by guest blogger, Daphne Wornovitsky
For the last couple of years, I have tried to write down my eating disorder story. And, everytime, I am at a loss for words. Something like writing, which comes so easily to me and is one of my outlets, is hindered by many thoughts that I don’t know how to untangle. Maybe my eating disorder doesn’t want me to write about it? Perhaps it keeps jumbling my thoughts, causing me to lose the words to describe my story? Maybe telling my story is a form of rebellion against my eating disorder? Perhaps others reading my story would mean a small victory in this war?
My eating disorder journey began about six years ago, during the summer after grade 10. I won’t bore you with the details from that time, however, I will tell you that it was not fun. I have always been anxious. My anxiety likely made me more vulnerable to the development of an eating disorder. It’s weird, but my eating disorder (ED) appeared to me as a friend. It was like a wall, holding me up so I wouldn’t fall. It started as many abusive relationships do- ED made me believe that it would keep me safe no matter what. If I did what it said, I would be loved and appreciated. It was all fun and games at first (well, not really) until the nightmare began. I suddenly started to hear tormenting thoughts if I made (what my ED deemed to be) a wrong move. The most common was “You are not enough”. Another was “You are too much” or “You take up too much space.” How could I not be enough and be too much simultaneously? It didn’t make any sense. However, ED provided me with safety and control to some extent and so I kept listening.
And then, after four years with an ED, I screamed at my friend at a coffee shop.
That was a wake-up call. Suddenly, I couldn’t control my own emotions- Something that I was known to be able to do. People used to tell me that I had such reasonable control over my feelings or that they had never seen me cry. I think they thought this was weird, even though it felt like praise to me. I screamed at a friend at a coffee shop simply because she was trying to help and support me. In this moment it hit me, just how far ED had pushed me. I had no control. I was not safe in my body. I was in my second year of university and felt like I was five years old again. I felt like a shell of who I once was. I didn’t recognize myself anymore, and I’m not just referring to appearance- I didn’t know who I was anymore. This felt terrifying.
For a while, I had known something was wrong. I had seen the common signs; I was struggling with school, highly depressed, and isolating myself from those who loved me. And yet, every time I would go to the doctor's office and share my concern about my behaviour, they would look me up and down and say “You’re fine!”. So I believed that I was. No one asked me about my behaviour and if I told them of any physical symptoms I was experiencing, they would give me medication without addressing the ED, itself. I went through blood tests that all came back normal… Even though every time I went in, they couldn’t find my veins. But I was “fine”. They changed my antidepressants because they weren’t working due to my ED. This made everything worse but I was “fine”. I just needed to fix the depression but, other than that, I was “fine”.
Screaming at my friend in a coffee shop finally made me realize that I was not fine. I called my mom and took a medical leave of absence from the university. When I got home, I was met with the same disregard from my family doctor. However, this time, my mother was there to advocate for me. After my mother told her about five times to not send me to the weight watchers clinic, the doctor sent the referral to the eating disorder clinic. She told me that my vitals and weight were fine, but she signed my medical forms for the university, allowing me to stay home to recover.
This happened just over two years ago- February 15, 2020. Right before COVID-19 hit. It took some time before the referral went through so my mom took charge and re-fed me. All the while, I was coming off an antidepressant that the university doctor had prescribed to me. It was a tough few months, but I made it out of the first tricky part. Finally, once I got into the clinic, the psychiatrist put me back on medication. This medication was the same one I was on previously. My new psychiatrist told me that this medication had probably stopped working because of my eating disorder. This was exactly what I had suggested to my doctor at the university, and had been laughed at.
When I was given the diagnosis of Atypical Anorexia Nervosa, it was another “you’re fine” but in diagnostic terminology. Being told I had atypical anorexia fed the eating disorder. Was I not sick enough to even get the diagnosis of a REAL eating disorder? “Ha! I told you that you weren’t enough. You aren’t even sick enough!”
“Not sick enough.”
These words burned through me. I felt regret seeping through my bones. I was not sick enough. Not sick enough. Not sick enough.
I have a friend who used to research eating disorders. She told me that people with Anorexia and Atypical Anorexia have no physiological or neurological differences. The only difference, she told me, is weight stigma.
This changed my life. I was told I was not sick enough to have anorexia nervosa. Yet, I was ill enough to take a medical leave of absence from the university. I did not appear to be sick enough from the outside, however, on the inside I was. Endless contradictions! I was not ill enough and yet, I was. I thought I was different because I had been denied compassion and care when I asked for it. I thought my story was unique because everyone I knew with an eating disorder looked visibly sick. And then I found a community of people who were like me. They too had been told their whole lives that they were “not sick enough”.
Let me tell you this: You are sick enough. Your weight doesn't define your eating disorder. Your eating disorder is about thoughts and behaviours and the pain that it brings. Your eating disorder is about the struggle in your mind and not what you look like on the outside. You are sick enough.