When I Saw My Anorexia Diagnosis in Writing for the First Time
“Promise me,” my mom asked six years ago. “Promise me you’ll never do this again.”
I nodded. “Of course. It was nothing, no big deal,” I said.
Six years later…
“You broke your promise,” my mom said.
I looked at her. “What promise?”
“You know which one. When you said you would never do this again.”
“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say because she was right. I had broken my promise. I had gone back to restriction.
Sophomore year of college, I became obsessed with losing weight. I severely restricted my calorie intake and exercised compulsively. My parents found my food diary and dragged me to therapy. Two therapists later, I was “cured.” We never discussed my eating issues. I glossed over the whole thing, convincing myself it was nothing.
It was almost as if it never happened.
Flash forward six years. I’m checking my patient portal for an upcoming nutritionist appointment and I click on my own medical status. And there I saw it.
Diagnosis – Anorexia.
There it was, in black and white. Anorexia. I was shocked seeing it there on the screen.
And that’s when I started to realize there was no going back. I can’t pretend this isn’t happening, that this isn’t serious. Anorexia. It’s right there on my medical record. It’s a part of my life now and it’s terrifying.
Why? Because as I have been increasing my intake in treatment and taking a break from exercise, there is a part of me waiting for it all to be over. Then I can go back. A new diet. A new cardio regiment. Fewer calories. Weigh-ins. No snacks. Hungry. Empty. Numb.
Not this time. I have to want more, strive for more. Anorexia has reduced me to just a number, but I have to believe I am worth more than this.
I have to move forward.
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Thinkstock photo via Grandfailure.