What Might You Be Capable Of If You Can Live Through This?
By Tori Pintar
The tears had dried up but I could feel their residue in the creases of my eyes and on my cheeks. I kept them shut in an attempt to block out the pain. Thoughts spiraled through my head: When was this going to get better? Why is this so hard? Why am I not healing faster? I’m doing the work. I’m facing this head on. I’m eating all the time. I’m eating everything. What is wrong with me? The tears found renewed energy and my breathing grew labored. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I thought it would be better by now. I thought I’d already found the light at the end of the tunnel. Just kidding, only a series of other tunnels. I really want to give up. I’m not sure if I can do this. Words of a podcast I’d listened to years ago rang true: ‘I don’t want to die but I don’t want to be awake either.’
•••
I have had a disordered relationship with food most of my adult life though I never had the vocabulary to describe it as such until recently. Previously, I would have said that I lacked discipline, that I just needed to get it together and be ‘good’ and that the problem was me and some deficiency in me because I couldn’t just be small with ease. I believed I had to earn food. I was afraid of my own hunger. All of this was normal. All of this was healthy.
Drastic weight loss due to depression at 31 tied with using movement as a form of self care allowed me to ‘finally’ be small with ease. I ate whatever I wanted. I had cake for lunch. I had dessert almost everyday. I made elaborate meals of fresh pasta and milkshakes with homemade ice cream. I got smaller and smaller. While I was eating whatever I wanted, I was gradually eating less and less. I’d learned that if I just stopped eating when full I could eat anything with out consequences. While in theory this might sound healthy and like doctor condoned advice, I actually didn’t know what fullness was. I also didn’t know that high levels of exercise can suppress appetite, such as marathon training. I didn’t know that overeating at times is actually part of a healthy relationship with food. I didn’t know that a side effect of slowly starving yourself is bingeing. Because thankfully our bodies are wired for survival and food is one of the most critical pieces to being able to continue to run, smile, laugh, cry, live.
I became so ‘healthy’ looking and known for being such a ‘healthy’ eater. I was praised for both all the time and it made me feel good and valuable and worthy. I shared my meals on Instagram. I had always loved cooking and had secretly wanted to be the next Smitten Kitchen. I started following new mostly female bloggers on Instagram sharing their own ‘healthy’ meals and treats. The cake I’d eaten as a meal transformed into a high in protein refined sugar free version that I convinced myself tasted just as good. I couldn’t just order pancakes at breakfast unless I’d run really far and even then I ordered a side of sad wilted spinach to prevent my blood sugar from spiking. I started making my own nut milks, the pretty mason jars in my fridge making me feel empowered and ‘good.’ I gradually began to eat more vegan hearing it was a game changer in the endurance sports world. But still if I was traveling or it was a special occasion I’d eat whatever I wanted. To me this meant everything was ok.
Less than a year into this ‘lifestyle’ change a friend made a painful comment to me late one night. She said a conversation she’d witnessed between my boyfriend and I reminded her of a childhood friend who had an eating disorder. I balked. Disbelief and indignation ran through me. I was so offended. I was being healthy. I was finally healthy. I was small and fast and this is exactly what I was supposed to be. I received praise all the time for my size and my healthy eating. Being particular about what I ate was ok and normal, especially as a woman. I don’t think I would have been quite so offended if there wasn’t deep down a part of me that was a little curious about the threads of truth I might pull from her words.
I charged forward on my quest for ‘health’ growing more and more obsessed with finding the ‘right’ way to eat. I got smaller. Which made me want to be a just a little smaller. I compared my body to the elite marathoners wondering if my thighs were as small as theirs. The list of ‘good’ foods to eat grew shorter and shorter. All the while my obsession with food increased. What to eat, when to eat, how much to eat—began to be the majority of my thoughts. My mom no longer wanted to have me over for dinner because she didn’t know what to cook for me. I skipped social events when I knew there wouldn’t be nutrient packed choices available telling myself they just didn’t sound fun. At times I felt healthier than ever and like my meals were actual magic. But other moments, that were growing in frequency, I felt I was slipping back into old ways. I was petrified of taking up more space in the world again. And I was finding myself eating spoonful after spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar until I felt so sick physically and with self loathing that I’d crawl into bed at night fully clothed too ashamed to face my disappointing body.
I was starving and I had developed orthorexia. Orthorexia is most broadly and simply defined as an unhealthy obsession with healthy eating. It has yet to be officially included in the DSM which is used by health care providers to diagnose mental disorders. However, most eating disorder practitioners agree that it will find its way into the next DSM. I’m purposely calling it an eating disorder regardless the current classification because many who struggle with disordered eating/eating disorders don’t get help because they don’t feel sick enough. I was one of those people. I knew I had a problem for a long time before I truly believed I deserved help. And even then, due in part to growing up in a culture obsessed with dieting and controlling our size, I felt like I should have been strong enough to just eat ‘right’ and move past this.
Healing from orthorexia and disordered eating is the hardest thing I have ever done. I didn’t know if I was going to survive it. I was so afraid of food, I was so afraid of my body, I was so afraid of myself. The latter is why it was so hard. A lot of disorders have to do with control. I am a type A, endless striving perfectionist who really likes thinking I have control over a whole lot more than I actually do. Unlearning the false notion that I should control my hunger and my body size was devastating to my larger belief system about the control I had over my life. Learning to trust my hunger, to trust myself and thus to let go of some of the white knuckling of my own life was and is a slow and arduous process. But a worthwhile one.
•••
On that morning when I questioned if I could keep going, somewhere in the darkness as I lay in my bed hating myself with all the energy I had left the endless shame-hate spiral grew tired and I found there was a question inside of me waiting to be asked.
‘What might you be capable of if you can live through this?’
Even in my depleted and defeated state my thinking self was intrigued enough to be curious. Suddenly, the noise of feeling, thinking and hating was dimmed. My brain latched onto: what if… What if I am capable of more than I think? What if living through this shows me more strength than I thought possible? What if I can use this experience to help others? What if I can’t even possibly imagine the answer to this question?
In my own seeking I’d started to read personal accounts of those who’d been in my shoes and not only survived but thrived on the other side of an eating disorder. They spoke of this joy and gratitude they felt that sounded like a never ending well of golden light running through them. Because at their worst moments, they didn’t think they’d still be here. (Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of all mental disorders). And they didn’t believe it could be any better. But they survived. And it was better. Better than they imagined.
In December I ran a half marathon. For the first time in a long time I toed the line without thinking about the size or shape of my body. I didn’t consider the size or shape of the bodies around me. I ran with joy. I ran feeling enough. I ran too fast too early but still felt enough despite this rookie ‘mistake.' I was just so happy to be there. I was just so happy to be able to truly feel joy again. At one point, I turned to the guy next to me, both of our breathing labored and hard: I said, “Isn’t this the best thing ever?”