Five years ago this week, I was in a medical center for my anorexia. On November 11, 2014, I was sent to an inpatient eating disorder clinic for a month. After that, I was sent to a partial inpatient center until February. I was in the center for the first half of the day, then I spent my time at a Ronald McDonald House. I was hours away from my home.
When I went to inpatient, I was angry and distraught. I wanted to go home and I wanted to go back to school and be in cheerleading. I was a disaster. I thought I was fine, but I would have seen myself as crazy if I knew my past self.
It took a while before I understood myself and my eating disorder. I was broken in ways I didn’t quite get, and still have trouble understanding. I didn’t think any of the treatments would work. In some ways, it didn’t. They told us what other patients did to get away with things. It felt more as if they were giving us ideas for when we left than actually helping us. Some of the nurses and doctors were terrible at their jobs, but others were nurturing.
I’m sure I would have gone fully mental if it was not for my new friends. I met people at those places who I cherish and still love with all of my heart.
I saw a lot during my time in care. I saw children as young as 10 and adults as old as 65. It was the older ones who made me realize the damage that can be done. They were barely able to string together any coherent sentences, barely able to care for themselves.
I saw people who are no longer alive because the pain became too great. I saw people who ate for comfort, others who pushed it away because of the emptiness consuming them. Some of them, at first, I was afraid of. I didn’t think I was like them. But I heard them speak, I heard their trauma and realized they were just like me. They felt as haunted as I did.
Even five years later, their words ran through my mind. Their faces are still as clear to me now as they were then. I know where some are now, others I can only hope for good things. They will always be a part of my life.
Though I have gotten better, anorexia and the thoughts are all still there. That’s how mental illness works: it doesn’t just go away. Some days are harder than other days, but I manage even if it takes encouragement from others. The questions and the doubt remain, but I understand the disease more now.
People think I cling to Karen Carpenter due to an obsession with her thin frame and wanting to look like her. It’s not true. Karen makes me want to live more because she didn’t get a full life. I used to think 32 was old, but I know now it’s so young. She had so much to live for. I want to live because she never had the chance. I cling to her because the melancholic ways in which she sang were not an act, but a real pain I understand.
Though times are still hard, I am proud of myself for pushing through and for living, even on days that wear me down. I am not cured of anorexia and I never will be 100 percent fine, but I’m happier than I ever thought I would be. I’m in a place of mind I didn’t think was possible.
I thank all who have been there for me and by my side through five years. No matter if they were there for all of them or just a part. They make my recovery all the more worth it and they fill that emptiness I once felt with love I now know I deserve.