Note: This article contains information about the struggles associated with eating disorders which may be triggering to survivors and those with similar experiences.
Every Thursday, I walk into the campus Health & Wellness Center and meet with my counselor. She’ll ask me to put my bags down, I’ll pet her dog, and then she’ll ask to check my fingers. She’ll turn over both hands and closely examine my right middle finger. She’s specifically looking for any bumps or sores.
This is the finger I use to slide down my throat in order to purge my food.
My counselor tells me to log every meal and purge into a journal. We talk about stress, life, what’s going on, and how I’m feeling. During our last session, she told me to write about what’s happening. That’s where this article comes in.
I’m not going to write about how the media unfairly depicts women or what our culture says about body shaming. If you’re interested in reading about the societal pressures put on men and women, you can check out almost any progressive online journal available to the public. This is my personal story; this is my own experience.
I can’t remember why—or when—this disorder even started. I remember lifting my shirt in the Target dressing room at the ripe age of 12; I ran my fingers over my round tummy and wondered why my best friend had a tinier waistline. I remember pinching my body fat while rinsing off after a three hour swim practice and telling myself that someday I’ll have defined collarbones and Cindy Crawford’s figure.
I think the most frustrating aspect of this illness is that I actively know what I’m doing is problematic and harmful. The few loved ones who know about my story will repeatedly tell me to stop; they’ll dish out compliments or reassure me that I didn’t actually gain those twenty pounds that I’m fretting over. The thing is, I can’t stop right now. This feels like an addiction.
For those fortunate enough to have never experienced an eating disorder, let me explain what I mean by “addiction”: I’ll wake up with an empty stomach. I’ll make a conscious effort to consume a normal amount of breakfast. I’ll pour myself a bowl of cereal, sit at the table, and pace myself. Then my mind tells me to speed up the process.
I’ll get carried away. I’ll pour two bowls, then three, then four. I’ll eat so fast my head will spin. I’ll sprint to the bathroom, purge, and head back to the kitchen.
This will continue for up to an hour straight, about four to ten times a day. Sometimes, I’m even late to class, because I’m so caught up in this charade. I feel like a Scooby-Doo chasing scene montage when I run from the dining hall to the deserted ground floor bathroom of the MSU.
Other than having this dark secret, I’m actually a pretty normal girl. I love to binge-watch Always Sunny, I think I might have an addiction to traveling, and you can find me obnoxiously singing trap music on any given Friday night. I’m witty. I’m a bookworm. I’m grad school driven. I dream about my 21st birthday the way a normal person dreams about their wedding day. So why do I feel so immobilized by this ED?
Being a college student is stressful enough. You’re overworked, tired, and lonely. Trying to battle any mental illness—depression, ED, anxiety—can really take a toll on your academics, social life, and health. It’s up to you to make sure you’re able to physically and mentally survive each semester.
If you’re in a similar situation, I want you to know that you’re not alone. I know that sounds cliche and a tad redundant, but there are definitely ways to at least figure out what you’re going through or what your mind is telling you. I’ve taken my first few steps: I’ve told my roommate and scheduled appointments to meet with a counselor. It’s scary, and I’m not quite sure when I’ll be healthy again, but having some guidance and support is going a long way. It’s a slow process. It takes time. But I know I’ll get there.