It’s been a while since I’ve shared a new post with you all. My dearest apologies.
I got caught up in life along with having the most insane writer’s block.
This past week, I received the news that one of my friends from treatment was in the hospital. She was having heart issues as a complication from her anorexia.
The treatment recommended was that she get a pacemaker. At age twenty.
Upon hearing this news I was feeling a wide range of emotions.
Sadness. Fear. Anger. Guilt.
Sadness and fear for my friend and her family. Anger at this awful disease. Guilt within myself.
But I wasn’t the one who needed a pacemaker, so why was I feeling guilty?
I spent hours searching my brain as to why I was feeling so guilty about my friend needing heart surgery.
And then it hit me.
My eating disorder voice was telling me that I should be in her position. That I should be the one getting a pacemaker. That I should have permanent heart problems.
That I have failed at my eating disorder.
My healthy mind can recognize how terrible and awful this type of thinking is and I am so grateful for my health. But for some reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling of failure.
This is not the first time I have felt this way before. There is one particular moment I vividly remember in treatment.
It was when I received my diagnosis.
Everyone outside of treatment always called me “anorexic” or “the girl with anorexia”. I always just assumed that I had anorexia.
But I didn’t.
I was diagnosed with OSFED: true atypical anorexia.
Why atypical? Because I wasn’t underweight enough to be a true anorexic.
I felt fat, embarrassed, and like a failure.
My brain was telling me that I didn’t “eating disorder” hard enough. That I did something wrong.
By now, I have come to terms with my diagnosis but I can’t help but feel poorly about it here or there.
I often feel as though I am not good enough, in any which way. And receiving this diagnosis just reiterated the fact that I couldn’t do something right.
I had failed at my eating disorder.
I was wrong. I had not failed at my eating disorder.
I was suffering and in a deep, dark place.
I would starve myself and make myself sick. I would weigh myself too many times a day. I would pick myself apart and hate myself afterward.
Now I don’t know about you, but that sounds like an eating disorder to me, regardless of the diagnosis.