold, even in July.

I hated the idea of showering- seeing myself.

I loved the feeling of seeing stars when I stood up, or my vision blacking out completely. That meant it had been a good day.

***

Food, and consequential disordered eating, has such a large stigma around it in our culture. It's like starving yourself, or completing challenges seemingly wanting you to fail found on the internet, or making yourself sick after big meals shows success.

When did we let ourselves get like this?

I'm not sure to believe that all comments around a person's weight are said with ill-intent. Some come from well-wishing family members attempting to compliment a person's new healthy physique, or muscular stature. Others come from places of love, attempting to assist a person in their journey to better eating habits. However, some come from places of hate, whispered in girl's locker rooms, scribbled on notes passed from peer to peer, or the squeezing of soft pockets by a significant other aiming to bring attention to said spot.

My fight came to a head in mid-October, when my attempt to drown out the words splattered across multiple layers of social media bashing my character from three former peers hit half of a million views. I wanted to believe that if I kept losing weight I would continue to shrink away from the person they were talking about. That this "new me" was invincible and invisible. I passed out at lunch with my roommates, after walking/running a total of ten miles that day on a completely empty stomach got the best of me. The next night they walked in as I was attempting to purge the food I had just consumed after a night out. The scale read 120.2 that morning. I hadn't weighed that since my 7th grade year, yet, I still found my eyes swarmed with tears because it still wasn't good enough to erase the words they wrote from my mind.

I wish more than anything I was writing this piece as a post-recovery message. That I published this after the trials, a tribute to my unwavering efforts and ultimate success. Unfortunately, success has a way of backing up the finish line just as you line up at the start.

For anyone struggling with their body image, or similar cases of disordered relationships with food or exercise: I am so sorry, you are not alone, and there is help.

You too can heal, or at least begin to work at the issue. Trust yourself, trust those you love and who love you, because you are loved.