My family was struggling with money and I had just started public school, which has tons of little expenses the private school I was used to didn’t. I felt bad always asking my parents for money, so I stopped eating lunch. It at least took away that weekly question.
Coming from the comforts of my private school bubble and being immersed in the stark difference of the public school world was nothing less of a culture shock. Everything was so sudden; every detail of the world I once knew was now questioned, and I was left to figure out the answers by myself.
I was a bit of a late bloomer. Leaving private school, I was still rather short and my baby fat was lingering. I never cared before, but suddenly I’m in this place where all the words that had been told to me over the years of, “you shouldn’t eat that.” “That will go straight to your hips.” “Do you wanna end up like so-in-so who weighs 300lbs?” came straight to the forefront of my mind and weighed on me like a mountain on my shoulders. As I stopped asking for lunch money and kept myself busy, the inches started falling away. People started making comments of how good I looked. It didn’t hurt that I was also finally getting taller and starting to even out.
But I still wouldn’t accept that I had a problem yet. Part of my Grandma’s cause of death was bulimia. I refused to be that, so I made myself eat once a day to try and avoid the official label.
Then a man close to our family was going through a divorce and saw beauty in me I didn’t know of. He started making advances and doing favors and trying to get me alone. I got a job, he started working there too. He complimented me on the one part of myself I really hated, telling me, “You have great legs.” in a way that made me feel violated. I wanted to be so skinny that he wouldn’t want me, so the fire burned. We were nearly 3 years deep and this point, and I just let it all fall away. I started obsessing, shooting excuses anywhere I went. Volunteered to help extra at a camp I helped at during the summer to avoid the cafeteria. I was a pro. A few people saw right through me, but they never said anything. I kept going on, withering away little by little.
I graduated and went away to college. Anorexia became the only thing familiar to me. I couldn’t let it go, it was like a dear old friend to me; sure to make me feel better when I was nervous and reassure me when I felt like I wasn’t up to par.
Here, I had a few people around me who noticed what I was doing to myself and loved me enough to not let me live that way. They didn’t do an intervention or anything, but they loved me through it. They took opportunities when they arose to tell me that this was dangerous and I needed to be careful. That this was no way to live.
Fast-forward back to college, and I’m having a conversation with my student adviser, who is a dear friend of mine, when she pointed out, “What you’re doing is a slow suicide.”
More than that, it made me realize my mortality. I’ve always known life is short and tomorrow is never guaranteed, but I had never considered this side of it. That I was slowly taking my own life. How much longer could I go on like this until I ended up in a hospital? Would it be too late? And if it wasn’t, everyone would know my secret, and I didn’t want to sit through their criticism, and the shame I would feel.
Then one Wednesday evening, I asked my friend if I could talk to her after a service we were in. I said simply, “This is stupid. I’m gonna start eating.”
I had no idea why she was crying, it wasn’t a big deal. This was a simple thing, I mean, I almost didn’t tell her but I knew she’d probably want to know. That it was only fair to keep her in the loop since she’d been there through so much.
I don’t know.
I’m alive.
And although I’ve faced death more times than I care to admit, death has not overcome me.
Let today be the day you start again.
If you have breath in your lungs, it’s not too late.