Coming Out of the Closet

Last February, during NEDA (National Eating Disorder Association) Awareness Week, I opened the closet door.  Last summer, I stuck my toe out of closet door.  Last Wednesday, I peeked my head out of  the closet door.

I am a recovering anorexic, and for years, that secret lay buried deep in my closet, too ashamed of the stigma and of what others would think.  Growing stronger in recovery has allowed me to work through the shame of not being all that my anorexia had me believing that I could be: perfect, invincible, infallible.  And so now, it is time that I break from my cage, dust off my wings, and fly.  No longer do I need to hide.

Noted author, motivational speaker, and researcher on the topics of shame and perfection, Brene Brown,  stated, “Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” 

Recovery illustrates to me the need to own my story, not to flee from the imperfect parts of myself, but to embrace all aspects that make me the individual I am.  It is not necessary to sing high from the mountaintops that I am anorexic, but it is also not necessary to feel shame for giving this illness power over me.  That is why, slowly, I am emerging for the proverbial closet.

For years, I didn't believe that I had a problem.  I didn't think was my problem was "that bad."  I didn't consider myself sick enough or thin enough.  And, I certainly couldn't name my eating disorder.  Just hearing my doctors say it aloud made me cringe.  As much as I longed for that diagnosis, that validation, I couldn't give breath to the word.

Last February at a NEDA Open Mic Outreach event, I stood before a crowd of familiar and unfamiliar faces and boldly announced that I was in recovery from an eating disorder.  I told the crowd--through shaky voice and legs--that I had never publicly spoken of my illness and shared bits about my story. I couldn't use the word, anorexia--I was too ashamed--but I did admit publicly to a problem.

Last summer I participated in the first NEDA Central New York Walk, proudly wearing my team t-shirt with the words NEDA displayed front and center.  I did not discuss my disease or tell my story, but I walked with dozens of others in a display of recovery from an eating disorder, hiding a little less.

Last Wednesday, I shared tidbits of this blog with a group of relative strangers in my writing class.  Fearful of the response (I don't look anorexic anymore; would they believe me?), I took the risk anyway and felt pride in my strength.  There in writing was the word--anorexia--and everyone who read my writing learned of my written confession.

Today, I take one more step outside the closet.  I share with you my name, Melissa.  

I began this blog as a way to write about eating disorders, while remaining as anonymous as possible.  What if people from work discovered my secret?  Friends?  Family members?

In short, what if people found out?  What would be the worst that could happen? 

I have spend so many years hiding, and I am tired of it all.  I don't need to be ashamed of who I am, or who I was.  I was anorexic, I was bulimic, and now, I'm not.  I'm so much more than that.  But certainly, I don't need to hide it.  

Yes, my name is Melissa, and I am--was--an anorectic.  With each small step outside the closet door, I am less and less ashamed of this.

Cheers!

Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Larger Than They Are

Turning 16.  What a milestone.  Not only considered to be "Sweet Sixteen," it is the year when a girl in New York, like me, can obtain her driver's permit.  After easily passing the written examination, I was awarded my ticket to drive--with adult supervision, of course.

I quickly learned that driving is nothing like the rules laid out in the driver's manual. The anxiety, awkwardness of multitasking, and quick decision making were not issues covered in the booklet.  Despite all of this, I forged ahead, anticipating a whole new era of freedom and independence.

A new driver learns quickly not to trust the rearview mirrors.  Cars have blind spots, yes, and rearview mirrors help to give sight to those areas, but one cannot rely solely on those mirrors.  It may be the angle at which the mirrors are positioned, or it may be the materials used, the objects in the rearview always appear closer than they actually are.  To a driver, a young inexperienced driver, who must make instant decisions, the distorted image in those mirrors serve simply as a guide.  One must remember to look both ways over one's shoulder as well as the mirror adjacent to the steering wheel.  Ignoring all of that data could cause an accident.  And, no one wants an accident to occur.

What does this vignette have to do with eating disorders?  Everything.  

While standing naked in front of the mirror, I would scrutinize every inch of my body.  Almost magically before my eyes, I would see my thighs enlarge.  Pinch fat around my middle.  See bulges, sags, and cellulite, the image in the mirror slapping me for not working out harder and eating less.

