Imagine glancing at yourself in the mirror and hating what you see so much, you cancel that lunch date and run to the gym instead. Or imagine going out to dinner with your family but, instead of drooling over the food, you can’t stop counting calories in your head. For the anywhere from eight to 30 million Americans with eating disorders, this is no fantasy. And for the first time in my life, I’m ready to admit that I was one of them.
I was 15 the first time I was told I wasn’t good enough. I was talking to my swim coach, standing by the side of the pool. He told me that I needed to gain weight if I wanted to swim well at the championship meet. So I did, adding 10 pounds to my 5’6″ frame. And then it happened.
I started noticing a difference in the way I was swimming about a month or two before the meet – and it wasn’t the good kind of difference. I felt slow and lethargic, when I was once strong and sure. I was the kid who wanted to be pushed; I loved feeling my muscles burn because then I knew, without a doubt, that I was doing well. Suddenly, I didn’t feel any of that – and my coach could tell.
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The month before championships I got kicked out of practice at least twice a week. I was floundering in the water and, when, championships came and went, my performance didn’t change. My swim times didn’t get worse, but they didn’t get better either –something that had never happened to me at a big meet before. My parents decided it was time to change clubs, so my little sister and I began swimming for a team in Pittsburgh. It was simultaneously the best and worst decision they could have made.
I was still 15 the second time I was told I wasn’t good enough. I felt like Goldilocks; my first coach told me I was too small, and now my new coach was telling me that I was too big. But, unlike Goldilocks, I decided to ditch porridge – and all food – altogether, simple as that. Even as my practices became more demanding, I honestly can’t remember eating one full meal a day. I didn’t know that 35 percent of female athletes are at risk for anorexia. I didn’t even realize that I was becoming a statistic … and neither did my friends and family.
My day was so busy that no one ever noticed my new “diet.” I would have a bite to eat before my morning practice, but it was nothing compared to the calories I burned during my workout. At school, no one commented on the fact that I only at an apple for lunch, and maybe I’d have some pretzels too. Because both of my parents worked, I would make dinner for myself. And by make dinner for myself, I mean I would pretend to eat something. I learned all of the tricks to make it seem like I was eating without actually putting any food into my mouth.
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I suppose the real trick, though, was on me. As the arrow on the scale inched lower, my swim times didn’t start getting faster. But my confidence shrank. The joy I used to find in swimming disappeared. And the self-respect I used to wear as commonly as my smile? It seemed to have sunk to the bottom of the pool … and I wasn’t sure if I could ever bring it back it up. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to; the only thing that mattered to me was being enough, and to do that, I thought I needed to be thin.
Sophomore and junior year of high school, everything started to fall apart. When you stop eating, your organs and immune system are weakened, and my body wasn’t handling common colds well. I missed more school in those three months than I had in the previous 10 years. Yet, I pushed myself harder than ever and continued swimming, however badly. Somehow, I got healthy enough to drop time at championships that year. I was finally swimming well, and it felt good. It meant that starving myself was working. By that point, my eating habits, or lack there of, were ingrained in me, and I saw no reason to change them because I was fast and smooth in the water.
But I wasn’t healthy. The only time I let myself feel was at night when I was alone with my thoughts. I was safe, and I wasn’t. I was safe because, for at least one more day, the outside world didn’t know what was going on inside of me. They didn’t know that two sentences – “You need to gain weight,” and “You need to lose weight” – rang like a mantra in my head. But I wasn’t safe because my thoughts were eating away at me and no one else seemed to notice. Studies indicate that 10 to 15 percent of all Americans have an eating disorder, but only one in ten receive treatment. I wasn’t that one, nor did I want to be. Yet, most nights, I cried myself to sleep.
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The summer before my senior year, though, a book saved me. It was “Letting Ana Go,” the anonymous journal of a runner who suffered in much the same way that I did. Her coach had them keep journals as a way to prevent an eating disorder from developing. On the first page, the author laughs at the idea of an eating disorder: “Hello? Dingbat? Running four to eight miles per day? You’re going to need some calories. (At least two brownies after dinner.)” But slowly, “Ana” decides she doesn’t. She joins chat rooms for people who were looking to lose weight, and posts pictures of herself with “problem areas” circled on her body.
In her last entry, the author goes out for a run. She dies. I decided that I would not.
Last August marked the fourth year since I quit swimming. My parents didn’t understand why because I didn’t tell them the real reason. Just like they don’t realize how hard I worked – am still working – to go from eating virtually nothing to eating three healthy meals a day. Physically, recovery is as easy as picking up a fork, spearing some food and eating. Mentally, I can’t say the same. I have to remind myself that my appearance does not dictate my worth everyday, probably for the rest of my life. I’ll likely still rely on journaling to put my innermost thoughts into the world, one secret at a time. Because I don’t dare say the words aloud. The shame has refused to leave, no matter how many “regular” meals I eat or pounds I gain.
Logically, I know I shouldn’t feel ashamed. I’m part of the 30 percent of anorexics who’ve mostly recovered and pulled myself out of a dark place. But there’s a little voice in my head that tells me I’m still not good enough because I let this happen to me. It’s the same little voice that tells me to not share my story with others because if they knew what I did, it would just confirm that I really wasn’t enough. Not strong enough to handle the pressure. Not brave enough to reject self harm as a path to the podium.
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I refused to ask for help because I wanted to show that if I could make myself that sick, I could heal myself too. I saw recovery as a way to prove my worth but I can’t help but wonder if telling people would’ve made my journey easier. Would I be more comfortable with who I am today? Would recovery have felt less excruciating if, like at my swim meets, loved ones were on the sidelines, cheering me on? I ask myself these questions all the time, but this won’t change the decisions that I’ve made.
My mom and I were talking a few weeks ago. I don’t remember how the topic came up, but she said she felt like I got lost in high school, that I wasn’t really who I was. “You lost all of your confidence … became a shell of who I know you can be,” she told me. “What happened?”
I smiled, mumbled something or other about the struggles of growing up. What I want to say – what I’m saying right now? I was broken, Mom. And, now, I’m slowly finding all of the pieces to put myself back together again.
