My story…

(editing this I realized this story jumps around a lot, maybe that’s because I struggled through this for so long and can’t even process it properly, whoops sorry guys, bear with me!!)

Diet, workout, starve, binge, purge. 

My story begins with a happy and innocent young girl who used to love food. She used to crave and even indulge in sweets. I remember myself as a child eating spoonfuls of plain sugar from the bowl with my brother, begging my mom to buy that extra pint of ice cream, and sneaking that extra cookie from the cookie bowl. I was so happy with every bite of food. I was never excessively overweight, yet my naturally strong and bigger build easily stored a couple of extra pounds. As a child, I was wholeheartedly happy, nothing, even being a little chubby, could stop me from laughing. I couldn’t tell you exactly when that girl disappeared, but as I grew up and entered my teen years, I became extremely self-conscious and learned to be disgusted by, and strongly hate my body.

There’s no specific “traumatizing event” I can recall that led to the unfortunate downfall of the strong girl I once knew, and the start of my eating disordered behaviors, but rather a continuous shadow of comments that shaped by negative body image. Okay maybe I’m too early in my recovery to acknowledge hard parts of my past or maybe I’m in denial,(lol sorry no one’s perfect!).

The fact that I was involved in so many sports growing up, as an endurance athlete, didn’t help much with my self image either. Hockey, xc, track, field hockey, nordic skiing, I was always one of the more athletic girls, the girl on every sports team, the one that was mvp of the xc team, bla, bla, bla, you get the idea. I was strongly praised and rewarded for my athletic abilities. Yet none of this was ever enough, I felt different, ugly, and outcast. My body dysmorphia prevented me from seeing myself for who I really was. I never saw a strong, beautiful and smart girl. All I ever saw was a fat girl. And I hated her so much. The number of times I remember staring in the mirror, my stomach clenched in my fists, imagining and wishing that I could just cut off the extra fat. It would solve all my problems, I could finally fit in with the rest of the athletic girls. At 5”7, about 150 pounds, I was wholly convinced that by losing weight I would be more liked and in result, happier.

The dieting started in grade 7. From then, until my hospitalization in grade 11, I became obsessed with this idea of “perfection and health”. I had created a list of “bad foods” I could never eat, almost all processed foods were gone. I easily cut out “carbs”, and resorted to a diet of “protein” and fruits and vegetables. Diet culture consumed me. Life became easier without sugar, bread, and pasta. My mind automatically counted calories and told me what I could and couldn’t eat. I wasn’t really “overweight”, but I wasn’t skinny like most girls. The girls that seemed to eat so much food, all the unhealthy foods, filled with sugar, fat, and worst of all. the dirty word, yes, calories. It wasn’t fair, how come even with the restriction I was unable to look like them??

I was over consumed by my hatred towards my body, my uneducated ideas about nutrition and my obsession with my weight. I was so jealous of the other girls. The girls that could eat anything and still look like they just walked out of a Vogue magazine. This all just pressured me to push myself further. Every time I refused a cookie or a “bad food”, I felt a sense of achievement and pride. Eventually, I was rewarded, when my over exercising and lunch’s composed of cucumber, led me to lose the pounds.

Even my family was proud of me, all they saw was their athletic, healthy, and beautiful daughter who had finally gotten some self-control. They’re the most supportive and loving parents I could have ever asked for, and they could have had no chance of seeing any of this. Looking back, I wish more than anything that I had asked them for help and let them into my world sooner, instead of locking them out and pushing myself down a deep certain route of despair and failure with my mental illness. They wanted only the best for me, yet their unawareness of my internal struggles and disordered eating habits, unfortunately, only motivated my restriction more. I remember them boasting about their pride in my success and their “picture perfect healthy daughter” whenever we visited friends and my ED made me refuse any dirty caloric foods. I didn’t even eat a slice of my birthday cake.

I had promised myself that these extreme cuts were just temporary, and when I was skinny it would be enough, and it was. By the summer of grade 8 to nine. I was happy with my body and went into summer convinced that I was finally one of them, the pretty, skinny girls, and therefore I could eat like one of them. I quickly gained back the weight and learned to hate my body even more than I had when I started. My body naturally leaned towards a higher weight, yet I could never accept that. I was disgusted with myself and overwhelmed with self-hatred. For a few months, I tried desperately to lose the weight, yet I had lost my self-restraint and the ability to just refuse. I was no longer able to restrict my food intake, and the harder I tried, the more I ate and the fatter I felt. I remember wishing I could be anorexic. A wicked and horrifying thought I’m sure has crossed the minds of so many vulnerable people and, as someone who has first hand experienced it, I am so very sorry, I strongly feel for anyone else suffering and wishing this as I did. Eating disorders are not a joke, and although I was unaware from the fact that I was already suffering from one, yet was appealed by the idea of it, is completely disgusting.