While walking on the sidewalk, I stared not straight ahead, but sideways, praying that the images reflected back to me in storefront mirrors wouldn't betray me.  But they did.  Always I saw a big girl, too big to be worthy of love.

While trying on pants, shirts, shorts, or gasp! bathing suits, the mirror reminded me of my imperfection, the thickness and space of my body.

And, I believed everything I saw because I saw it with my own two eyes.  It never once occurred to me that the mirror, and my eyes, could be wrong.

I wish mirrors came with warning labels like the rearview mirrors on cars.  Imagine walking into a dressing room at Macy's and reading "Objects in the dressing room mirror may appear larger than they are."  It would be terrifying at first to know that one would look bigger, but on some level, wouldn't it be freeing to know that the image staring back at you was not real, not the one the rest of the world saw?

When people with eating disorders look into mirrors, we don't realize that the angle of the mirror (our negative perspective) or the materials from which it's made (our life experiences) distort the reflection.  We assume that our eyes tell us the truth.  We ignore the mirror adjacent to the steering wheel and refuse to look both ways over our shoulders.  In other words, we tune out compliments from others, the warnings from loved ones that we look weak, pale, and ill.  We distract ourselves from the noise of our bodies, growling from hunger and groaning in pain, and focus only an image that is distorted.  We refuse to acknowledge that image is even distorted.

We would never do this driving.  It could get us killed.

So, too, can believing the distortions.

Part of recovery entails a willingness to consider that the image we see in the mirror is a distorted amalgamation of our dark inner voices, trying desperately to cling tight.  We have to be willing to look at  the mirror and say, "I am beautiful," "I am worthy," "I deserve life."

For me it means telling that pesky anorexic voice to shove it, while I gasp at the size of my thighs.  It means taking a deep breath, looking straight into the mirror, and audibly saying, "my thighs are not big, they're beautiful, look at how strong they are."  If the eating disorder could condition us to believe we were fat and ugly and worthless, recovery can just as well condition us to do the opposite.

But, first, we must acknowledge the distortion.

Do not give up the fight.  Recovery is possible.  Just remember, objects in the rearview mirror WILL appear larger than they are.

Cheers!

The Most Challenging Choice

Recovery is the hardest thing I have ever done.  Sticking it out through all those unbearable moments, those moments when it would have been easier to surrender to the eating disorder, was the best and most challenging choice I have ever made.

Choice?  Yes, that's right.  Choice.

I chose recovery.

Don't get confused though--I never chose to have an eating disorder.  I never thought to myself, "I want to be skinny.  I'll just be anorexic."  I never thought that a diet would get deadly.  I never understood that at some point a deadly diet could become a disease.

Our society beholds thinness as a god.  We worship the thin and beautiful in movies, television, and magazines.  We seek to be like them, and though that goal is unattainable for the masses, the media sells this ideal as achievable through "willpower."  Yet, when taken too far, nothing but derision ensues when a person reaches beyond "perfection" and becomes anorexic.  Suddenly, that diet--which is really a biologically-based mental illness--becomes a choice.  The media attack switches from "put down that burger" to "give that girl a burger."  No, eating disorders are not choices.

To choose recovery is to be willing and open to change.  It means having blind faith in oneself and one's treatment team.  It involves tortuous physical pain and mental anguish.  It is climbing Mt. Everest with only a stick, hoping that stick won't snap. 

Choosing recovery means accepting that recovery isn't linear, that it won't go smoothly or seamlessly.  Setbacks and relapses are inevitable.  Ambivalence, inevitable. Feeling like giving up, sometimes giving up, but climbing back up--all inevitable.  

I didn't always want to recover, nor did I believe that I could recover.  I chose to face, and subsequently fight, the demons haunting me.  I chose to go to treatment, to do outpatient care, to attend groups, to journal, to practice yoga, and to risk trusting others. 

There are so few aspects of the eating disorder that I could control, but I could control me.  I could control my choices.  Because of that resolve, I am thriving.  I am living.  I am free.

No one chooses to have an eating disorder.  No one chooses to be ill.  But following doctors orders, doing what is hard, sticking it out through all the tough moments, those are choices.  Make them.  You are strong enough, trust me.

Cheers!