I want to say I was hesitant to write this piece, but that's not exactly true.
I wasn't hesitant to write this -- the words flowed pretty freely, actually -- but, for the first time in my blogging history, I was hesitant to press "Publish."
I've written about deeply personal topics on my website before, but this was harder to actually put out into the world because it's about something I've never really discussed with anyone, let alone the entire Internet. And, that's because this is about body issues, the way I viewed myself and, oddly enough, the relationship I had with food.
But, if I've published pieces about my reproductive parts literally exploding, once named all of the men I dated in an entire year and even opened up about how I was stupid attracted to a guy for 10 months who constantly wore camo cargo pants (honestly, horrifying) and still received overwhelming support, I think I can write about this.
So, here we go.
I would probably never say I had an eating disorder, but I would probably also never say that it wasn't for lack of trying.
When people would ask me why I was doing the Whole 30 -- why I was cutting out grains, alcohol, dairy and sugar from my life for 30 entire days -- I told them the truth: I'd been eating like garbage lately and, because of this, I felt like garbage, too. I wanted to reset my habits and doing so along with four of my close friends felt like an ideal opportunity.
But, there was also another reason.
Though I've never spoken about it with anyone, I'm very aware the relationship I had with food was not normal. I had an aversion to it.
I was afraid of food.
The week before the Whole 30 started, Chelsea had Serria and I come to her apartment for a crash course on how to be paleo. Among other lessons she taught us, like how to read a food label (actually, not hard) and what ghee really is (actually, still unclear), Chelsea told me it was important that I eat more food. I made a face, but even from our lighthearted lesson, I could tell she was 100% serious.
Here's the thing: Chels and I have been friends for over a decade and, because we went to both high school AND college AND now work in the same office three desks apart, she's arguably the person who knows me and my habits best. Though we've never actually had a serious conversation about it, if anyone had any inkling I wasn't eating enough food, she would be the most aware.
So, when she called me out on it, I took her seriously. But, the most frightening thing was that, deep down when it happened, I could feel a tiny spark of pride.
Even more terrifying was that it wasn't the first time I'd felt pride for not eating enough.
When I started my first job in New York City, my co-workers would comment on how little I ate for lunch, watching in awe as I only consumed tiny bits of peppers and celery sticks. At the time, this was much less out of want to be thin and more because I literally was too poor to afford anything else, but still -- the happiness I felt by their attention held off any actual hunger.
Later on, when I was dating, I chose to skip dinner on the nights we would go out. I'd rather be hungry when he put his hands on my waist, so I'd feel leaner and better and, in a way of thinking even I realized was distorted, more complete, although obviously I am incomplete without food.
Again, I wouldn't ever say I had an eating disorder... but the first time I made myself throw up, I swore I would never tell anyone about it. This wasn't because I was ashamed -- in fact, it was the opposite. I'd been trying since the sixth grade to do that and, when I finally succeeded at 23, I was so proud. It was so fucked up, but I was so proud, like I'd finally gained enough self control when, really, I was actually just losing myself.
I only did it a few times because, honestly, vomiting is disgusting, but what I almost find even more disgusting are the conversations I remember having at the age of 12 with my friends, talking about attempts to lose weight, bragging about how little we ate that day, conversing casually about if we could actually force ourselves to throw up.
We. Were. Twelve.
In college, I was in a sorority, a sorority whose main focus was the Confidence Coalition, which meant we were constantly working with Girl Scouts to promote a positive image of themselves and other young women. To be honest, it's the main reason I joined Kappa Delta -- I remembered those conversations I'd had with my friends at that age, how unhappy we'd been with our bodies when we were barely over a decade old. Whenever we met with them, I could see the beauty and potential in those young girls and it pained me to think they could be suffering from the same body issues I'd had.
Still, that didn't stop me from leaving those meetings to go work out excessively, weighing myself in between sets, only stopping when the number on the scale hit something I'd deemed barely acceptable.
That was six years ago, yet it's still a practice I'm just now learning to undo.
For the first five months of 2016, I wrote one page a day in a tiny black notebook I brought everywhere. I wrote about everything -- my family, my relationships, my jobs -- but, in early January, for the first time ever, I wrote about my body.
"I go through phases of loving my body and hating it, but I love it the most when it is hungry. When it is hungry, it is flat. There was a time -- not that long ago -- that I was afraid of eating, afraid of the way it made my body feel and react.
I suppose that still is true.
Maybe this will be the year I stop being afraid."
And, now, I know -- it's not a maybe. This will be the year I stop being afraid of my own body. Doing the Whole 30 has taught me so much about myself and my body and how to properly fuel it. I'm no longer afraid of eating and, for the first time since I can even remember, I haven't counted calories. In the past 30 days, my relationship with food has completely changed. I'm eating more food each day than I have in the past two years and I totally refrained from stepping on a scale (save for the time I was in the ER and they literally made me) for 30 days when, in reality, it used to be a daily activity.
Again, this aversion to the scale was mostly because the Whole 30 program forbids weighing yourself throughout the month, but also because the desire to see my progress in an arbitrary numerical form has waned... although, to be honest, it has not waned enough to not be LIT AS HELL I lost 12 pounds by Day 30.
Of course, despite the weight loss and the fact I feel infinitely better as a healthy human being, there are days when I feel like I haven't progressed at all. There are days when I don't love my body, but more importantly is that on the days I do, it's not because I'm hungry. I no longer feel like that's an acceptable form of measurement.
And, that's because it's not.
So, despite my obvious food issues, I would probably still never say I have had an eating disorder. But, without an experience like the Whole 30 to teach me what my body is capable of -- what I am capable of -- I'm not sure if that statement would have always rung true. The past 30 days have helped me become more confident in myself -- confident enough to actually publish these thoughts I've had since I've been 12, confident enough to realize my aversion to food was not normal behavior and, most importantly, confident enough to not only be proud of how far I've come, but to also be able to focus on the things I love about myself rather than picking apart all the things I'd like to change.
For that, I am thankful.