A sense of dread and exhaustion overtook me as I turned on the treadmill. Over the course of forty-eight hours, I consumed less than five hundred calories. Was I really about to run six miles? I craved nothing more than the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I wished my family would return home and prohibit me from running. One, two, three miles in, three to go. My heart ached, vision blurred, darkness engulfed my sight as I collapsed off the still-running treadmill.
Despite only moments passing since I passed out, it felt like hours. Slowly collecting myself, I staggered to the bathroom where I pulled out my oldest enemy yet dearest friend, the scale. I braced myself as I stepped on, two weeks had passed since I was able to complete my daily weight ritual. The screen went blank for a moment before the number revealed itself, ninety-seven pounds. Over the course of fourteen days, I lost over ten pounds. A sense of pride was quick to register but vanished as my eyes met the mirror. I didn’t recognize the dull face and sunken eyes that stared back at me. There was no victory in my protruding bones or low BMI. For the first time since I embarked on my mislead journey of self-love I truly saw myself for what I became. In a three month span, I had lost so much more than thirty-five pounds, I lost my happiness, purpose, and the will to be alive. There had to be more to life than this, counting every calorie, running until I blacked out and feeling undeserving of love. I deserved more than this.
Recovering from anorexia was so much more than gaining back the weight I lost. It was gaining back the life I lost, the missed nights out with friends, the taste of my dad’s homemade bolognese, and the catharsis and peace running once brought me. Choosing recovery brought me the realization that I can’t be lying on my deathbed at 17, 30, or 80 and asked if I accomplished everything I dreamed I would and answering no. No, because I wasted my whole existence avoiding chocolate, pizza, and pasta because I counted calories instead of counting memories laughing under the stars with friends and family. I refuse to be dropped six feet into the ground on a dreary Sunday when I’m terrified of having an ice cream sundae with those who love me. A number on a scale or a label define my worth. I am so much more than grams of fat, carbohydrates, and protein. I am defined by those around me and what I accomplish in my life. Not by something that never meant anything at all.
I no longer strive to be the daintiest in the room or the weakest. I strive to be the beauty I only saw in others, neglected from myself. I am that beauty. I was always that beauty, and nothing can take it away from me.
A powerful factor in my recovery has been sharing my story with those around me. Slowly, piece by piece I’m dismantling the wall I constructed around myself and opening myself up to the world around me. By telling my story I hope to start a conversation about the severity of eating disorders and their prevalence in modern-day society, especially on college campuses. If I can help one person seek recovery and regain their life back as I did, it would mean everything.
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