ellen

Content Warning: Graphic Discussion of Eating Disorders

Ellen is one of those friends that I thought had my best interest at heart, but turned out to be a back-stabbing bitch. She fed me lie after lie; I believed it all because I thought I could rely on her. As it turns out, all she ever did was take advantage of me and cause me to harm myself.

Ellen isn’t a person, she’s my eating disorder.

This is the story of her existence.

The first time I went on a diet I was in 6th grade. Despite being so young, I was very self-aware of my body and how it compared to others; “others” being both my classmates and the female celebrities we all eagerly observed and fawned over. I hated how my stomach was soft and round when the pretty girls in magazines had toned abs and flat tummies. I hated the fullness of my cheeks and how wide my thighs looked when I sat down. I hated having to dig to the bottom of stacks of clothes to find my size when I went to the mall with my friends. 

Despite being just a little girl, I was privy to the immense value our society puts on how women’s bodies “should” look. I wasn't a fat kid, but I wasn’t naturally skinny like most of my friends were either. I desperately wanted out of the skin I lived in, which caused me to wage a war on my body that, while I didn’t realize it then, would last a lifetime.

So, at the tender age of 11, I decided I was going to lose 10 pounds. I copied what I had seen my mom do when she was dieting, using her old Fitbit watch and the MyFitnessPal app to count the calories I ate and burned off every day. Over the course of 2 ½ months, I lost those 10 pounds without excessive restriction or exercise. 

After that, I was content with the number I saw on the scale–which I would check every single morning–for about a year and a half. However, that changed when, in 8th grade, I gained those 10 pounds—plus an additional 8—back. I now know that 13-year-old girls are supposed to gain weight when they go through puberty and grow 3 inches, but at the time, I decided I needed to lose weight once again. I started dieting in the same way I had before: eating just enough calories so I wasn’t malnourished, but also able to drop about 1 pound every week.

However, this time around, I learned that the less and less I ate, and the more and more I exercised, the more weight I would lose. I reached my goal weight much quicker compared to when I was in 6th grade. Just like the last time, however, I stopped the dieting after I attained the number I had originally desired.

People around me just assumed I was growing and shedding my baby fat. My middle school teachers, my friend’s parents, and my own parents, all commented on what a “fit” and “healthy” young woman I was turning out to be. As a highly impressionable kid who was deeply insecure, I lived for those comments.

That insecurity didn’t go away when I entered high school, in fact, quite the opposite occurred. During my freshman year and first half of my sophomore year, I wasn’t still overwhelmingly discontent with my body. In contrast to how I tackled this discontent in years prior, I made no attempt to lose weight and instead became an avid binge eater. Food became a comfort amongst the chaos that is high school, and the number on the scale went up accordingly. My relationship with food became increasingly unhealthy, but it was nothing compared to the storm that was coming.

When COVID-19 first hit, I, like many of us, didn’t know what to do. As someone who relies on routine and control, I was hit hard by the uncertainty that ensued. I craved a way to feel some sense of order, which prompted me to decide that I would not let quarantine go to waste; I would use it to lose the weight I had gained and achieve the body I had always desired.

My new stuck-at-home routine included tracking all of the food I ate, writing down how much I weighed every morning and night, and calculating the amount of calories I burned through exercising. I would work towards something, I thought; I would have purpose while the world around me seemed to have none.

I became obsessed with losing weight. I started eating only enough calories to properly satisfy an 8-month old baby. I exercised for hours every single day. The weight dropped fast and I reached my primary goal at record speed. But that wasn’t enough this time; I wanted to keep going.

I soon learned that starving myself wasn’t the only way I could lose weight. I could still eat as long as my body didn’t absorb the calories of the food I was eating. This means that there was a 30-minute window after each time I ate to make myself throw up the food I had eaten (which I now know is called purging).

It was difficult to do at first, but as I got used to it, I also got good at it. It became a routine; breakfast at 9, bathroom to purge at 9:20, lunch at 12, bathroom to purge at 12:20. I always went downstairs to the small bathroom in the basement of my house to ensure none of my family could hear me.

The weight kept coming off and people were starting to notice. I told my parents I was just being healthier, and at first they were proud of me. As time went on, however, their pride turned to concern; they started commenting on how I looked “too thin” and “sickly” even. As I saw my friends again after the lockdown, I noticed their stares and surprise as their eyes traveled down my body. Even people I didn’t know that well felt they could comment on my body. I’ll never forget when, while dropping his daughter off at my house, a friend of mine’s dad saw me and said,  “Wow! What’d you do over quarantine? Just stop eating?” 

The comments and funny looks didn’t deter me; I loved them and they made me want to get even thinner.

