The Illusion of Control: My Struggle with Anorexia

If this were some sort of support group (the kind I never attended, though admittedly should have), I would start this off by saying:

Hi. I’m Cindy and I’m a recovering anorexic.

Even though I don’t starve myself anymore (because I can’t…I’ve got kids to keep up with), I still feel remnants of that brutish thought pattern rattling around in my brain. It’s there. I know it is. Dormant, waiting for something to go wrong so it can say, “See! This is why you don’t deserve food!”

Luckily, though, I’ve gotten good at ignoring it. Being a parent has a way of distracting you from your thoughts – for better or worse.

Whenever people find out about my past – the beast from which I am recovering – they sometimes joke about how they wish they had a “touch” of anorexia so they could lose a few pounds (NOT funny!). Or they start to look at me with pity and remark on how brave I am (not true). A few even commiserate.

But mostly people like to ask what prompted my anorexia, what made it happen, like there’s some plan to navigate or some steps to keep their children safe from it. I get that. I want my children to avoid it, too. But it’s not always that easy. As I have learned, sometimes stuff just happens beyond our control.

My Anorexia Origin Story

If I were to make sense of it, though, I would say the origin story of my anorexia is somewhat mundane. I was just a normal, skinny kid from a normal, loving family. But then, as it does, my body changed. Nothing drastic – just the way it does when straight lines become slightly shapelier curves. I hit puberty around the time that I started high school, and between that, the death of a grandparent, trying to find my social footing, and getting my first failing grade in math, I felt like my life was imploding.

As I started to understand how big the world was and what little agency I had over it, I felt a crushing sense of existential dread. I knew I couldn’t bring my grandfather back to life. I also knew I would never be the smartest or most popular kid in school. But I remember thinking (in math class, of all places) that maybe if I had no other power, at least I could control my body! Being thin was something I could do. It was something I could control. And so, it all sort of unraveled from there.

When most kids were eating lunch in the cafeteria, I was dumping mine in the trash and hiding away in the library. When other students went home and worked on their assignments, I was in my room doing endless exercises. While everyone else was calculating their GPAs and worrying over grades, I was busy counting calories and managing days without food. But it didn’t stop there – every waking, breathing moment of my life revolved around this monstrous sense of deprivation. It started as a goal and morphed into a need…and that’s how the beast got me in its clutches. Before long, it felt like second nature to think that food was a commodity I didn’t deserve. In the warping of my thoughts, I started to believe I simply wasn’t good enough to have it.

Each time I passed the bathroom scale, I got on it. When the numbers went up, my sense of worth fell. When the numbers went down, I breathed a momentary sigh of relief. But it was brief. I couldn’t stay stagnate or else the non-existent fat would overtake my body. I punished myself preemptively. I had to do better! This was the illusion of control.

So, my cycle of starve/exercise/school/repeat kept looping around endlessly, whittling away at every aspect of my being until there wasn’t much left to take. I was cold all the time, weak, tired, and withdrawn. My body was bruised from jutting bones and my hair was falling out from lack of nutrients. No one could tell because I hid it so well – under big coats and a benign disposition – but it was happening.

The Road to Recovery

Luckily, though, I had a friend who was paying attention. Wise beyond his years, he caught a glimpse of my situation and noticed similarities to what his mom had faced. He didn’t shame me or scare me, but rather implored me to take some time to talk to her…when I felt ready.

After years of living on a loop, I finally saw a way out and I took it. It wasn’t easy – not by a longshot! I stumbled a few times on the road to recovery. I kept the thought, in my back pocket, that I could always get back down to that magical weight of 70-something pounds if I really wanted to. But, in time, the lure of such thoughts lost their luster and faded from my mind almost completely.

To say I’m cured isn’t accurate, just as it is not accurate for others who have recovered from their demons. Every day is a step forward. Sometimes there are steps back. Each day takes work.

Present Day

And now, though I am far removed from the high school years (and my anorexia), it is a piece of the puzzle, a layer of my life’s tapestry, that will never be separated or removed from my journey. I recognize it is a piece of my past only because I am lucky enough to have come through the other side of it – because of my friend, because of his mother, and because of me.

If I were to go back in time and meet with the 13-year-old version of myself, I would urge her to realize that she is MORE than her grades, MORE than her weight, MORE than her dress size, and MORE than a school ranking. I would tell her that life can be hard, things will get rough, but numbers can never be allowed to define her. Control is an illusion. And life is not perfect…but it’s okay.

Better than okay, in fact. Life is worth the struggle. And so is she.