Her Story


I am posting for an anonymous guest blogger who has a lot of wisdom on eating disorders and food issues.  I hope that you glean from her story today.  I would love for you to leave her a comment if you can.  It’s great for readers to encourage those who share their heart:

My very first motive to be thin happened in first grade.  I was the only kid at the bus stop.  Every morning as I got on the bus, the boy from fourth grade would yell out “fatso”.  I learned early on that I needed to stay under the radar to avoid negative attention.  I am sure it was my insecurity that made me a target, chubby cheeks or not.  Eventually I cracked under the humiliation and told my beloved teacher and it was put to a stop.

We bypass tender years, when they are not.  When we live in the perimeter of someone’s brokenness, we will be exposed to it.  For me, that was my mom.  It took a long time to understand the junk yard dog demeanor was really her inability to cope or forgive her past hurts.

Children are amazingly resilient despite brow beating or the humiliation of being struck…devoid of nurturing…anxiety is inevitable.  It was the anxiety that launched a need for relief and some form of control.

At 15 I was medicating and the only thing I could control was eating.  In my little world of self-imposed rules it was never finish food and only tiny bites.  I remember getting side looks from my siblings one day.  I had done it without thinking I was being obvious.  This had become my normal.  In the same year two scenarios took place that would link self-hatred with my eating disorder.  The day my mom wrestled me to the floor and as she sat on my chest with gritted teeth said, “Your going to be fat someday.”  A few months later, I had borrowed my sister’s shirt without asking and we got into an argument.  She call our mom to complain, and mom rushed home.  She called the police to have me removed.  I was in disbelief!  When I tried to come in, she pushed me back out by my face.  The police came.  My clothes were in garbage bags on the lawn.

Anxiety escalated into panic, eating escalated somewhat into starvation.  It makes me think of people who go on hunger strikes.  They hold out to make a point, ironically they are usually prisoners.  Yes, I too was protesting.  All the things or words that had entered my soul that had guaged my worth.  Starving became a way to both cope and punish.

Music is dangerous when you’re young and in that state of mind.  I wanted to be comfortably numb and there was plenty of room at the hotel California, but that turnstile is the entry way into Satan’s amusement park.  Lyrics become the not so merry go round and around in your head.  The not so fun house where fear jumps out around every corner.  The haunted house of memories.  The bottomless pit of pity.  For me it was all of the above but it was my maze of mirrors where I couldn’t find my way out.

It wasn’t until the pregnancy of my second child that I resigned from the obsession with weight, but found myself doing the opposite once she was born.

The great deception is that you think you’re in control.  I never got on a scale where the number scared me.  I was 46 when the trauma had accrued for me.  This latest trauma pushed me over the edge.  If you push through hunger long enough, the body adapts.  Not eating becomes not a big deal.  After two years it was clear, I wasn’t thin, I was wasting away.

It was the final jolt that woke me up……..I was committing subtle suicide.




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