From Anorexia to Bulimia to Recovery, A Personal Account of An Imperfect Journey
There was a certain point at which I no longer felt like myself.
For me, my eating disorder was time-consuming, mentally exhausting. It crippled nearly every aspect of me. Physically, it weakened me. Mentally, it exhausted me. It altered my personality, while at the same time, stifling it.
It began simply as an effort to lose some weight. Originally, as a teenager, I was fairly light, usually ranging from 92 lbs to 118 or so, and I stood at about 5’3”. My freshman and sophomore years of high school were spent at high levels of activity — running long distance on the cross country team, then afterwards spending my evenings at a martial arts gym.
At the time, although it hadn’t yet developed into a full-blown eating disorder, I was most definitely conscious of what I ate, so I chose to eat a bit less than I needed in order to lose weight. Nothing unreasonable or abnormal or extreme. Simply, I wanted that number on the scale to go down, and at the time, I knew, logically, that the lighter I was, the faster I became as a long-distance runner. Not to mention, in martial arts competition, I was very aware of weight class and so preferred to stay within a certain range.
I’d begun my freshman year at about 103 lbs, then dropped down to 92 fairly quickly. I was very much active and athletic and physically able, so even though this placed me as technically underweight, I didn’t think much of it. As young as I was, I figured I could be that light and still very healthy. I mean, I felt healthy.
I digress. My junior and senior year, the high level of physical activity tapered off, and I became much less conscious of my weight. It was replaced with night classes, more intensive schoolwork, and thoughts about my future career — college applications, college major considerations, standardized tests, GPA.
During this time period, I began to put on weight. Although I’d mildly restricted caloric intake when I was at my most active, I still ate quite a bit for the average girl at my height, weight, and age. I was used to eating a lot to fuel my activities, so when I continued to eat that same amount, inevitably, I gained, moving eventually from a light 92 lbs to a fuller 118.
Funny enough, on the way up, I barely noticed the gradual weight gain. I didn’t pay much attention to the indications hinting at it. The only one that bothered me was how quickly I’d outgrown clothes that had once fit me loosely. Either way, there was no longer a need to watch my weight. I was no longer competing, nor was I running on a team.
Only in my senior year did I step on the scale again, having started to become conscious of how much chubbier I’d become. Needless to say, I was shocked to see myself at 125. Now, for a 5’3” female, this falls just fine within a healthy weight range, but to me back then, it was such a huge contrast from my much lighter freshman year self.
That’s when I decided to lose weight. I began to run again, although definitely not as intensively or for distances as long as I’d once covered. I began to restrict my calories and watch what I ate. At this point, weight loss was not yet an obsession. l was going about the process with gradual lifestyle changes. It was a positive thing.
My cardiovascular endurance improved significantly. Over time, I saw some gains in the strength department, through simple calisthenic movements and bodyweight exercises.
By the time I left for university, I’d dropped down to about 112 lbs, and I was fairly satisfied with myself. But then, university began. And my healthy eating and exercise habits tanked.
Studying in an engineering program in a foreign country took its toll on me mentally, then emotionally and socially, and suddenly, I began to turn to food for comfort.
Although I didn’t realize it then, I’d become a binge eater. To cope with the stresses of college — study, schoolwork, competitive academic atmosphere, social anxiety, a foreign country, foreign language, so on and so forth — I took comfort in late night food runs to nearby convenience stores, where I would purchase large quantities of cheap junk food and ready-made meals, and I would eat everything in a single sitting. This happened repeatedly, night after night.
And this was only a supplement to the affordable, reasonably-portioned cafeteria meals I would eat three times a day. To add onto that, my weekend nights were filled with consuming so much alcohol that I wouldn’t remember any details the morning after.
Unsurprisingly, I ended up gaining weight alarmingly quickly, as well as developing terribly unhealthy habits, food and activity-wise. I didn’t even see how far I’d regressed until I stepped on a scale yet again.
It was in the basement of my university dorm. I recall very clearly. It was in the resident gym, nearby the resident laundry room.
I’d gained nearly 30 lbs and reached an all-time high for me at just about 140 lbs. This then placed me in the overweight category for my height.
I was mortified. For a young girl who’d been slim for most of her life, it was a shock.
Suddenly, I became extremely aware of the changes in my body. I was overweight, with chubby arms, chubby legs, a fuller face. I had a bit of a stomach now. I was far from the slender athletic girl I once was. And I was severely uncomfortable with all of it.
So then, when I returned home in the US, my conscious eating and exercise habits returned with a fervor. This second kick around began similarly to the first one — with the intention of healthy weight loss. I restricted caloric intake but not too much. I exercised but also gave myself enough time to recover.
All was well, and I was getting gradual, welcome results.
However, over time, my healthy habits began to devolve into something else. It started as impatience. It felt good seeing the numbers on the scale, on the measuring tape, go down, and I wanted to achieve results faster. So I would restrict a few hundred calories lower every few days. I would exercise more often, regardless of whether my body could handle it or not.
