Dis-dressed
Dis-dressed is a play on words for the word 'distressed'. It is minimally understood just how uniquely distressing all things related to clothes, dressing up and shopping can be for ED sufferers. I describe 'dis-dressed' as being unique because unfortunately, in the society we live in, having negative thoughts about our bodies is somewhat natural. 'Dis-dressed' is very different to that. I endeavour to educate my Shopaholics on this matter and to provide comfort to the Shopaholics who, once like me, thought there was something wrong with them for finding dressing up so distressing.
I love buying, wearing and receiving clothes but my mental illness goes berzerk when I receive clothing gifts. Since developing anorexia, my brain's analysis of the situation blows reality out of proportion. My worth is directly intertwined with the number that flashes back at me every morning, whether or not my fingers still reach around parts of my body and what others depict my shape and size to be. So for most people, the fact that they're receiving a beautiful gift from someone they love is a testimony of their true worth. But for me, someone whose worth is defined by a number, the size that person has chosen for me far outweighs the act of gift-giving itself. Even if the size is accurate or less than, the shallow sense of joy I feel in that moment from the eating disorder 'winning', draws me down to the dark place that anorexia dwells in. I can't focus on the sort of joy that is fulfilling... Their act of kindness. And if I am unsatisfied by the size they have chosen, it feels like I have been punched, brutally, purposefully in the stomach. It is a feeling that lingers with me for days or weeks. How can a feeling like that exist in the realms of an intention so pure? The answer, Dolls, is that anorexia has a funny way of being exceptionally masterful at destroying moments of goodness.
Receiving clothes as a present when you have an eating disorder is inevitably a lose-lose situation.
Dolls, considering how much I adore fashion, I began to feel very heartbroken as the years of my illness continued to elapse because my simple desire to receive beautiful clothes grew increasingly complex. There was yet another thing I wanted to enjoy but couldn't. I felt robbed by this form of dis-dress. Post my anorexia diagnosis, the turmoil in being given clothes didn't only sustain, but it grew worse. I wonder if I will ever discover the redemption within myself to manage to hold on to the intention more than the shame anorexia instils.
Everybody tailors their clothes to align with what they believe makes their body type, hair colour or cup size, for example, the most flattering. Many people have insecurities about wearing particular clothes for daily wear or dress-coded events. But those with this illness experience these insecurities to a magnified extent. Instead of spending 90% of the day concerned about the conversation, other participants or their makeup and 10% concerned about their body, it's reversed and stretches to a larger, further disproportioned scale. Often, wearing clothes that I'm uncomfortable in results in me spending 99% of the event thinking about how others perceive my body whilst being left a mere 1% to concentrate on my surroundings, my enjoyment and creating memories. Although I know I'm standing in a room full of people, I don't feel apart of a group. Rather, I feel utterly alone in my acute preoccupation with others' perception of me. I was conversing with a close friend and we were marvelling over the people who can easily, confidently, and thoughtlessly wear bikinis at the beach. I used to think that once I reached a certain weight, I'd finally have the capacity to wear all the clothes I'd always wanted to. But that's exactly why anorexia is a mental illness and not a physical or social one. The problem began in my head so even once my physical measurements aligned better with the atrociousness of those thoughts, the body image issues only pervailed and progressed.
I am not able to know the simple pleasure that it is to deticate my life to living.
What I mean by this is when my family go to the beach and swims every day, the intrusive thoughts that overpower those moments follow along the lines of:
'Your family will not think you're anorexic if they see your entire body. You're not sick enough. They will stop caring whether or not you eat because you look healthy.'
'These strangers will notice every crevice on your body that you despise about yourself.'
'You are unworthy of simply allowing your body to be a vessel that allows you to spend this precious time with the people you love most in the world.'
It's not that I am vain and it's not that I don't want to be known for something more than anorexia. It's that I don't know how to live alternatively. This illness has ravished my heart, mind and soul with its unforgiving temperament to destroy beautiful moments with fears that do not exist, at least not to the extent that my mind believes.
I used to love shopping for clothes when it used to be about the clothes, feeling beautiful and socialising with my friends. But I began to feel sick to my stomach when an activity I once loved became about body-checking, criticism and judgement. Anorexia sucked the joy out of one of my favourite activities by poisoning it with its desire to seek gratification from sickness. There isn't too much else to say about why shopping for clothes is now, such a painstaking experience. It used to be feeling pretty, fashionable and creative that I loved so much, but now it's my obsession with seeking perfection on every square centimetre of my body as I stare at and analyse my appearance in a mirror, reducing me, yet again, to a number and not a young, capable, free woman.
Dis-dressed, though a play on words, is far from anything that playfulness represents... Joy, connection or liberation. Dis-dressed is like an unhealed wound... Even the surrounding health becomes jeopardised by the brokenness that is too stubborn to ameliorate.
Kisses,
COS x
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