Content warning: discussion of eating disorders

The seven years of my life that were governed by my eating disorder were a constant game of playing pretend.

After a sharp downward spiral that landed me bedridden in a children’s hospital that was followed by a stay on an inpatient eating disorder ward, I remained in a state of partial recovery in order to live a relatively normal life. 

First, I made sure that I put on a good enough show so that I could stay home instead of in an inpatient ward. I made sure to drink all my thick nutrition supplements and proceeded to work them off with jumping jacks in my bedroom. 

Then I made sure to eat enough so that I wouldn’t faint after a race and jeopardize my chances of being able to run competitively. Food consisted of the same bland oatmeal and dry turkey sandwich. 

I did the bare minimum for so long. 

External forces of my family’s approval and a goal of maintaining my privileges kept me motivated to stay out of the hospital, but I lacked the desire to fully recover. 

I could exercise, go to school and be with my friends and family. Though I wasn’t completely free of disordered thoughts and behaviors or fully trusted by my loved ones, that reality was enough for me. 

My life was a pendulum in which I swung between the euphoria of losing weight and the repeated insincere promises that I made to myself and others. 

I claimed each relapse was the last one and insisted that I really wanted to be rid of my eating disorder.   

I restricted my diet, compulsively exercised and isolated myself. I confined myself to a life that was robotic and in no way worth living. 

I don’t know the exact moment this narrative changed. All that I know is it did. 

I’m in college with no parents prompting me to eat consistently. I couldn’t tell you what I ate for breakfast this morning because food doesn’t occupy my every thought. And I just realized the only exercise I did today was walk to my classes. 

I had to want to recover from my eating disorder for me and only me. Only then could I lead a life that I truly felt excited to live and, dare I even add, love my mind and my body alike. 

In waiting for others to direct my efforts to remain medically stable, I neglected the real person that I should have been feeding: myself. 

True recovery meant that I needed to develop a relationship with food, exercise and my body that allowed food, exercise and my body to be a piece of my life and not the entirety of it. 

There are times I pause and comprehend that I am in recovery.

These moments occur not when I make an active healthy decision, but are instead when I think of the organic nature of my actions surrounding things that were once disordered. 

I think the first time I recall knowing I was in recovery was when I forgot about the ice cream we had in the house. 

Before I would have fixated on it, listing all the reasons why the ice cream was forbidden. I would have fantasized about the treat until it was gone from the house. 

But during winter break of my first year of college, I genuinely forgot my mom had a tub of ice cream in her freezer. It didn’t hold so much power over me any more. 

It’s the moments that I am not fighting that I reflect on how far I’ve come. 

I never thought I’d be able to spoon peanut butter straight out of the jar and just make the easy decision to stop when I felt satisfied but here I am, sometimes even adding a few chocolate chips. 

I never thought I’d be able to eat in front of my friends. Now I value their company more than the numbers of calories and grams of fat in the food I eat. 

The thing that made all of this possible was deciding that life beyond my eating disorder was a life worth living. I had to know my value and work to separate my identity from the eating disorder that consumed me for so long. 

I needed to recognize my self worth. If I was going to recover, I needed to love the person that I am. 

I needed to do things that scared me. Eat foods that I had labeled as off limits, wear a shirt that hugged my frame and allow myself to be comfortable having time off from exercise. 

But I couldn’t challenge myself because someone was prompting me to, I had to do it because I knew I was deserving of everything good in the world. 

Food is a part of my life, but it’s not all of it. My body is something I am learning to love. And exercise is something that helps me manage my stress, not something that causes me extra stress. 

As I ponder my past, I feel a sadness for all the years I lost, yet an excitement toward all the wonderful memories I’ll make in a healthy body and healed mind. 

Every so often, my breath catches in my throat. 

A feeling of astonishment washes over me as I acknowledge what my life has become. 

In working to separate from my eating disorder, I opened myself up to happiness, true health and the opportunity to work toward my fullest potential. 

Recovery is never out of reach. Intentions are everything.