Hi, My Name Is...

I had a panic attack today because I had a hard time buttoning my jeans. My jeans are supposed to be comfortable. Instead, they're tight. So I handled it like a person with an eating disorder and I skipped breakfast.

The first time a mental health professional suggested I had an eating disorder I nearly walked out of her office in protest. We all know the story about eating disorders, and the "new" face of eating disorders. [From now on, ED for short.] I'm almost stereotypical. Refusing to admit or agree to an ED diagnosis because I'm fat. ED isn't fat, ED is skinny girls whose ribs are visible, thin women who eat whatever they want and then throw it back up again. Fat girls are just uncontrolled. Fat girls just don't have any willpower. Fat girls are too lazy to exercise. I am many things, I thought, but I am not living with an eating disorder.

But I didn't leave her office, because I knew how much time I spent thinking about my food. How I would plan around eating. How I felt trapped by it. How lost I was in the disease. A disease I wouldn't believe I was facing. So I stayed in her office, and I kept coming back. I went to the group sessions. I learned a new language. I learned coping mechanisms.

I never accepted the idea of an ED diagnosis. For awhile, I lived in a place where I just treasured being able to eat without obsessing. I didn't plan around food. It was liberating.

And I got fatter.

I tried to exercise more; I forgot to make time for it. I started using various methods to track exercise, so I had solid data on when/what/how.

It triggered disordered eating behavior.

I tried to cut back on my food intake; I began to obsess about food. I started counting calories and forcing myself to earn the right to eat those calories.

That is disordered eating behavior.

I tried to "go back" to a comfortable place, where eating was just about food, and I got fatter. Which is why my jeans didn't want to button today.

Sometimes I cancel plans so that my friends can't see how much I weigh. Sometimes I break down and research the "best" fast weight loss methods. I've been taking green coffee supplements, hoping for magical results, without telling anyone - especially not my current ED therapist.

This is disordered behavior.

Here is my reality: I am a fat girl with an eating disorder.

I wish I could tell so many people:
I can't talk to you because at least once in every conversation you talk about your current diet/exercise/plan for weight and I feel overwhelmed.
Or
I can't interact with you online because your fitness/nutrition/food regime makes me feel like a failure as a person.
Or
I can't bear to repeat myself anymore because all I can safely give you is the most basic/obvious/tertiary explanations for some of my choices.

And
None of this is your fault.
And
My therapist would like me to believe that none of this is my fault (though it's my responsibility to deal with it).
And
I don't want to be a fit fat woman. I want to be a healthy person.

I struggle with the reality of this all. Sometimes I wonder why anyone bothers adding a label. Other times I wish I could wear my label as a sign, a shorthand to explain things to the world. Once in awhile, I wonder why I live with "the crazies."*  Most of the time, I wonder why I'm so broken.

Today, my (ED specialist) therapist led me to admit I need to begin accepting some things. By refusing to accept them I am suffering needlessly. I have elevated pain to misery. And through acceptance, I can change that situation. Some of the power is mine, and it's time I took it back.

I live with an eating disorder.

I want to pretty it up, ignore it, move on, say I'm cured... but the truth is that I live with it every day.

Now we know.





*the crazies: my new term to encompass my depression, anxiety, PTSD, eating disorder, crippling perfectionism/self-doubt, and being an intensely empathetic person (which, according to my mental health professional, is not a 'crazy' diagnosis but rather her professional opinion and worth noting because it leaves me incredibly vulnerable to the world/people around me).