When I was eight, I never imagined that a chance encounter with my father’s doctor’s scale would shape the course of my life. The mere sound of its stiff movement, as it calculated my weight, could instantly quicken my heartbeat and dictate the outcome of my day.
I am a survivor
I refuse to label myself as “recovered,” for I believe that one does not simply recover from an eating disorder. It is a relentless battle, a daily skirmish with the beast within. Some days, victory is mine; on others, I find myself counting down the hours until I can retreat under the covers and call it a day. I cannot say that I would wish this affliction upon anyone, nor did I consciously choose it as my coping mechanism when my world spun out of control. My eating disorder is a part of me—a constant companion that, despite its harmful intent, sought to shield me from drowning as the world drifted further away.
My personal experience enables me to relate to my clients on a deeper level
Today, as a psychotherapist specializing in eating disorders and trauma, I am confronted by clients who adamantly claim they have not experienced trauma. To them, I simply reply, “Care to wager?” Trauma wears many faces, its impact spanning a spectrum of intensity. It is the culmination of how we process—or fail to process—significant life events, each moment etching itself into our bones, our skin, our very essence.
I often recount to my clients the morning of my wedding day, when I mindlessly hopped onto the hotel scale. The number that stared back at me—123.6 pounds—remains etched in my memory to this day. In my mind, as long as the scale read under 125, I could allow myself to partake in the wedding brunch and savor a slice of cake. Reflecting on that pivotal day, I am transported back to my eight-year-old self, pondering the allure of the doctor’s scale in my father’s bathroom. Did that young, vulnerable version of me seek reassurance once more, even on one of the most significant days of my life?
I frequently pose a poignant question to my clients, “What in your life will propel you over the crest of the hill?” Many of those I work with find themselves ensnared in a state of inertia. The journey towards recovery is akin to a delicate dance on a razor’s edge. They grapple with the inability to unearth a purpose that can liberate them from this stagnation. In my conversations, I often draw upon the experiences with my daughters. The fervent desire to shield them from the clutches of eating disorders compelled me to view life through the lens of a mother’s tender perspective. Yet, what force will propel the average Gen Z individual over that very same hill? Must I seize their hand even as they resist vigorously in a bid to drive home the stark truth – is the act of depriving oneself truly a worthwhile endeavor?
The struggles of treating eating disorders in a culture obsessed with perfection
There are moments when anger consumes me. Our culture still clings to an idealized image that remains unattainable for most. During a session with a client, she sadly revealed that she felt emboldened to continue ravaging her body because her pacemaker now held more power than her original heart. The complex nature of eating disorders renders them among the most formidable challenges to overcome. Have you ever dared to suggest to an anorexic client that they appear healthier, only to instinctively brace for a potential blow to the face? Intellectually, I understand that the values of most clients extend far beyond the superficiality of the size they wear in designer jeans. Yet, after guiding them through intensive levels of care such as residential treatment, partial hospitalization, and intensive outpatient programs, only to witness them being cast aside at the next corner in the unforgiving town of “You are not good enough,” the significance of their intrinsic value system appears to diminish into insignificance.
We all exhibit a spectrum of emotions when confronted with the tragic news of the bulimic sister who lived just down the street, succumbing to her nightly ritual of binging and purging. We may feign sorrow at her demise, yet beneath the surface, our tongues may wag with derisive comments as actresses resort to Ozempic injections to squeeze into size 0 Gucci gowns, their rib cages peeking through just enough to evoke envy and insecurity in their peers. But let’s not deceive ourselves – are we not all complicit in this narrative? Do we truly believe we exist in a vacuum, untouched by the societal currents that shape our perceptions of beauty and self-worth? Every time we rush to sign up for a gym membership in the wake of the New Year or meticulously scrutinize labels at Whole Foods in a quest for “clean eating,” are we not unwittingly fueling the flames of an insidious culture that champions dysfunctional and coercive standards of beauty?
Reflecting on my childhood
I transport myself back to the tender age of eight, standing on my father’s scale, hoping that the numbers have dwindled after a day of consuming only half of what I ate the day before. I gaze upon her, my youngest self, with her wide blue eyes, cascading blonde hair, and the budding curves of her body, yearning for her to exist in a world that prizes comfort over constriction. Tears well up in my eyes as I long to reach back in time, to clasp the hand of that innocent child. To listen intently to her innermost thoughts and extol her for the unwavering strength she displayed in the face of trauma endured just a year prior.
If only I could whisper to her that our culture would evolve and that she would be the catalyst for change. That she will boldly discard the suffocating constraints of Spanx and champion individuals of all shapes and sizes, propelling them into the roles they have long aspired to inhabit. I yearn to tell her that she can confidently don that bikini at her friend’s birthday party. To revel in the joy of springing into the pool, relishing the sharp shock of cold water and chlorine enveloping her body unencumbered by self-doubt or societal pressures.