Recently I admitted something to myself that deep down I have probably always known; I have an eating disorder. After years of purging, excessive exercise, extreme diets and obsessive thinking I finally reached a tipping point where I realised my behaviour was neither normal nor healthy – in fact it was significantly impacting my relationships, physical health and overall wellbeing.
As someone who has an extensive family history of mental illness, has supported friends and family through difficult times and has even promoted initiatives in the workplace to remove the stigma surrounding mental health, it seems ridiculous to now admit that I have been battling a cycle of bulimic and anorexic behaviours for years. Surely, someone who has a high awareness of the importance of mental health would be able to recognise that forcing themself to throw up every meal is a huge red flag!?
Alas, no. Sure, I saw the signs. I felt the anxiety build in my chest every time someone suggested a spontaneous meal out when I had already carefully planned my meals down to the last calorie for that week. I heard myself making excuse after excuse to run to the bathroom constantly in order to purge, I developed strategies for declining food at every opportunity (citing extensive dietary requirements and intolerances) but I never actually viewed myself as sick. I never saw my “healthy lifestyle” as being an obsession that was controlling my entire existence.
On reflection I can’t honestly remember a time when I wasn’t on a diet. I don’t remember a meal out that didn’t involve either purging, justifying every mouthful or making excuses not to consume food. I barely remember a time when my life wasn’t coordinated around my workout schedule, where I didn’t feel obliged to exercise at least twice a day in an attempt to counteract my (minimal) food intact.