I'll have what she's having....

“Whitney throws away her food at lunch.”

“No I don’t”.
“Yes she does”.
         -a lovely classmate of mine in 7th grade – I was 12.

The battle with food began early. I’d always just ate what I wanted and played sports and been active, so it never really mattered. Until it did. Until I reached that age when EVERYTHING mattered. I went to a small private school where the average class size was 12 and my 8th grade class only had 6 people (a small family). I reached my full height at age 10 and towered above my petite and adorable classmates. I had naturally curly – aka: ridiculously frizzy – hair (pre hair straightener days), crooked teeth, poor eyesight…and well…I was the black sheep of the family.  I still remember getting sick at a sleepover and the girl hosting told me she had some Tylenol. Given it was children’s the amount you took was contingent upon your weight. I remember telling her I weighed 112 pounds and in HORROR she looked up and goes “THE PACKAGE DOESN’T EVEN GO THAT HIGH”. Fantastic.

Before turning 16 I always told myself the first thing I would do upon getting my license would be to go and get ex-lax – I didn’t (it wouldn’t be until college that I fulfilled this promise), however, I did manage to ingest as little food as possible. My mom would make me breakfast, I’d eat a few bites, she’d go get ready and I’d throw the rest away. I took protein bars for lunch – eventually being able to eat only half for lunch and saving the other half for an afternoon snack (sometimes dinner). I allowed myself 1 stick of gum in the morning and 1 in the afternoon (only 3 calories each). I weighed myself every morning when I got up, everyday when I got home, and then before going to bed. Every pound was a sign if I was winning or losing – the day, the week...my life.

In college the discipline to not eat disappeared quickly – enter the exlax days. I had the timing down perfectly – I knew when I could take them and when they would kick in. However one time I got off on the timing and I was at a taping of TRL (gotta love the fat Carson Daly days) and had to RUN OUT OF THE STUDIO. My roommate wanted to kill me. Oops. I remember once walking in the pouring rain to the pharmacy to buy more – when I’m willing to get my hair (post hair straightener days) wet you know the problem is very real. By the time I was ingesting exlax like sour patch kids one box at a time I knew it was time to find a new path. Enter the throwing up days.

A girl I went to college with showed me her “cool new trick” – not cool. Not new. Not a trick. I remember the day I called my mother to finally tell her my BIG SECRET. It was devastating. You think devastation would be a good key to try and end things, but no, not exactly how it works. The next 5 years would be an ebb and flow of getting better to then get worse. It was a brutal battle and one I was always keenly aware that I was losing. I went to therapy. OK I’VE GOT THIS. Then quickly –okay, I don’t. I’d try different exercise classes. MAYBE IF I JUST LOSE WEIGHT I’LL STOP. No, not how it works. Not the problem.

Then one day I tried a yoga class. I was terrible. Not particularly flexible although I could touch my toes. I couldn’t balance. I couldn’t focus. But it was free and right next to my apt and seemed like something more interesting than the gym. I went once…then again….then again. The first year I went once a week due to financial reasons and truthfully I was still unsure if I REALLY liked it or if I would lose interest as I had in all the other things before it. Eventually I started going twice a week…then three times….The physical transformation was great, but it wasn't my body that needed a break as much as my mind. For 60 minutes I got to focus on nothing else other than what the teacher said (if not I would fall over and the domino effect would be quick). For 60 minutes I got to take deep breaths. My hamster wheel brain got to stop moving, my frenetic type A personality got to slow down. It was liberating. It was calming. That was 5 years ago.

                     

Recently a fitness app ("BurnThis") asked me to be an “ambassador” for them. This means that I post photos to their app which is like healthy pinterest meets healthy Instagram. However, what it really means is that the girl who wasn’t a runner or a gymnast and who was truly her own worst enemy has come full circle. That despite the long and trying path I found my way out. This isn't to say there aren't hurdles. Last year I briefly relapsed – nothing solidifies a spiral downwards like bringing back old demons. But this time I didn't need them, didn't want them on my path. Some days I feel super excited to roll out my mat, other days I reluctantly start class thinking about what I’m going to make for dinner. But each day is new and I learned over time not to punish myself for the ones before it.

                                  

The purpose of this isn't to go through my battle with an eating disorder. It’s not to convince everyone to take yoga (although I think they should). No, the purpose is to show that behind that Instagram photo, behind that brief moment in time where someone is holding a beautiful pose in front of an serene setting, their body looking like something yours could never possibly bend into, that behind all of that there is a story. There is a person who has battled something or someone - in my case it was myself.

I used to think I couldn't or I wouldn't or it was too hard. And it was hard. Really. Fucking. Hard. But I could. And I did.


Now, I think I’ll have a sour patch kid – the red ones of course.