I honestly wonder how many people with anxiety and eating issues can directly link these conflicts with a specific person or event. For me, it’s my mother.
When I was fourteen I had to stop ballet lessons because of the economic crash. My parents had both just retired (the economy had been great), and, desperate for money, took up hourly-wage jobs just to get by. This was also the time of my life where the curvy-side of puberty hit me full-force, and the combination of the two helped me settle in at a (healthy) weight of 130.
“You’re getting fat” my mom told me.
During spring semester of my freshman year, I joined the school’s swim team. While my weight didn’t change, the 3-hour-per-day workouts got me into great shape, and my mom didn’t bring it up again. To be fair, I loved swim team, and I eventually won a scholarship to swim year-round on a club team.
After senior year of high school, I went to Germany for a year. I picked up dance again, but my life was a lot more about having fun that staying trim. I gained about 15 lbs.
At the close of my time in Germany, I had a terrible accident that left me disfigured and depressed. I decided when I got home that getting back in shape might be a good way to boost my confidence, which has been lacking since my accident.
My mom noticed, and got competitive.
Last Christmas was when “getting in shape” turned into “eating as little as possible”. I would wait as long as possible to eat – usually only eating lightly at dinner with my parents. I exercised obsessively, my mom more than willing to fund a gym membership. I dropped down to 120 by the time I returned to school. My mom had noticed my changing habits and, rather than being alarmed, she began to compete.
“All I had is a yogurt today, but I’m not hungry” she would say. Or, “Maggie, don’t eat that toast. It’s just carbs. I never eat carbs.”
Disordered eating went hand in hand with the trauma I had refused to face following my accident. I dropped pound after pound, my grades began to slip, I pushed away friends and my boyfriend. (I won’t list my “low weight” in case it’s triggering.) I hated myself so much. Weight loss was the only thing my mom seemed to support.
Finally, that spring I called my mom and said if I didn’t get help, I would kill myself.
I still see my counselor every week. My weight is back in my healthy, high school range. I do weight training with a trainer a few times a week, as well as dance team and rock climbing. I have bouts of not eating, and I always fight with disordered thoughts.
But those disordered thoughts are always echos of my mother’s voice, insisting I’m eating too much, insisting I’m not working out enough.
She’s in town this week. She picked me up today and took me to lunch at an empty cafe downtown. Crepes, coffee, salads, sandwiches.
She listened to me order, then ordered something lower calorie. This is her habit, this is what she does every time we eat together. If I order a burrito bowl at Qdoba, she orders one with no rice. If I order a salad, she orders one with no dressing.
“What did you do today, Maggie?”
“I had Statics and Calculus, then I went to the gym -”
“You went to the gym?! How terrific. I need to figure out some exercises to do in my hotel room. I mean, I have handweights at home but it’s not like I can travel with them.”
“Yeah. But in Calculus today we -”
“I ran on the treadmill for eight miles this morning, Maggie. Burned 459 calories. I didn’t eat any breakfast though, so it’s okay for me to eat my soup. I can’t believe you ordered a sandwich though -”
“It’s caprese -”
“All that bread, Maggie. Just empty carbs, turn into sugar and sugar turns into fat. By the way, have you put on weight? You’re getting fat.”
May
