Learning to Eat

           Alright guys.  So, I wrote an essay this year in my English class about my experiences with anorexia.  I would really like to share that story with all of you.  I hope that it opens your eyes and minds to what having an eating disorder is really like.  To anyone who has had or does have an eating disorder - you are not alone.  I love you, and I know you can get through it.  Just don't give up.

            In my middle school health class we learned about eating disorders: anorexia, bulimia, and binge eating.  My teacher showed us pictures of emaciated teenagers.  I found the images repulsive and disturbing.  I remember thinking, How can they do that to themselves?  Who in their right mind would starve themselves?  What’s wrong with these people?  I never imagined that in just a few short years I would be one of them.

. . .

            I stared at the plate in front of me - white china with little ridges around the edge.  On it sat two scrambled eggs and two slices of wheat bread with a teaspoon of butter on them.  Beside the plate, on the left, sat a little glass bowl with 1 cup of grapes in it.  To my right, stood a small glass with 1 cup of 2% milk in it.  I knew every detail, every measurement, and every calorie.  I’d had it memorized for years.

            I looked down at my legs, my arms crossed tightly across my chest.  My heart was racing, my breathing shallow.  I wanted to be anywhere but at the dining room table.  Food was my enemy.

            My mom sat in a chair on my right, watching.  Her arms were crossed like mine, her face worried and frustrated.  Every now and then she would sigh and shift her position, tired of waiting.  I couldn’t look her in the eye.  I couldn’t bear to let her in, to let her see the monster I was inside.  I knew if I looked I would see my own fear reflected in her eyes and I would cry.  If I looked I would fail: I would break-down; I would eat.  And that…that was something that I simply could not do.

            I could smell the food below me, the warm eggs and toast and butter.  That only made it worse.  For the past month or so all I’d been having for breakfast was a wheat bagel with half of a tablespoon of peanut butter on it.  A measly 290 calories.  I’d carefully counted, and this meal was 600.  It was extremely overwhelming.  If I had to eat I wanted my bagel with peanut butter, not eggs, toast with butter, grapes, and milk.  However, it was my only option.  So, I refused to eat altogether.

            My mom sighed again.  We’d been sitting at the table for at least 10 minutes.

            “Amie,” she began, “you need to start eating.”  Her voice was tired but firm.

            I looked down, my eyes filling with tears, and said nothing.  I knew if I talked I would lose it.  Fear, discomfort, and depression clouded my mind.

            Don’t give in!  She can’t make you eat.  You get to choose.  She can’t make you do anything.

            I clenched my fists, determined to stand my ground.  There was no way that anyone was going to make me put that food inside my body.

            My resolve was short lived.  The moment my mother spoke I fell to pieces.

            “Honey, you have to eat.  Please start eating,” she begged.

            I looked into her eyes - warm, gentle, and fearful.  The tears ran freely down my cheeks and my chest tightened, shortening my breaths.  Panic was overcoming me, and it was inescapable.

            “I can’t,” I said quietly, beginning to sob.  “I can’t.”  I shook, anguished cries tearing from my chest.  My whole body racked back and forth as I bawled uncontrollably.

            My mother’s arms wrapped gently around me.  She stroked my hair, breathing calmly to soothe my spirit.  I wept against her chest. 

            “I know,” she said.  “I know it’s hard and that it’s scary.  But you have to eat honey.  Your body needs it, remember?  Your body needs it.”

            No it doesn’t! my head screamed.  No it doesn’t!  She’s trying to trick you!  She’s trying to kill you!  If you eat, you will get fat.  Fatter than you already are.

            I cringed at the voice in my mind, believing every word.  She’s my friend! I thought.   She’s my mom.  The voice snarled in response to my plea.  No, it replied.

            I wanted to escape.  I wanted to be free.  But the eating disorder had a relentless hold over me.  I knew I had an eating disorder.  I knew I had to eat.  I couldn’t run from the thoughts inside my head though.  I couldn’t run from my mind.  My mind that told me I was fat, that I was ugly, that I was worthless, and that I would never be free.  My mind that told me I didn’t deserve to be loved, that I didn’t deserve to live.  It tormented me day in and day out.  It scared me, but it also made me want to never let it go.  It made me want to hold onto it.  It made me want to continue to starve myself.

            My mom held me close until my breathing slowed and my crying ceased.  She gently sat me upright, moving my hair away from my face with her hand.

            “I need a tissue,” I whimpered.

            She silently got up, walked into the kitchen, and returned with a paper towel.  I blew my nose and wiped my tear-streaked cheeks.  I was exhausted, both mentally and physically.  Sitting quietly beside me, my mother held my hand and rubbed my arm.  I could feel the concern and worry rolling off her body.

            Looking back at the food in front of me, tears began to fill my eyes once again.  I tried to be strong; I tried to hold them back.  I knew deep down that I had to eat.  I had to.  Yet every fiber in my body battled against it.  This wasn’t the first time I’d struggled with food.  Receiving treatment was a part of my history, and I’d learned the facts and figures.  I understood why I needed to eat.  Somehow, though, none of it mattered anymore.  None of it made sense to me.  I couldn’t comprehend it clearly, and it was hard to blindly obey those who wanted me to nourish myself.  It was hard to do the unthinkable.

