I Was 15 When I Began Starving Myself

We stopped for ice cream on the way home from your last day of kindergarten. As chocolate ice cream dripped from your cone and melted onto your hands and smeared across your face, you talked excitedly about how we would spend the summer weeks that stretched out in front of us. The sun had already started to lighten your hair and send rows of freckles marching across your cheeks. My newly minted kindergarten graduate, the little girl big enough to order her own ice cream, but young enough to still ask politely for sprinkles.

This morning, you said something to me that brought back memories from a time in my life I don’t think of often and rarely talk about to anyone but your daddy. Today, you told me that your thighs are chubby.

I don’t know what caused you to say something like that—no doubt you heard it on the playground, another little girl parroting her mother’s insecurities.

I know for a fact you have never heard me talk about myself that way, because as soon as the ultrasound tech told Daddy and I that the little creature squirming around on the screen in front of us was a little girl, I made a promise to you that you would never hear me talking badly about my body.

Now let me tell you why.

When I was 15, I had an illness called anorexia nervosa. If you were to read about this harsh-sounding name on nationaleatingdisorders.org, you would learn that anorexics have an “intense fear of gaining weight or becoming fat, even though underweight” and suffer from a “disturbance in the way in which one’s body weight or shape is experienced, undue influence of body weight or shape on self-evaluation, or denial of the seriousness of the current low body weight.”

You’re a smart girl—you can read for yourself how anorexics “maintain an excessive, rigid exercise regimen” experience “dramatic weight loss” and, yes, “make frequent comments about feeling ‘fat’”.

But let me tell you what it’s really like to intentionally, deliberately starve yourself.

I was a freshman in high school when I decided to stop eating. It wasn’t a sudden, impulsive decision; my eating disorder was a long time coming, and, in some ways, a rather inevitable result of genetics mixed with my early love of cross-country and distance running.

I was always a very intense, goal-oriented people pleaser—the trademarks of an anorexic in the making. In middle school, I was skipping dessert and wearing one-piece bathing suits because I hated the way my stomach looked. The stress of high school—being in a new school where I didn’t make friends easily and running varsity cross-country as a freshman—brought my eating disorder to the surface.

Also, I didn’t know it at the time, but there was something different about the way my mind works. There was something electric, something wild, about how quickly my thoughts went racing around in my head, and I was desperate to find a way to tame the energy and anxiety that sent my brain spinning. And starvation did just that.

And so, I starved.

I restricted my diet until it consisted of only flavored water, ice chips, and gum, but soon even the pieces of gum had too many calories.

I starved until my pants became baggy and my cheekbones sharpened. I became a master of deception; I knew how to trick my parents and coaches into thinking I had eaten, and I learned how to hide food and lie. I starved until my weight became dangerously low and I was forced to stop running. I was starving when the bloodwork came back that showed that my body was starting to break down my muscles because it so desperately needed something to digest.

And then, when I couldn’t starve anymore, when I finally realized what my lies were doing to my family and understood how much danger I was in, I had to recover and learn how to care for myself again.

That, dear girl, is the thing about anorexia: you either recover or you die.

Eating disorders are the most lethal of all mental illnesses, and that’s why your comment about your thighs worries me so much.

My first reaction when I heard you say your thighs are chubby was disappointment. I try so hard to model self love and how to have a healthy relationship with food. I try to teach you the importance of exercise and cook you healthy meals, but I also make a point to let you see me enjoying a donut or a cookie. Yet, here you are, a 6-year-old who looks at her thighs and sees them as anything less than what they are: healthy, strong legs that help you do things like chase after your brother or ride the big girl bike you were given for your sixth birthday.

But, I understand. I understand that no matter what I do, no matter how many times I tell you you’re smart and beautiful, your genes might render you vulnerable to a dark voice inside your sweet mind that tells you you’re less than worthy. One day, that horrible voice might drown out all the behaviors I try to model for you and all the love that I give, and it might convince you that you aren’t the thoughtful, creative, compassionate daughter I know you are.

Let me tell you what will happen if you let that voice win. You will lose, and you will lose so much.

Months and years of your life that should be spent chasing your passions, enjoying friendships, and simply being happy will instead be spent counting calories and hiding food as your body wastes away to nothing. You will never have those years of your life back, and I promise you when you do eventually recover, the years you have lost to anorexia will be one of your greatest regrets.

I promise you that if you find yourself on the path of self-destruction that I will never give up on you. I will hold your hand through your darkest days until you are able to treat yourself with kindness again. Please, sweet girl, always try your best to see yourself as I do. That ugly voice that might be stirring inside your head is a liar and comes from a place of pain and loss.

Please remain strong, please forgive yourself for what you view as imperfections and flaws, and please know that you will always have my love.

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I Kept a Diary While I Starved Myself