I can’t exactly pinpoint the beginning of when it all started, of what caused it and what led to my collapse nor can I tell you what finally made me stand up, tear my skin off, leave the room and lock the door forever. I can tell you, very vaguely, about it though. 

I stopped eating when I was nine years old. I moved to America when I was ten years old. I began therapy at fifteen years old, for other issues. I graduated high school at 16 years old. I started eating when I was seventeen years old.

I don’t really understand what happened to me and truthfully, I don’t think about it anymore. I can barely recall much of anything from the ages of 10-17. Trying to remember is like looking through a foggy window; I can see the figures moving around, the general gist of what’s happening but not much else. I can’t read their lips or see their expressions very clearly. The only thing I really remember are the emotions, as if my past is a canvas and my emotions are thick brushstrokes. Colors I can’t even understand anymore.

I’m not sure how I didn’t realise how hard my head was pounding then. I wouldn’t eat, maybe a small bit of dinner to please my mama but there was nothing else besides that. I remember techniques I would use to stop myself from eating; the faux meals and “support” from other ill girls in school. I know I cried a lot. I know I felt a sick sense of pride when I felt light-headed. I could never make myself vomit and that was something I hated about myself. I know how badly I wanted to jump and never wake up again. My best friends tell me it was horrible, but I don’t really know. They say they’re glad I can’t remember and I think I am too.

This post isn’t about my issue though. When I read another user’s post on her about her ED, I related very deeply with it and saw a lot of my own self reflected in her words–the difference is, I would never consider mine an ED. I never have. For some reason, it feels like I’m stealing an illness that I refuse to say I had. I got over it. I literally woke up one morning after eight years and finally, suddenly felt like I could breath again. It was as if someone sprinkled fairy dust over me and ta-da! I was home free. I finally finished running. I could sit down for a bit, take it easy. I don’t know what is considered an ED, I’m not sure if I had one and I’m not sure how I would feel if I did. It sounds so stupid and trite, but it’s not mine to take? And honestly, I don’t want it. I don’t want to have a relation with any of that. I don’t want to be a survivor or whatever. I wasn’t kidding when I said I tore off my skin and locked the door. I left all of my past issues behind; I worked through them and felt total peace one morning. I don’t want to look back anymore.

I wonder though what this extreme change means for my body. One morning, I was suffering and starving and the next (months later, not really the next day) I could easily eat a sandwich. An abrupt software change. What does this mean for my body? Is my body only a physical vessel I can inflict torture on while my mind suffers? Or is it more? How does that shift (of habits and perceptions) impact my body and how deeply does that matter–why does it matter so much? I guess I’m still trying to figure out how intertwined and deep the relationship between my mind and body really is. When did I begin to connect my own soul, my self to my body, to see it as a complete representation of myself rather than a functional vessel to do things with and what does my extreme shift mean for my body? I’m not considering the physical malnutrition of my adolescent body during my time of struggle but more-so my own connection to my body. What does me not remembering much of my struggles mean for my body? What does my rejection of labeling my habits as an ED mean? Why do I feel so uncomfortable with associating my former behaviors with that illness?