My name is Brittany Lane.
I was born on November 26, 1995, in Palm Springs California to my lovely and supportive mother and father. I was their first born, and they loved me dearly. We were never wealthy, but they undoubtedly gave me more than I needed. I was fed, clothed, and above all, loved. I couldn't imagine being born into a place better than the one I was already living in.
Fast forward to 1999. It was this year that we moved across town from our quaint two-bedroom appartment into our first home. My dad earned a living as a general contractor, and my mom worked from home as much as she could in order to be home with me. I had quite schedule for a four year old. I attended preschool at our local church, and my mom had also enrolled me in ballet and gymnastics. It was during that time which I first began comparing my body to others. I always had a very "healthy" figure in comparison to the other young girls. Nevertheless, I loved gymnastics. I was always trying new tricks, finding strange ways to contort my body and doing flips on our trampoline. This quickly became life as I knew it, and it was pretty darn amazing.
Towards the end of my preschool years, my parents came to me with a big announcement. My mom was pregnant with a baby boy. How exciting! I couldn't wait. In August of 2000, my first baby brother was born. I remember walking into my mother's hospital room, and seeing him on the delivery table.
"He's purple!" I exclaimed. I'm not kidding. the poor kid was purple from head to toe. Apparently that was normal, but no one informed me of this. For all I knew my brother was going to grow up and be Barney the Dinosaur. (In case you're wondering, he's not purple anymore, nor does he resemble the famous purple dinosaur in any way)
Elementary school was absolutely amazing. I attended a small, private, Christian school and loved it. My relationship with the Lord was strong from the very beginning. I had the most caring parents, incredible teachers, and two best friends. I couldn't ask for better people in my life.
2003 was an exciting year for me. My mother gave birth to her third and final child. Another boy. He wasn't exactly expected, to day the least, but we of course we all loved him dearly. We were now a family of five.
That same year, another young family moved in across the street from us. They had a son near my brother's age, and a daughter about two years younger than me. For privacy's sake, we shall call her Allie. Allie and I became inseparable. At a mere 9 a.m. she would knock on our front door in her pajamas, and we would spend the day going back and forth between each other's houses until it was time for dinner.
Allie did not only live across the street from me. We also went to school together, and she eventually joined me in gymnastics class. We were practically living the same life. It wasn't until many years later, after we went our separate ways, that I realized Allie was never really a true friend. While we spent every waking moment together, she was not the most supportive or caring. She told me I was fat on several occasions, and made fun of my "caterpillar legs." It was those comments that caused me to begin to feel uncomfortable about my body. I actually recall being in fourth grade and doing jumping jacks after weighing myself because I didn't like the number that popped up on the scale.
In the fourth grade, I told my parents I wanted a pet horse. What? A horse? Are you crazy, Brittany? For months they laughed at me. After all, nobody in our family ever rode horses. Not to mention the fact that we lived in a desert with a yard barely large enough for our Jack Russell Terrier.
Well, several months went by and my parents finally realized I wasn't going to give this up. My dad called a local stable and asked about riding lessons. My career as a gymnast had ended.
And so began the greatest blessing ever to walk into my life. To this day, I cannot say where the absurd idea came from. All I know is I thank the Lord every day for it.
Weekend after weekend was spent grooming, riding, and cleaning up after the horses. I started competing and eventually my parents were gracious enough to allow me to have a horse of my own (as long as I kept my straight A's). I was on top of the world.
I can honestly say my middle school years were not too eventful. I don't have any horror stories to share about being shoved into a locker, and there were no cat fights in the girls' bathroom. There were a total of thirteen students in my grade. Yes, you read that correctly. Thirteen. A grand total of thirty-two students in my entire middle school.
When I said small, Christian school, I wasn't kidding.
I was never "popular" but I had my two best friends by my side the entire way. That was all I needed.
Don't worry, though. Those early teenage years weren't all rainbows and butterflies. I got my period in the sixth grade, and you could say I was less than thrilled. My stomach cramps were so bad the first few moths, I would literally get the stomach flu. On the plus side, I was allowed to shave. So long, caterpillar legs!
My body changed several times over those few years. I went from 105 pounds to 125 pounds the year I started my period. While it never affected my eating habits, my mind constantly began to question whether or not I was fat.
Then, something wondrous happened. The summer going into eighth grade, I naturally lost about thirteen pounds, bringing me 112. I felt great! I was taller and leaner, and eating everything my healthy little heart desired, just as I always had. Dinner often consisted of chicken (with the skin of course, yum!) dipped in ranch dressing, and on the side cheese tortellini with pesto sauce. When I say often, I mean often. To this day my family must eat this meal a minimum of three times per week.
