Spending the holidays with my eating disorder

Anonymous, Opinion Contributor

When people think of the holiday season, one of the first things that pops into their minds is food. Halloween caramel-covered apples, Thanksgiving turkey dripping with dressing and served with cranberry stuffing, Christmas cookies covered with sprinkles, simmering cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows, and, of course, New Year’s Eve’s obligatory champagne and cheese-and-crackers tray. I have always dreaded this time of year, and I especially do now.

For me, this time of year only heightens my already abusive relationship with food. Healthy people take this yearly opportunity to binge on extra cookies and second helpings of Thanksgiving casseroles, and then joke about dieting and exercising to “burn off those extra calories” and “make up for being bad.” But I’m not healthy. And perhaps this relationship we have with food—treating it as “good” or “bad,” and punishing ourselves with half-assed diet schemas and exercise routines–is not so different than what I’ve been doing all year.

I long to sit down and be fully present at the dinner table. But my eating disorder (ED)—which I’ve appropriately nicknamed “Ed” for short—always rears his ugly head. He whispers, “Sure, you can have that cookie. But then you need to skip dinner,” and, “Don’t you dare eat that spoonful of stuffing, because that’s the beginning of a slippery slope.” My body dysmorphia heightens. Surrounded by my family’s diet plans and their jokes about having second portions, it is all I can do to not run out of the room sobbing. Because I live in that mentality every single day. My body has been abused. I have felt weak and lightheaded, struggled to walk to class fueled by only 500 calories a day, but convinced myself that I must walk in order to burn off that little 50 calorie apple I ate as “breakfast.”

When Halloween came around, I finally saw a doctor. This holiday’s swirling vortex of candy made me want to scream; I knew I couldn’t last much longer as I looked in the mirror and saw my body shrinking before my eyes. I worked up the courage to have my mother schedule a doctor’s appointment. The Mayo Clinic doctor I saw took my vitals and then joked, “You have what every woman in America wishes she had: the ability to lose weight.” I’ve never gone back to his office since then.

I should have continued seeking help. I should have pushed for a new doctor, demanded for real treatment instead of receiving back-handed jabs from a so-called medical professional. But I didn’t. I clung to Ed even more tightly. As my face became more angular and my ribs began jabbing through, I jealously watched my friends enjoy their Halloween candy without calculating the calories they’d just consumed. I looked on longingly as my sister had two portions of dinner without skipping her next three meals to make up for it. I wanted my life back. I wanted to live. But the fear of losing my false sense of weight control terrified me. That’s what ED does to people—it convinces us that our body dysmorphia is protecting us from the ravages of the holiday season weight gain, when in reality we are wasting away during “the most wonderful time of the year.”

Thanksgiving break—against all odds—gifted me with a Christmas miracle. I finally saw a glimpse into the destructive depths of my ED when, as I drove home on I-95, I nibbled on one baby carrot and sobbed, convinced its calories would make me gain too much weight. So I began to do what I do best: research. I followed body positive and eating disorder recovery accounts on Instagram. I muted the TV’s dieting ads that play all too often around the holiday season. I planned out meals that were healthy and filled with much-needed calories. I began to slowly eat, first consuming 1000 calories a day, then 2000, and finally 3000, so that I could begin my weight restoration process.

And so far, it’s working. Thanksgiving was hard, but I forced myself to sit still and finish the “huge” portion of turkey I got for myself (which, in reality, was barely a normal portion, but to my sick mind was massive). I was shocked to find myself laughing at my dad’s terribly punny jokes while eating spoonfuls of green bean casserole. By Christmas, I could eat the gingerbread man I decorated with my family and not feel haunted by it afterward. I even found myself excited for my family’s New Year’s Eve dinner—an event that only a few months ago would have given me an anxiety attack.

The holiday season is hard for those in ED recovery. I still have a long way to go—I have at least ten pounds to restore and I have a lot of body image issues to wrestle through. I fight everyday to ignore Ed’s ever-present voice, telling myself that food is fuel and that I cannot punish myself for needing this fuel like everyone else. During this holiday season, I’m reminding myself daily that the holidays are about enjoying good food with family and friends, and that while they may make me gain a few extra pounds, no one looks back on their lives remembering their BMIs at holidays. They instead remember the jokes that Uncle Tim told, or relive the mortifying political arguments sparked between ultra-conservative Grandpa Jim and your Bernie Sanders-loving self.

So here’s to the 2016 holiday season; though I hope to enjoy next year’s holidays without Ed’s incessant chatter.