Why I Haven't Named my Eating Disorder

*To preface this entry, I need to state that I highly respect Jenni Shaefer and her efforts in fighting eating disorders.  I read both her books Life Without Ed and Goodbye Ed, Hello Me.  Both books have been helped me immensely throughout various stages of my recovery.*

You may have noticed that I don't refer to my eating disorder as Ed, Bob, Ralph, or Jimmy.  There is a reason my eating disorder remains nameless.  While the analogy of the eating disorder being an abusive lover or friend makes sense to me and I have written about it as such, I cannot grant the eating disorder personhood.  For me, I cannot have a relationship with the eating disorder at all.  And while I may refer to it from time to time as ED, I do that mainly for ease of writing.

I have recovering friends who have named their eating disorder, and it works great for them.  If it works for you, that is awesome, too; I make no judgments.  For me, I need to keep the eating disorder as a thing because sometimes, so no matter how terrible, toxic, or abusive a relationship is, severing that relationship is terrifying and near impossible. (This isn't to say I don't sometimes view the eating disorder as a relationship.  I tend to view it that way when I struggle, as evidenced by some of my earlier posts.  To break that bond, I must perceive the eating disorder in a way that cannot permit me to become compassionate toward it.)

I once tried out the name Kyle because every Kyle I had ever known was a complete dick.  It didn't work for me.  Kyle is telling me not to eat.  Kyle tells me to exercise longer and harder.  Shut up, Kyle.  The thing is---Kyle is me, the anorexic me, that part of me I hate, yet look to when I'm feeling self-conscious.  I don't fear Kyle; I fear me.

My husband, ironically, the man who for years never understood anorexia and couldn't grasp why I just didn't eat, said something to me after a couple's session we had while I was in treatment:
     "The eating disorder is like Venom from Spiderman 3.  Once it latched onto Peter Parker, it wouldn't let go.  Peter Parker acted in ways he wouldn't have it if weren't for Venom.  Getting this symbiotic alien to detach from him was painful and hard, but once Venom was gone, Peter Parker was himself again.  Then, Venom needed another human and went after Eddie Brock."

This resonated with me.  It explained why my eating disorder couldn't be named.  It already had a name--anorexia--and I was afraid of that name.  I was scared to voice the word, fearful to believe that I was actually sick and that I may actually have to recover.

Anorexia is Venom, a shapeless pool of blackness that seeks to destroy.  I have to name it for what it is, so I can understand it and fight to pry it loose from me.


Cheers!