Funny enough, I felt a sort of high from the lack of food, from the soreness in my body. Next thing I knew I began logging in daily caloric intakes below 800, then below 600. Then, I began to fast occasionally. I began exercising everyday.
It was practically ritualistic. I needed to do a 5-mile run, a set variety of bodyweight exercises, and stretches. Otherwise I’d feel unaccomplished, anxious, incomplete.
Once I fell into disordered behaviors, as quickly as I’d gained weight in university, I lost it even faster.
Before long, I hit my first goal weight. I was back at 120 lbs. However, once there, I decided that I was still a bit chubby and could do with losing a bit more weight. I thought to myself — For sure, once I hit 115 lbs, it will be enough.
Then, once I hit 115, still, it wasn’t enough. Around this time, my obsession with low restriction and compulsive exercise reached its peak.
I sought out communities for weight loss and fitness. I read articles on diet and exercise. I searched for success stories, weight loss journeys. I spent endless hours on subreddit communities based around losing weight. All this I explored enthusiastically, consuming any and all material related to weight loss, diet, and exercise.
Keep in mind, doing none of that is inherently unhealthy. Simply, it was me who sought out any and all material to fuel my body obsessions, as motivation to continue doing what was actually damaging me.
I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but slowly, I ended up becoming self-aware that what I was doing was unhealthy.
I wasn’t feeling good anymore. I wasn’t getting fitter or stronger. I was becoming weaker, losing weight and losing fat, yes, but also losing muscle.
I began to tire out easily. Moving too fast made me dizzy. Just the thought of food put me under incredible stress. Even considering skipping a day’s workout was unforgivable.
My appetite lowered significantly, but when I felt hunger, I felt it. So then I would smother that hunger with black coffee — an appetite suppressant and stimulant to provide me with energy — energy that I was not receiving because I feared calories far too much to consume them.
It wasn’t long before I discovered internet forums specifically for those with eating disorders, entire communities dedicated to continuing their unhealthy behaviors. There existed some recovery-oriented communities. Others were purely centered around how best to hide their ED’s, how best to go about losing weight. All listed the struggles they faced in life surrounding their eating habits.
At this point, I was far from recovery. I indulged in these communities, indulged in my disordered habits. I was now self-aware that I was not fine, although I had no interest whatsoever in fixing myself. I was addicted to the weight loss, the changes in body measurements, the highs I received from restriction and muscle pain.
I thought myself strong, because I had the self-discipline to keep it up, though I now realize how very wrong I was,
My weight continued to drop lower. Not long after hitting 110 lbs, yet a goal weight achievement, I set my sights on 105. Then once I hit that, I thought to myself — how much harder could it be to reach 100 and then, say, 90?
I loved how quickly and effectively I was accomplishing these checkpoints.
It was around the time when I hit 105, however, that I ran into a supposed “setback.”
I began seeing someone, a man who saw right through me when it came to my ED. See, he was a sports coach, and I suppose he must have had a lot of experience with eating disorders when it came to his athletes.
However, he ended becoming one of the biggest aggravators of my ED, within the short time period that we saw each other.
For one, every occasion that we went out together included food — eating at a restaurant, perhaps relaxing on the couch and eating ice cream or take out together. Either way, at the time, I was extremely restrictive. Even “safe foods” — foods that I would deem acceptable to eat — were difficult to consume. So when it came to going out with him, entire dishes were placed in front of me that would send me into an internal panic.
Dairy. Nuts. Heavy meats. Sauces. Large portions. Unknown ingredients. Unknown cooking methods. I couldn’t refuse to eat without seeming strange or like I was purposefully avoiding food –- though to be fair, I completely was.
For example, something that I did before eating every meal would be to look up an approximate calorie count of it. This man would catch me and then point it out. Being called out that way was incredibly embarrassing. I did not want anyone to know.
So in response, I’d try even harder to hide my aversion to food, and I would make sure to eat nothing beforehand every time I’d meet with anyone.
With the man I was seeing, I learned that regardless of whether or not I told him I wasn’t hungry or that I had already eaten, he would intentionally take me out to a restaurant. Always, it was either that he wouldn’t believe me when it came to eating or that he felt I did need to eat more.
This put me under an incredible amount of stress. It felt like I was being forced to eat, constantly, especially when I didn’t want to. And every time, I would end up giving in to my hunger, stuffing myself with whatever was offered. And as an unfortunate result, this ended up with me figuring out how to purge.
One day, after polishing off an entire pint of oreo ice cream and while he was asleep on the couch, I panicked. Simply, my stomach was just so painfully full.
Quietly, I got up, went to his bathroom, stuck my fingers in my mouth, and threw up for the first time. It was far easier than I thought it would be — likely because of the ice cream’s liquid consistency and because of the sheer volume inside my stomach. I would eventually learn many techniques related to binging and purging.