By this time, middle school had come and gone, and I was ready to enter high school. Finally! It was another small Christian school, but still much larger than my 30-student junior high. My best friend and I were at different schools now, but it was okay as she only lived about five miles from my house.
To be honest, I didn't have many friends at school that year. In fact, hardly anyone knew my name. I was always the introverted type at school. Sure, I worked hard, took honors courses, and maintained a minimum 3.5 GPA. However the social aspect was never my forte. The preps, jocks, nerds, band kids-- there was just not a clique that fit who I wanted to be. I was simply always known as "the horse girl."
That was fine by me. Freshman year was one of the best years of my life. I made most of my friends at the barn that year, including my best friend to this day. I was riding six days a week, and my dedication to the sport was paying off. The relationship between my horse and I became stronger than ever, and I was becoming a better rider every day. At the barn, I was "popular," whatever that means. I was well-liked, and made friends with everyone I crossed paths with. I simply felt at home there, and was one of the only places I was not afraid to come out of my shell.
At the end of my freshman year, my parents came to me with unexpected news. My dad's career as a general contractor was struggling, as the economy was practically down the drain. Our only choice was to find work elsewhere. My parents told me we were moving to the central coast to join my uncle in the restaurant business. To be honest, I didn't believe them at first. My parents were the type of people who always talked about making big changes, but when it came down to it, never went through with them. One weekend, my parents took a trip to the central coast to check out business opportunities.
*ring!*ring!*
"Hi mom!"
"Hi honey. Guess what? It's official! Looks like we've found ourselves a new job. We are now restaurant owners!"
That was the first and only time I ever remember crying on the phone.
How could they do this? And during the most critical time of my adolescent years! I was in shock. It was as if someone had swiped the ground right out from under my feet.
As terrified as I was, I could not let this ruin my summer. Our moving date was set for July 27, 2011. I had forty-eight days to make this the best summer of my life. And let me tell you, I did. Every day was spent riding from seven a.m. until four p.m. (yes, the best summer of my life consisted of waking up at six am for forty eight days straight). Between rides, I spent time talking to Brian-- the friend I mentioned earlier. Brian was four years older than me, making him nineteen when we first met.
I'm going to put this out there right now because I know someone out there is thinking it: Brian and I are just friends. Always have been, always will be. Nothing more, nothing less. And I wouldn't want it any other way.
As I was saying, Brian and I became closer than ever that summer. Our talks went from run-of-the-mill horse talk, to more deep conversations about life, death, and religion. I have never felt more comfortable with someone than I do when I'm with him. Coming from my introverted self, that definitely says something. Nothing is off limits between us, and I can honestly say he knows more about me than anyone on this Earth.
Those forty-eight days went by in a heartbeat. From riding, to midnight swims, movies and bike rides. Looking back, I can honestly say I do not have a single regret. Those were forty-eight days of my life well spent.
Finally, the dreaded day had come. July 27, 2011. I remember walking through our barren house for the very last time, reminiscing about the last fifteen beautiful years of my life. The house itself was empty, but it would forever hold the memories of my childhood.
August 18, 2011. A new chapter in my life began. I tried to push the anxious voices from my head and see it as an opportunity for a new beginning. I wanted to become more involved in school. I wanted to make friends. I just wanted people to like me.
Boy, was I in for a wakeup call.
Although the school was over four times larger than my old one, the town itself had a population of a mere 16,007. Word travels fast between 16,007 people, and let me just say that teenagers are not the most accepting when it comes to new students. My sophomore year was spent bouncing from clique to clique. I remained on the outside, and it seemed that no one was willing to take me under their wing-- or even allow me to sit with them at lunch, for that matter.
Life at home wasn't going so well at the time either. My parents spent the majority of their time at their new restaurant. When they were at home, they were usually in an argument over one thing or another. It almost always had some relation to the restaurant. Once it started, it was never pretty. I remember one night, the argument went full-blown. Screaming, crying, door-slamming-- It went on for so long, I went out to the car so I would not have to hear it any longer. I did not drive away. I simply laid in the backseat of the car and cried. Quite some time went by when finally my mom came out to the car. At first I thought she was coming to get me, but soon I realized she did not even know I was there. She was sitting in the front seat, sniffling and wiping away tears. I did not know what to do. I was afraid to say anything. For five minutes or so, we both just sat there in the dark, crying. Finally, our eyes met in the rear-view mirror. Neither one of us had to explain a thing.
