What landed me in therapy in the first place was the fact my husband and very close friend strongly suggested I go. I didn’t go right away. I thought (or at least wished) they were over reacting, and that all of this would go away on its own. I could just make everyone believe it went away, like magic, and like I have done before. It took 6 months for me to come around.
I realize I write frequently as if I own the fact that I have an eating disorder, but the truth is that I have a very difficult time saying those words out loud, let alone applying them to myself in a face-to-face conversation. I constantly tell myself I don’t have an eating disorder, and I am overreacting when I write/think/talk as if I do. Of course, conceptually I fully understand size doesn’t necessarily matter, but I clung to the excuse that I would think about going to therapy when I got down to my lowest weight. The problem is that it never feels like enough. I weigh 15 more pounds than I did when I probably should have sought help initially, and I was feeling like a huge pile of failure.
So today, out of frustration and a need for validation, I asked: “Do I even have an eating disorder?” And the response–thank God–was overwhelmingly: YES.
I practiced telling myself for so many years that I don’t qualify in any way, and that I, and others, are crazy for even suggesting I might have an eating disorder. Hearing her response back caused instant relief. I felt like I had been holding my breath underwater, approaching the limit where you pass out or get air, and I was finally able to breathe. I’m crazy but not so crazy that I came to therapy for an eating disorder when I didn’t even have one.
Next step: make friends in this new city so I’m not always alone, thinking about this all. the. time. RVA, anyone? 😉