What Being Underweight ACTUALLY Felt Like

This blog post isn't for everyone. It won't resonate with a lot of my followers, but it's something I think about constantly and want to vocalize in this recovery community. If you know my personally, and knew me during my worst days, maybe this will help shed some light onto those memories. I just want to put this out there, to give voice to the people who are in this situation now, and to validate those who were but never found the time or place to share their experience.

Back track to the depth of my eating disorder; sophomore year of high school.

I'm the oldest of four girls, and desperately want to be a strong role model for the three kick-ass girls that come after me. However, when I was at my lowest point (both physically and mentally), I was anything BUT that. I couldn't care for myself. I was wasting away, had lost my social life and drive, my sunny disposition and cheer. I thought I was exemplifying dedication and willpower, but all my sisters saw was a stubborn skeleton with a time-bomb attached to her ankle. I was showing them no way to live. In fact, I was showing them how to die.

I bring up my sisters because I compared myself to them, just like with every one else around me. Of course, it goes without saying that when you're battling ED, you're invested in a competitive mindset. You HAVE to be the best at being anorexic. Every one around you is a threat to your first-place ranking, and you can't lose your grip. Just one more skipped meal...just one more mile...you get the picture.

I remember walking through the halls of school, half in mindless daze, half focused on the swarms of people around me. I sat alone at lunch, so none of my "friends" would see me not eating. I always selected a table in the deepest and darkest corner of the cafeteria, where I could people watch with envy. Every girl that passed me was better than me. I desperately wanted to escape my sick body, but couldn't let go of the regimen that kept me this way.

"I wish I had her glowing skin".

"She looks so HAPPY".

"Did she just eat FRIES? But she's so THIN!"

The thoughts came without effort. I was constantly identifying who I was based off of what I was NOT. I was NOT healthy, I was NOT happy, and I was sure as hell the UGLIEST girl in the world. It's so terribly hard to explain what being physically emancipated feels like. You don't WANT this body. Eventually, when you get down to your ultimate worst, all you want is out. Outsiders probably looked on and thought that I deserved to look the way I did, that I WANTED that to be my appearance.

But it wasn't like that. I cried every time I passed a mirror, and avoided them at all costs. I kept hand sanitizer in my backpack so I wouldn't have to wash my hands in the bathroom. I was deathly afraid of catching a glance at my reflection. I hated how sick I looked. I wanted to snap my twig legs in half, throw them in the ocean and have them whisked away forever. The XXS black crop leggings that I basically lived in for an entire summer would bunch up near the crotch, hang loose by the calves, and float around my waist. I cried every time I put them on and took them off. I remember seeing girls at school wearing the exact same ones, with strong muscular calves and knees that DIDN'T look like door knobs.

I wanted to be these girls. I wanted to be anyone but myself, because I KNEW that I looked deadly. I didn't live the way I did to LOOK a certain way anymore. At this point, it's truly a mental illness. The ED in your mind is demanding that you continue on the destructive path you're on, solely out of uncertainty of what will happen if you don't. It's such a mind game. The girls at school could eat all that they wanted and never see the inside of the gym, and I was okay with that. THEY were allowed to. Myself, on the other hand? Who did I think I was? I HAD to punish myself. I had to workout three times a day, mind you on a fuel tank of about 800 calories. I couldn't be them. If I lived the way THEY did, I would swell up like a balloon! I would be a laughing stock and people would think I had no will power of strength. I would lose my reputation as the diligent and dedicated girl. Of course, I also knew my reputation consisted of introvert, sickly, and super skinny girl as well. But as much as I hated that, I hated displeasing ED even more. And so it is a vicious cycle. You pick your poison.

ED's tend to start out as quests for achieving a desired physical aspect. Me? I needed a flat stomach. NEEDED. And I was going to get it. But my journey spiraled out of control, becoming so intense and restrictive that I couldn't snap out of it. My mind pushed me beyond the limits of my body, and I was willing to go to the end of the earth to prove my "strength". My appearance was no longer relevant. It was simply a minor detail in my life. ED shifts your intentions and your goals. Now, you have to live the restrictive and deadly lifestyle you've fallen into because your irrationally believe that if you "give in", if you throw caution to the wind, you will lose all that you have "worked" for.

My blog posts typically don't have a planned out direction. I tend to write these between bouts of homework, when I need to just type and let out what's on my mind. Currently, I'm sitting in the library between Finite homework and tutoring my student, and have time to kill and a lot to say.

I just want to address that not all those suffering with ED's reflect it as dramatically on the outside as others. Once I was weight-restored (the first time), I would say my ED was raging fire. Yet nobody would be able to tell with a simple glance. You are not "less sick" because your physical appearance is starkly different than the next girl. For me, this was my personal experience. My PERSONAL ED led me to this life, to a body of physical reflection of a problem. However, one's illness is not defined by their appearance alone. The mental battle is the definitive end. And eventually, underweight or not, the mental battle is the true disorder to overcome anyway.

Okayyyyyyyyy well THAT was a trip down memory lane for sure. And quite personal and raw. Do I feel somewhat invaded? Eh, I guess. But I'm pretty open about these things now. I put myself out there on the line for those who wish they could but are crippled by fear. I want to be the voice for those who can't find theirs. If you identify with anything I wrote, or even disagree, connect with me. I want to hear your story, your perspective, what YOU have to say.

Feeling vulnerable for this post, but I really don't regret it.

Sending love!