Hi. My name is Alexandra, and this is a true story, scattered as it reads.

My eating disorder started as a way to be “healthier.”

At least that’s how I think it started. 

Getting “healthy” was more of an excuse to funnel all of the insults and jokes and feelings of worthlessness I had accumulated over the years and feel like I was doing something about it. 

Remembering moments in elementary school wearing shorts and being teased about my babyfat “cellulite.” Putting pads in my bra because I had no boobs but I had thick thighs. Wanting to drink Diet Coke because all of the pretty, older girls on TV drank it and they were skinny and beautiful. Feeling ashamed that my legs sometimes rubbed together.  Feeling powerless and out of control. Thinking people would like me better if I could be tall and thin. Comparing every aspect of my face and body to what I saw on television and in magazines. Reading food labels not really understanding what I was reading but being obsessed nonetheless.

All of that was ammunition to take control. Taking control over my body made me feel in control of my life.

The fact that my experience is not at all rare or uncommon in our society should be evidence of this.

I was sixteen years old and a junior in high-school when I decided to dedicate myself to “getting healthy.” I cut out a lot of foods from my diet and started exercising regularly. I wrote about my “journey to better health” for my English class and then included that essay in my college applications. I remember sitting with a college counselor in the Barnwell Library at Central High, listening to her tell me “This is a good essay. I would be hesitant to include this if you were just talking about dieting, but it seems like you really care about health.” I remember feeling weird, guilty, as she said that to me, thinking yes I care about health, that is what this is about.

Of course, my “path to wellness” took a dark turn because that was sincerely always the plan, even if I didn’t realize it myself. 

It’s really fucking hard for me to write about this. I had never written explicitly about my anorexia because of the stigma associated with it. I didn’t want to be viewed as damaged. I didn’t want other people to think I am romanticizing the disease. And the biggest reason, I didn’t want to draw that kind of attention to myself. 

At the peak of my illness, I would drape myself in clothing, obscuring my face with oversized hoodies, covering all parts of my body even in the summertime because I did not want people looking at me. I didn’t want to be looked at by men and the idea of being sexy or being seen as sexual was revolting to me. 

Starving myself was a way of disappearing. I didn’t want to be mocked anymore, and I didn’t want to be complimented. I just wanted to be nothing.I wanted to be invisible. My friends had no idea how sick I was because I kept myself away from them, though they did worry about me looking too thin when they did see me. My boyfriend at the time, who would talk at length about food being disgusting, wishing he could just take a vitamin to live, silently encouraged my behavior. 

I honestly have a hard time remembering all of this. I think my brain is partially damaged from years of self abuse and deprivation. 

In college, I canceled a planned vacation to San Diego because I didn’t feel well enough to go. And I didn’t want to miss out on my exercise routine or the comfort of being able to sneak into the kitchen after midnight to eat spoonfuls of mustard from the jar. I was fucked up. 

I was selfish and I hurt a lot of people’s feelings.

I did weird shit I wouldn’t ever do now like getting in a car with a stranger I met on Broad street who stopped me and talked at me for 30 minutes or more, letting grown men I met on friendster cut all of my hair off, letting gross guys I was not attracted to give me hickies. I talk about these experiences in my book, American Mary. It’s a novel, and it’s been fictionalized, but a lot of the things in the book actually happened.

I drank diet soda and herbal tea “like it’s going out of style,” as my mom had commented once. I took diet pills and anything else I could find to make me stay awake and not feel incredibly hungry because I was always hungry it hurt so much and it was all I ever thought about and dreamed about. I had recurring nightmares about sitting on the tile floor of my parents’ kitchen in the middle of the night eating dog food sloppily and voraciously and would wake up feeling like an animal. I thought humans were disgusting. My human body was a terrible burden. stupider than insects, human needs and wants were deplorable to me.

I knew I was being a shitty person but I didn’t want to stop because the disease and achieving a fucked-up level of perceived perfection meant more to me than anyone.

What is our society’s obsession with sickness about? Why is our society fascinated with so-called “trainwrecks,” women who do not engage in “acceptable” healthy behavior, people who may be struggling or dealing with an addiction or disorder and dare to not hide it from the public eye? Their afflictions and corresponding behaviors are simultaneously glamorized and demonized by the media. They are urged to seek help while magazines make money mocking their fallen moments. The manic pixie dream girl with a coke habit. The manic pixie dream girl going through a public manic episode. 

I manage my disorder these days, but it’s not easy. In the past I was able to shake it off a few times but would eventually find myself doing something like visiting pro-anorexia livejournals to trigger myself into hurting myself again. It was that easy to slip back into my obsessive patterns, all I needed to do was read about another girl calling herself ugly or getting anxious about what she had eaten that day. 

I still engage in small behaviors that feel disordered to me and would probably be deemed weird and unhealthy by others, like waiting until 2 or 3 pm to eat my first meal and walking to destinations, even if taking the bus or train makes more sense and takes less time. 

I will always have this disorder, it’s with me for life, but now it’s more of a lingering ghost than anything else. 

Progress is good, but we shouldn’t just be content to dwell on the fact that things have changed some, especially when there are still things in place to hurt people.

I think we need to stop glamorizing illness. Illness is illness, it’s not a fashion choice. I think we need to stop condemning illness. Illness is illness, it’s not a personal choice.