Looking back now, I wish I had never figured it out in the first place.
From then on, I snowballed downhill into bulimia. It was like I’d discovered a secret cheat code within my disorder. I figured that as long as I threw everything up afterwards, I could eat as much as I wanted, so I did exactly that.
I would eat far too much, beyond the point of simply satiating my hunger. This was when I switched from pure restriction to a full-on binge and purge phase. I became bulimic. Eventually, I would end up purging several times a day, always after physically painful binges.
Over time, I developed a callus on the knuckle of my left index finger — something called a Russel’s sign — indicative of how often that specific spot on my finger would rub up against my teeth, from the countless times I stuck it down my throat. I was also often dizzy and uncoordinated, especially right after a purge. I developed heart palpitations, low blood pressure, a low heart rate.
I was headed down a dangerous path. At one point, in the aftermath of a particularly painful purge, I was convinced I’d die right then and there in the bathroom of a heart attack. Each binge and purge session was miserable. It wasn’t something I enjoyed doing, yet why did I keep on doing it?
It certainly wasn’t because of the man I’d been seeing. We eventually stopped seeing each other, and even though I was no longer put into those stressful food-oriented situations, I’d still be binging and purging.
It was like the discovery of this new “cheat code” technique had broken a dam inside me — some undisciplined, ravenous flood of hunger — and I could not seem to repair it.
Even worse, although each time afterwards, I’d promise never to binge and purge again, I would do it. Again and again.
Still semi-restrictive, I’d keep myself from eating for as long as possible, until I couldn’t take the hunger anymore. Inevitably, once I’d finally give in, that hunger would be so intense that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from eating as much as I could possibly fit inside me, to the point that I thought my stomach would rupture. Then, out of guilt, I’d head straight to the bathroom to purge. Repeat.
This went on for several months. These binge and purge cycles would let up and then worsen, periodically. Some days, I’d purge so much that my head would completely be out of commission. I’d be physically weak and dizzy and unable to function mentally.
Sometimes, I’d be able to go a day or two, or even three without a purge. My longest streak, I believe, was an entire week. During those times, I’d almost convince myself that I was recovered, that the cycle had stopped. Unfortunately, that was never the case.
As it turned out, my eating disorder was no longer about the numbers on the scale or on measuring tape. On the contrary, I liked how I looked. I liked my body. I was proud of the progress I’d made. Just, my appearance and body composition were no longer the driving factors behind my restriction or my binges and purges.
Rather, my ED behaviors had become my coping mechanisms. When I restricted, I felt good about myself. I felt disciplined. When some social occasion or obligation came up, I’d stop eating, as if in mental and physical preparation. Whenever I was upset, I’d fall immediately to the instant gratification of food — a binge of everything I could eat and then an immediate purge, to rid myself of it all.
It’s sad to say that while these coping mechanisms were certainly maladaptive, I was still able to function semi-normally this way. I would genuinely be in a better mood after a binge and purge session. I’d feel much better about myself if I managed to fast successfully.
In my head, the only “obstacles” that existed were other people. That definitely played a part in why I’d become so withdrawn, why I’d become so afraid of any social occasions. Still, I was fairly adept at hiding my behaviors from others.
To this day, save for my sister, only one extremely close friend of mine — now my significant other — knows about my ED. It wasn’t that I’d come out and confessed it to him though. More like, I accidentally clogged the shower drain in a failed attempt to hide a purge, and with that incident, no explanation, save for the truth — that I had an ED — could have sufficed.
I digress. I am happy to report that nowadays, even though only recently, I’ve been making much more serious attempts to abandon my disordered behaviors altogether. I’ve been restricting much less, exercising with more moderation, ignoring my binge and purge urges. Much of this is due to the support my significant other has been providing — this is a topic in itself that I’d love to go on in further detail in a future article.
Definitely, I cannot yet say that I am fully recovered. Simply, I am actively working against my old impulses.
My longest streak without purging within this month has been three straight days in a row — a major achievement for me — and I’ve made sure to eat at least one proper meal each day. I no longer exercise compulsively. I make sure to give my body enough time to recover afterwards.
There are times when I lean towards relapse, especially when under stress, when it would be easiest to return to the instant gratification of a binge and purge or simply to fast altogether. However, I catch myself, although not every time. I know rationally that those maladaptive coping mechanisms benefit me in no way in the long term. They only cause harm physically, mentally, socially.
I must constantly remind myself of that in order to make recovery a priority. I write this now to hold myself accountable for the decision I’ve made.
I very much look forward to the day that those old compulsions never even cross my mind, but for the time being, I can only remain conscious of what my priorities are, what my goals in life are. An ED does nothing but hamper that progress.
And I intend to progress.
From Anorexia to Bulimia to Recovery, A Personal Account of An Imperfect Journey
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