“I wish I could have prevented this,” my mom sighs. “I wish I had noticed the signs, or that your doctors had picked up on this sooner, or that you had confided in me.”
We’ve had this conversation so many times. She berates the therapist who, despite my being a minor, never informed her about the danger my eating disorder put me in. She laments about the pediatrician who never contacted her after I had lost a dangerous amount of weight within just a few months, even though this doctor knew I had a history with anorexia. She curses the teachers and school nurses and friends and family who all claimed they “saw this coming” but never warned her.
She questions the inactions of others, but I hear underneath that she blames herself. She looks at the photos from the eight years of anorexia and wonders how she never noticed my sunken eyes, pointy cheekbones, and spindly legs. Of course she noticed these things but denial convinced her they were just a part of who I am or that I have a quick metabolism. Now, she berates herself for allowing denial to blind her. When she speaks about it, she starts to cry. “I could’ve prevented so much of your pain… I could’ve sent you to treatment sooner… The mental and physical effects of starvation could’ve been minimized… I am sorry I failed you.”
It breaks my heart to hear my mother say this. As I’ve told her, my mom did not fail me. For some people, being placed in treatment unwillingly can interrupt the illness long enough for them to eventually choose recovery. My family had tried to force treatment upon me at the beginning of my illness, around age 12, but I’d resisted and manipulated my way out, allowing the illness to grow stronger and stronger for years. Since childhood I’ve been stubborn as hell and unswayable in my convictions. To recover, I had to choose recovery for myself. Not only did I have to choose it once, but I had to choose it day after day after day — nearly two years later, I still have to choose recovery every time I sit down to eat.
If you or someone you know has an eating disorder, call the National Eating Disorders Association helpline: 800-931-2237.
But here’s the thing — I chose recovery, and my support system helped me keep choosing it despite the miserable meals, years of treatment, and physical ailments. And when my mother says, “I failed you,” I want to cry. Mom, you did not cause this. My eating disorder is an illness caused by the perfect storm of so many triggers. I blame absolutely nothing on you.
In fact, Mom, I credit you with my recovery. I maintain that I chose and fought for recovery, but you raised me. You taught me to be a fighter. You raised me to make up my mind and stick to it. And that strength and determination is what lifted me out of the disorder. Mom, you didn’t fail me or save me, but you gave me the strength to save myself.
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Thinkstock photo by Kikovic