Pause from my story, eating disorders are not fair, they don’t care about what’s good for you, they have a mind of their own and lead so many people down dangerous, and even life-threatening paths. If anyone EVER needs someone to talk to I am ALWAYS here and I promise to stand by you and try to get you the right help. Also, if you are not officially diagnosed, but find yourself relating to anything I have described, or suspect that you might have an ED, please, please get help. Talk to your doctor, tell your parents or friends, Recovery, both physically and mentally, is hard and takes time, and you may not feel ready but YOU CAN do it and you truly deserve it. You have suffered enough and deserve to finally regain control of your life. I had no idea how close to death I was and how much I had jeopardized the health of my heart. You may feel fine, yet be dangerously close to the edge, just as I was, immediately hospitalized after my first outpatient appointment. Physical harm aside, eating disorders are a huge burden and you do not need that in your life. There’s enough crap you have to deal with and food does not have to be one. Acceptance and tolerance, as said by one of my doctors, is the start to a path of recovery.

Okay, now back to my story, I hated myself so much more for having lost my ability to refuse food. The more I attempted with dieting, the more I would end up eating, yet I could not stop myself. I wasn’t experiencing binges at this point, however my standard portions put me above my desired 1200 calorie diet.

(Who the fuck decided that 1200 calories is the secret number for any dieter. 1200 calories is under the requirement of even a young child, and can NOT support the healthy development of a young adult or standard person.)

Based on my exercise I should have been consuming 3000 calories to support my body, but how could I have known? This is why I am so disgusted by diet culture and the Instagram influencers who basically promote eating disorders and give unscientific, unhealthy, and inaccurate dieting advice to young and desperate people who will believe it. It’s an endless cycle which encourages these damaging behaviors and is why the media is harmful for people at risk of an ED in so many ways.

Caloric needs vary by activity and individual, there’s no magical number so STOP COUNTING and you will finally be free. (I’m sorry I know I go off topic a lot but this really bothers me). My overwhelming and constant thoughts about food and my body grew stronger in grade 9 and by the end of the year, my fingers were being shoved down my throat. It seemed like such as a genius idea. I couldn’t be anorexic because I couldn’t stop eating, but I could stop the consumption, and absorption, and so I did. I had cheated the system, or so I thought.

For over 2 years this was my new life. The constant worry about how much I had consumed and the strong desire and constant need I felt to regurgitate. It was almost a game, I knew what would happen if I ate a “bad food”, yet I did it anyways. I felt so powerful and in control. The outcome was always the same. Purge. It was almost reassuring, I didn’t need to stop eating and could continue mindlessly eating after dinner, as long as I got it all out.

Restrict. Binge. Purge. 

There were days I vomited 3 times, there were days I did it once. Sometimes it was after a binge, sometimes after a bad food, sometimes just because. As time went on I started to recognize I had a problem. I couldn’t stop myself. I spent hours in the washroom with my fingers down my throat, the taps on, playing music on a speaker or pretending to take a shower. I would do it everywhere, I had to do it anywhere. Anywhere with a toilet, friends houses, restaurants, towards the end, I even resorted to plastic bags in my room. I did it most night in the shower,  just to empty out my stomach and restore the satisfying feeling of emptiness and comfort.

I learned to crave the vomiting, the urges were irresistible. I started to eat food just to vomit it out. Anytime I consumed even just a bit over my permitted calorie intake, I was a wasted cause, and would eat more, usually ice cream, pasta, and other foods I could easily get out, in order to start the vomiting, and get the rest out. I no longer enjoyed these foods. They had been cut out of my diet and any time they entered my mouth, they were shoved in mindlessly, without any pleasure and out within the hour. I felt so dirty. I was repulsed by my actions and that repulsion towards my body, food, and myself made it just so much easier to force myself sick.

As I became lost in these unhealthy and addictive cycles, I decided to try and lose weight in a more natural and healthy way. I experimented with most diets, intermittent fasting, the ketogenic diet, yet none of them worked and if anything just resulted in the same probable outcome with me in the washroom, hands down my throat. It was reassuring, always an option, no matter how much of a failure I was in my dieting attempts.

The vomiting continued for a couple of years with no result. I wasn’t gaining weight, but I also wasn’t losing any, and that made me miserable. As physically and mentally exhausted as I was by the excessive purging, self-hatred, my deceiving, manipulating, and even becoming isolated from my family, I could not stop. I would shove my hands down until every last calorie, every last crumb was out. Whenever I had eaten bread or any other food that would not come out easily I would scream and cry. With the washroom door locked, I would spend hours crying and staring at the fat girl I saw in the mirror, the girl with no control who couldn’t stop herself.

Only now do I understand the monster I saw in the mirror was not my reflection, but my perception. I would cause myself so much physical pain until I was reassured I would not gain weight, until I had gotten it all out. I was psychologically fucked up. Broken. I had no spirit and was miserable. I accepted my diagnosis, I understood that I had an eating disorder, and I wanted to get help, but I don’t think I wasn’t mentally ready.

I hadn’t lost the weight like all the other girls with eating disorders. Part of me knew it wasn’t okay, but I still hoped my unhealthy habits could be sustainable and lead me towards my desired outcome. The time I spent everyday staring in the washroom mirror after purging made me feel even more shitty. It almost hurt more than the actual action of vomiting. My sleeves covered in vomit, the puke all over my face, hands, the washroom floor, clogging the sink, and shower. I was a mess, physically and mentally.