Other things started happening to my body during this time as well. Despite it being Summer, I was cold all of the time. I grew a soft layer of hair on my arms called Lanugo, which I would later learn is what newborn babies grow ​​to insulate their bodies after they leave the warmth of their mother’s womb. My vision would black every time I got up too fast and I stopped getting my period. I had no energy. If I wasn’t doing my daily workout, I was lying down, staring at a TV screen, wrapped under a blanket despite it being 80 degrees outside. 

I was a shell of a person. It felt like I was dying rather than living.

Things got even worse when my parents had our basement bathroom redone in September of 2020. There was nowhere I could go where my family wouldn’t hear me purging; I resorted to doing so in plastic garbage bags in our garage. 

I was struck by nearly immobilizing fear when, one time, my sister entered the garage while I was mid-purge. I had to slide under my mom’s car in order not to be seen by her. After she went back inside, I finished the purge and headed straight for the bathroom. I stared at a girl in the mirror that I didn’t recognize, her face and clothes covered in car grease, and I cried.

I would later look back on this being one of the lowest points of my eating disorder. And while it might seem obvious that, yeah, I had an eating disorder, I wouldn’t come to accept that fact for a long time. For so long I convinced myself that I had everything under control; I believed I could stop at any time if I wanted to.

However, a short while after the garage incident, I decided I was tired of dealing with all that was going on by myself. I told my mom that I was losing weight unhealthily and she scheduled an appointment for me with a therapist that specializes in eating disorders.

Confessing to my mom was one of the best and bravest decisions I have ever made. I had always thought asking for help made me weak, but as it turns out, asking for help was the first step in me becoming the strongest version of myself I have ever been.

My therapist diagnosed me with Bulimia. She told me that I would have to work really hard at recovering if I wanted to continue at my current high school for my junior year. If I didn’t make progress, I would have to live at an inpatient treatment facility in a city three hours away. It was up to me whether or not I would get better.

Truthfully, the first few months of recovery were even harder than when I was in the midst of my eating disorder. I had individual therapy twice a week, group therapy once a week, meetings with a dietician once a week, and I had to visit the doctor constantly to make sure my vitamin levels weren't dangerously low from the purging.

My therapist split up my recovery into steps, personalized to fit my exact needs:

1. Stop purging - This was the first thing that had to stop. My esophagus and throat were extremely irritated and could rupture if I kept going, meaning, I could die mid-puke (now that’s a rough way to go).

2. Slowly add more calories to my diet - I was on very specific and constantly changing meal plans where I had to eat certain amounts of different food groups. These meal plans often included those nasty, calorie-dense protein shakes that make me gag when I see them in the grocery store to this day.

3. Stop measuring my food, counting calories, weighing myself, restricting certain foods, and excessively exercising.

4. Work through the physiological issues regarding my self-esteem that were obviously impacting me in a major way.

Steps 1 and 2 took me months to complete, and, in some ways, I’m still working on steps 3 and 4 today, and I think I will be for the rest of my life. Just because I’m not in “critical condition” doesn’t mean I don’t still have an eating disorder.

I still question everything I eat before I put it in my mouth. I still catch a glance of the amount of calories on labels and often wince from what I see. I’m still uncomfortable when I miss a workout. My eyes still drift to my stomach (one of my biggest insecurities) every time I pass a mirror. I still dread every time I have to wear a bathing suit.

It never really ends. It gets better and I’ve gotten stronger, but it’s still always there. “It” being Ellen, the name I gave my eating disorder at my therapist’s request. She said it’s so I can differentiate myself from my eating disorder, so I remember that that voice in my head isn’t really me.

Ellen isn't me; she's the toxic friend-turned-enemy I wish I had never met. But, I did. And while she sucks, finally kicking her ass to the curb has made me who I am today.

I don’t share this story in order to complain or gain sympathy. I just want to do my part to shed light on a struggle that, while dealt with by so many people, we as a society have deemed uncomfortable to talk about. 

What I ask from you, as my reader, is to try to take away these three things:

1. Think before you speak. Everyone has their shit, so try and inherently treat people with kindness. This is something I will be forever trying to improve upon.

2. Weight doesn’t equal health. I weigh significantly more than I did a year and a half ago and I am much healthier now than I was then.

3. If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, body image issues, or any other type of mental health disorder, it’s ok to get help. It doesn’t make you weak or a failure. It proves that you are strong enough to invest in yourself and do what you can to better your quality of life. And if you feel like you don’t have anyone to talk to about it, there are some amazing online resources out there. Also, feel free to shoot me a message if you feel comfortable. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable! Everything you just read about me used to be my deepest, darkest secrets, but I actually feel relieved in putting it all out there. You’ve fucking got this.