Sick Enough

My biggest fear about entering a treatment facility was that I wasn’t “sick enough” to go. Despite the urging from family, friends and trained professionals, the voice in my head told me repeatedly that there was no way I needed something as extreme as in-patient care. On paper, I was not sick. I didn’t appear unwell on the outside; to the contrary, I received compliments and even praise regarding my weight loss. Nothing showed up as concerning on any medical tests. I had no tangible evidence to prove to the world that I needed help in such a significant way. People with cancer deserved medical attention; not me. I was meant to deal with this “issue” in private, as long as it didn’t bother or affect anyone else.

It would have required strength, confidence and a clear mind to admit that what I was dealing with was serious and life-threatening. Those things could not coexist with mental illness. The eating disorder flourished in an environment of sadness, self-doubt and inferiority. I was convinced that until I appeared physically ill enough to evoke concern from a tertiary acquaintance, or set off alarms at a routine visit to the doctor, no intervention was necessary.

I simply waited for the disease to run its course as it had so many times before. Not unlike a head cold, the symptoms would flare, only to then wain and finally lie dormant until the next time. After nine months, when remission still did not come, I did not waiver in my opinion of the seriousness of the situation, even as I leaned into behaviors that could objectively be considered dangerous.

Each day when I opened my eyes, I found myself wishing that I hadn’t. I spent two hours at the “bootcamp” style gym, where I was not only a member, but also worked as an instructor. I would participate in a class and immediately follow it by teaching a class. Running, plyometrics, weight-lifting; all performed on an empty stomach. I only allowed myself to eat once a day, after the gym. I would attack food like a ravenous animal, only to then immediately purge every last morsel. Physically drained, I spent every afternoon in bed until I had to pick my children up from school. Still, I would not admit that I could benefit from anything more than weekly therapy sessions.

The truth was that I was never going to be sick enough, just like I was never going to be skinny enough. I was not in control anymore, and the eating disorder would not let me get to a place where treatment, and ultimately recovery seemed like a viable option.

It was the desperate pleas from those who watched me suffer that pulled me out of the pit of the shame and ugliness inside of my head, if only for long enough to agree to get more help. Their voices finally became louder and more persistent than my thoughts as they told me that not only did I need medical intervention, but that I was WORTHY of it. That my life meant something, and relying on other people did not mean that I was a burden to them.

I wish I could say that I believed them wholeheartedly; but, I was mostly just tired and scared, and I didn’t want to put my loved ones through the pain anymore. In the eye of the storm, they could not convince me that what they said was true, because I didn’t care about myself enough to fight for my life. But, because of their persistence and unwavering support, I let them decide that not only was I sick enough to go, but that I was too sick to be in charge of my own well-being anymore.

Authentically Yours,