I have been in denial about my anorexia pretty much since I figured out I probably had it about 3 months before I was officially diagnosed. Mainly because I don’t want to accept it, and my grandmother looked at 5’2” 94lb me when she heard the news and said, “You’re not that skinny.” I trust and love my grandmother to death so I believed her. If she didn’t think I was that skinny then I wasn’t that skinny, which meant that I wasn’t anorexic, and almost meant that I could lose more weight.
But there are moments when I realize I have an eating disorder. Like when I read “purse” as “purge,” or when I crave exercise so much I ignore the “above the neck” rule and with walking pneumonia (I’m talking about right now) I do squats and bicycle crunches for the length of an entire song each.
Or when I decided to measure my waist today because I haven’t been able to exercise in 2 weeks and a skirt I haven’t worn since summer, so I’m not used to the feel of it, feels tight, when it’s really just resting against my waist as it is supposed to. I don’t realize that I’m slouching when I take the measurement so it says I’ve gained an entire inch on my waist.
And I broke down. Complete with wailing and moaning and hacking (from the cough). It’s really hard to cry when you have a lung infection that causes you to cough just because you inhaled. But I managed somehow, and then I went and enjoyed my Sunday.
But it is hard sometimes. It just hits me. I am anorexic. I have had this disorder my entire life, but these past 2 years I have had to go against it. If I didn’t have it there would be nothing for me to go against and I could continue to lose weight and do whatever I wanted. But I am anorexic and eating <800 calories a day isn’t going to help me. Exercising 2 hours a day won’t help me either. I have learned so much about what health actually means and how important it is to take care of your body, and I was doing that very well before I got sick (maybe not so well since I got sick).
I am anorexic, but I have spent the last 2 years fighting it, quite successfully I might add. So whether I believe I have this disorder or not I am doing pretty well. It’s just a little overwhelming when I’m reminded of my disorder so much. I don’t think normal people cry about adding a fake inch to their waist.