Through all of this, I faked a smile and pretended I was alright. I got athlete of the year, had a piece of cake to celebrate, vomited it out, and went back to celebrate. I continued doing well at school and living my life through all this. This is the problem with mental illnesses. You can’t see them and you never know. Someone can literally be at their rock bottom and suffering so severely, and you could have no clue.

There were times I was so pleased with myself for being so capable. I still wished I could be anorexic, however, I now envied myself for being able to do this. Bulimia. I even loved the word. It intrigued me, like a new language and I was so attracted to the idea of it. It became a part of me, and somewhere inside of me, I believe a part of me learned to like it. As much as I loathed it, I also felt special, I had a dirty secret and I had to protect it, cherish it. When the Russel’s sign started to be more obvious, I knew a part of me adored and desired the scarring. Whenever it would start to fade, I would automatically put my hands back in my mouth. It was my own personal mark. A reward for my efforts, something to be proud of. I couldn’t stop. This was my dirty control mechanism, my secret, in a way I believe even my call for attention. I was able to maintain my life like this. As unhappy as I was, I kept working out every day, going to school, eating extremely healthy, yet vomiting.

In February of 2019, I started to recognize my problem. I was physically in pain and scared for my health and life. I had accepted the fact that I had an eating disorder and really wanted help. I was not okay. I saw my doctor. Unfortunately, with public health care, and a “non-emergent” condition, I was still months away from the beginning of my recovery. And in these last couple of months, I went down to my worst and let my eating disorder consume me, literally. 

My doctor recommended a public outpatient program at a local hospital. I did an EKG to enter, yet my heart rate was too low. He and I were both uneducated on the severity of this problem. Instead of being hospitalized, he basically told me that doesn’t make sense and made me feel like I was not worthy, like I had made this all up as a call for attention.

Family doctors are not always perfect and are sometimes uneducated on the severity of mental illnesses. Do not let that stop you from getting the help you need or make you feel worthless. You are important.

I hung up the phone in tears in the school washroom. I felt alone and hopeless. At this point, I accidentally told my parents about my eating disorder. They tried their best, but did not understand the severity of my disease and the amount that I was suffering. I started to drift towards my own rock bottom after March. I was dedicated to losing weight and wanted to stop purging so I created more strict rules for my diet.

At this point, I also started vomiting almost everything I ate, no longer just occasionally. I needed to lose weight and after years of failure, I could not and would not stop. If the outpatient program did not accept me, that must have meant nothing was wrong, and I could push myself harder.

Even though I did another EKG, it took a long time to process me into a new program, and by the time I would see an eating disorder specialist doctor, it would be May 13. In March I learned about “caloric absorption”, from my good friend, the internet. This horrified me. This whole time I had been miscalculating my caloric intake and I was so repulsed and disgusted with myself. It made so much sense, this was why I was not losing weight.

I started intensely calculating and limiting my calories. I had track almost every day, biked to school, worked out every day, had gym class, and walked my dog but it just wasn’t enough. Even if I knew I was burning over 3000 calories a day, I had to be in a caloric deficit to lose weight. I would never eat more than 300 calories in 1 sitting, and if I did they were all gone. I could not eat over 1500 calories in a day. In the 2 months, I lost 10 pounds, as I forced myself to burn every possible calorie, working out in front of the TV, constantly fidgeting, I even jogged instead of walking my dog, while my friend walked next to me. I was a walking mess.

Calories were my biggest fear and I avoided them so easily. I made my own meals and whenever my parents expressed their concerns, I just said I would vomit otherwise, so they let me be, in fear and desperation to help. Less than 100 calorie salads were my meal specialty, I would chew and spit most foods, use paper towels to take away dressing and oil. I still vomited most of all the low-calorie foods I ate. I successfully convinced myself that it was for the best. I was beyond proud as I began to finally notice the results in my body. I was so happy, finally once again confident and happy with the way I looked.

All I wanted was to be the pretty, athletic girl. I thought I was at my peak. Little did I realize it was actually my downfall. I was out of energy, always tired, drinking so much coffee, restless, always cold and blue handed. When I had my first doctors appointment, I was immediately hospitalized. I had a heart rate of 32, severe bradycardia, and my blood pressure was very low. I had starved my body to a point where it was consuming my internal organs, my heart was shutting down and hardly beating. I starved my body of nutrients without even realizing it.

This is where I say please don’t trust the media. Do not follow any fitness and diet influencers who promote cutting foods and calories, without any scientific background. Do not trust the pages that promote eating disorder behaviors or any non medical information about your disorder, as it will only slow down and get in the way of your recovery. Please do yourself a favor, and save yourself like I wish I could go back in time and do. Eating disorders fuck up everything. They are the enemy, not your friend. My story put me in the hospital, yours does not have to. You deserve help. 

And now I’m in recovery and I am proud to say that I have not vomited since May 13th.

And now my real battle begins, and I am ready to fight back.

This is my power.