            I can’t eat this! I screamed inside.  The pain and turmoil was unbearable.  I sat, torn within, the agony and fear pulsing with my heart.  I didn’t want to hurt myself.  I didn’t want to be disobedient.  I didn’t want to do what was wrong.  But I couldn’t control myself.  No matter how hard I fought the voice inside my head I could never win.  It was just too powerful.

            My breakfast was getting cold, and I knew it.  Still, my mom wouldn’t let me leave the table until I’d eaten every bite of it.  There was no way out of this.  I was trapped, unable to make my own choices because those choices were harmful to me.  I didn’t get to choose anymore.

            My resolve wavered.  Tired and broken, I just couldn’t continue to fight.  It wasn’t worth it.  It wasn’t worth it to sit at the table all day, unable to live my life.  It wasn’t worth it to hurt my family and friends.  I just didn’t have the strength left to refuse.

            My mind raced, struggling, being pulled in two directions at once.  The eating disorder forced me towards starvation while the small, healthy part of my mind begged me to just give in and eat.  I couldn’t continue to live like this…and that realization scared me.  This wasn’t really living.  This was not how I wanted my life to be.  I could see that unless I fought the eating disorder, I would never be free.

            Exhausted, depressed, and full of anxiety, I slowly reached out and picked up my fork, my hand shaking.  The tears began to flow but I did not stop.  Taking a small fork-full of eggs, I lifted it gradually to my mouth.  I placed it in and chewed, my eyes squeezed tightly as I silently sobbed.  My mom tightened her grasp on my hand and offered words of encouragement and comfort.  I returned the fork to the plate for more food and continued to eat.  One bite at a time I made it through.

            I can’t eat this!  You’re making yourself fat!  You’re ruining yourself! the voice screamed inside my head.  I ignored it and continued to slowly eat, though each thought was like a knife cutting through my heart.  The pain, agony, and abhorrence I experienced with every bite and swallow was nearly intolerable.  I felt like I was betraying myself, and fear coursed relentlessly through my veins.

            I’m not sure how I made it through the meal.  I just know that I did.  I consumed every piece of food that sat in front of me.  I ate the eggs, I ate the toast with butter on it, I ate the grapes, and I drank the milk.  I hated every second of it, but I did it.  My mom was relieved.  I was terrified.

            The fullness in my stomach was so foreign.  I felt bloated and fat.  Discomfort, guilt, and pure sorrow saturated my being.

            I can’t believe you did that!  You’re fat and ugly.  How could you let them win?  Food makes you fat!  Nobody will ever like you.

            Inside I cringed at these words, bullied by the disease that consumed my mind.  I couldn’t undo the fact that I had eaten, but I also couldn’t escape from myself.  I couldn’t escape from the eating disorder.  It was overbearing and merciless.

            “Alright,” my mom said softly.  “You did it.  Good job sweetie.  I know it was hard but you did it, and you’re getting better and better each day.”

            I don’t want to get better!  I can’t…

            “Thanks,” I mumbled, looking down at my lap.  Part of me was relieved that it was over, but another part of me was horrified at what I’d eaten.  Fear was an ever present emotion in my heart, and I couldn’t escape from it.  And my head…I hated my head.  I hated my mind and the way that it controlled me.  At the same time though, it was my best friend.  I loved and hated the eating disorder, just as I loved and hated myself.

            My mom stood and carried my dishes into the kitchen for me.  Following her lead I rose slowly from my chair, almost as if in a daze.  My face was void of all expression but for a slight frown and furrowed creases across my forehead.  I was solemn and silent.  Depression overcame my mind and spirit.  My world was dark, and I was all alone.

            I felt arms enfold me as my mother pulled me softly into her embrace.

            “It’s okay honey,” she whispered.  “It’s okay.”

            No!  No.  It’s not okay.  But whatever.

            I knew my mom loved me.  I knew it.  I just couldn’t believe her.  I wanted to; every part of me longed to be better, to be normal, to be free.  But I couldn’t see how that was possible, and so her words were hollow to my ears.

            “Try not to stress too much,” she said gently.  “Go do something to get your mind off it, okay?  You don’t have to worry about food again until lunch.”

            Lunch.  My mind was racing.  Lunch.  The fear associated with that word was choking.  More food.  I can’t.  I can’t.

            I nodded my head in response to her words, agreeing to try and think of something else.  It was too late though.  My mind was not my own.

. . .

 

            I look back at my cruel middle school judgments now and cringe.  An eating disorder is not a life choice a person makes for herself; it becomes a way of life forced upon her.  It’s a mental disease that controls your mind and actions, that forces you to be someone other than who you are.  I received enough professional help and exerted enough personal effort to regain who I am, though it is likely that I will never truly be free.  My eating disorder is locked in a chest in my mind, and I will fight every day for the rest of my life to keep it there.  Unfortunately, many victims are not as lucky as me.  They are forever lost, their true personalities maliciously consumed by the beast within their minds.