EATING WITH AN EATING DISORDER

Dolls, this blog post breaks my heart to write. Not only does it feel confronting to see the challenging world I live in depicted on a page but it's devastating to know that millions of people around the globe will see their challenging world depicted, too. Eating disorders are debilitating. It's important for me to share what the experience of eating is like so that others don't have to live in debilitation alone. Additionally, if those in our networks learn the truth of the eating experience with an eating disorder, they can be a resource of compassion, safety, trust, support and conversation.

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I am usually in one of three minds - restriction, somewhere in the middle, or recovery. In some ways, when I'm in the mind of severe restriction, the worst mindset where everything feels scary, difficult and wrong, it's easier than when I'm in the mindset where I am desperate to recover. At the point where my eating disorder has taken complete control of my brain, I lose the ability to listen to and feel the love that surrounds me. In this extreme darkness, I surrender to the hopelessness and the vacancy that anorexia entails. I surrender to the fight, I surrender to the screams, I surrender to the nightmare. Before anybody I loved understood what anorexia looked and felt like for me, they labelled my restriction as being 'difficult'. Yet, what they understand now is that it's mostly 'difficult' when I'm trying to eat. It only appears 'difficult' when I'm attempting to analyse what food I can manage. And mostly, the reason I am trying to find something to manage is for the people I love. Because if it were up to me, I think I would've lost my battle with anorexia a long time ago. When I don't eat, anorexia stops screaming at me. When I don't eat, I feel worthy. When I don't eat, it feels right and easy and painless and freeing and good. When I'm in the mindset of recovery, it's harder. It's harder because I have to face my eating disorder, this huge entity that has reigned over me for such a long time, multiple times a day, fight back, retaliate and say 'no'.

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I'm deeply afraid of particular foods and what food itself represents, so much so that the fear overrides the simplicity of the eating experience. Eating with an eating disorder is similar to searching for a needle in a haystack, the needle being the food on my plate and the hay being my relenting, endless, merciless thoughts. The needle, for me, cannot exist without the haystack. It's the most significant incentive that drives the restriction of my intake - the very fact that if I don't have a needle, I won't be forced to find it amongst the hay. But what's so bad about the hay? What exactly do the thoughts say?

• Their first category fits into worth. My Dad and I describe my eating disorder to be like a big, black bear that takes continuous bites from me leaving nothing but my bones and small pieces of tissue. The bear doesn't just bite me... It whispers to me. It does it silently enough that only my ears can hear but loud enough that I hear the ferocity laced within every bark. The bear tells me how unworthy I am... of eating, of being loud, bold, taking up space, of feeling satisfied, of feeling joy, of seeing my closest friends, having fun, dancing, laughing, singing, of trying new things, of feeling excitement, anticipation, eagerness, of desire, of pleasure, of freedom.

• Their second category fits into compensation. It takes incredible planning to fit eating into my day. A meal is not just a meal. A meal is a number and a value. I have to pre-empt it... Spontaneity is a sparse occurrence. Sometimes a meal is planned days or weeks in advance. And the moment I begin to eat the meal I've meticulously planned, I immediately begin to agonise over when and what my next gruelling task will be. I cannot relish in the taste, I cannot feel content and I cannot eat mindfully. All I can do is feel burdened with the anxiety that is gritted between the teeth I chew with. If for a few sparing moments, I manage to taste the food or not fear it, the moment is over before it's truly begun. Sometimes, convincing myself to finish my meal is as difficult as deciding what to choose. Because there is every possibility that even after all of my calculations, mid-way, I'll convince myself that I didn't plan properly and that in one way or another, the food isn't 'perfect'. If this is the case, I'll have to face the battle of finishing. It's truly, utterly, entirely exhausting because I'm not even guaranteed peace once I'm on the other side. The refuge is just as dangerous a terrain as the battlefield.

• The final category exists amongst hopelessness. I wonder if there's any point in trying to win the battle against my eating disorder, I wonder if there's any point in finishing a meal when I've faced a roadblock, I wonder if there's any point in living through the hours of meal planning that I don't want to suffer through, again and again, and again. Because the battle does become unbearable. Sometimes, I cry my way through eating because I don't know the next time I'm going to be strong enough to face a plate of food again. And I have to sit through the present meal that I can barely taste, preparing myself for the very likely possibility that soon enough, I'll be hungry and I won't be strong enough to honour it.

Amidst all of this internal noise, engaging in conversation, listening to the words beyond the internal chatter of my eating disorder mind, discussing food, being asked questions or being deterred from the activity of eating feels like an insurmountable task.

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For some people, deciding what to eat is the hardest part. For others, it's the eating itself that's the hardest. And for others, like me, it's the aftermath that's the hardest. Once I've finished something is when the guilt hits, the analysing, the scrutiny. It's when I can hardly exist within myself because I'm so disgusted that I ate, or worse, that I enjoyed what I ate. It's during this time period that being alone with my thoughts feels scary because I'll do any act and think any thought that will ease the distress my eating disorder is inflicting. When somebody else merely sits with me, it stops all of my urges to compensate and restrict because I can't take the measures I want to take in the presence of somebody else. Their presence keeps me safe and accountable, forcing me to recognise that I not only ate a normal amount but that despite how I feel, like them, I still have to eat all of my other meals that proceed in the day.

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This post is meant to outline the mental difficulty that someone with an eating disorder faces in the presence of food. Although there is a spotlight on my personal experience, I can safely say, that there is slight variation amongst the experiences of others. The point is that it's not simply a matter of 'just eating' because food can represent a lot of pain, control and suffering. Even when everything on the surface appears to be okay, someone could be battling a severe eating disorder inside their mind. Kisses,

COS x

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