"Let's go," she said through the tears still streaming down face. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
I was sobbing at this point, but managed to get out a few words. "I don't. . . want to live here. . . anymore. I want. . . to go home."
We drove to my aunt and uncle's house. When we got there, my uncle took my mom into another room. My aunt held me on the couch, trying to calm me down. I just sat there and cried. I did not even know what the fight was about. It didn't matter. I just wanted my family back the to the way it once was.
At this time, I did not even have the horses to turn to. My horse did make the move with us, but he was injured, and I could not afford to ride a different horse for the time being. The sport is by no means cheap. The horses were my safe haven, and without that safe haven, I felt left out in the cold.
I don't remember much about that year, and I'm not sure I want to. All I remember are numerous arguments, yelling, and lots of tears.
That was to be expected though, right? After all, it was my first year in a new school, and my poor parents were working harder than ever to support our family. Naturally, it would not be a pretty time.
Thankfully, I still had Brian. Even though I did not have him here with me, we still talked. And talked. And talked. He was the only thing that hadn't changed during this confusing time in my life. He had been though so much more than I could ever imagine. Compared to his, my life was a fairytale. Whenever I was having a bad day, I had him to turn to. I remember him telling me time after time, "It gets better."
It gets better. It was those words that kept me going. Even though I could not see it, I knew there had to be a light at the end of the tunnel somewhere. After all, families move all the time. If all of the kids in those families could handle it, why couldn't I?
During the second half of sophomore year, I found myself with a boyfriend. Robbie. It happened extremely fast, and to this day it's all a blur. For the first time since I moved, though, I was happy. Robbie was a senior. Me! The new girl, dating a senior! Well, not quite. We dated for maybe a month before I decided to break things off. I learned that Robbie was only using me for things that shall remain unsaid. He was always very critical, and did not do much to help my already low self-esteem, to say the least. Even after we broke up, I continued to fall for his conniving tricks and games. After months of being fooled again and again, I cut ties with him completely. Still, it was too late. Robbie had scarred me in ways that made me feel used and unloved. In his book, I was just another number.
It felt like five years all crammed into one, but sophomore year did eventually come to an end. Yes! I survived! I officially had the first year under my belt.
Summer came and went, and the "Back-to-School" season had returned. I entered my eleventh grade year with a smile on my face. I was riding again, and ready for yet another fresh start. As the weeks went by, though, I found that this year was no different than the last. I still did not have friends. Sure, I talked to a few people here and there. But these people were not friends to me. They simply did not compare to Brian, my friends from the barn, or my "sister" from elementary school. I remember feeling very lonely on my seventeenth birthday. I did not have a party or do anything special, but nothing particularly bad had happened either. I remember crying myself to sleep that night, wondering how the day would have gone had I been living in the place I still called home.
This pattern led me to believe that my classmates were not to blame. Surely there is something wrong with me, then. What could it be?
I mentally began a list of qualities I needed to change about myself in order to be accepted:
-socially awkward
-not pretty enough
-bad style
-too fat
The list goes on. Eventually, I could not stand myself. I gained ten pounds since I had moved, bringing me to 122. This is when "the thoughts" began. Anyone who has struggled with an eating disorder knows exactly what I am talking about. Finally, I made a plan with myself. I was going to wear more makeup and lose weight. I would be beautiful. I would be skinny. People would like me.
And so it began.
It started out quite healthy, actually. I cut out "junk food", I was running four or so times per week, and I no longer consumed soda. I dropped a few pounds, and began to feel better about myself. It still wasn't good enough, though. I wanted to go back to 112. At 112, life was perfect. I was happy, my parents were happy. Life was great. I thought that maybe, if I could go back to the size I used to be, life would go back to the way it used to be as well.
A couple months went by, and I was no longer losing weight. I had reached a plateau. 118 pounds. I was exercising, eating healthy, and even using a calorie counting app on my phone. No matter what I did, the same stupid number continued to show up on that little white platform.
I remember the exact day when I decided something had to change. I went away for the weekend with my riding trainer to a special horse clinic. That weekend was supposed to be amazing. A weekend spent with horses in the great outdoors. My two favorite things. I ruined that weekend for myself. I remember looking in the mirror of our hotel room one night after coming back from dinner. I was disgusted by what I saw. More disgusted than I ever have been by my body, even to this day in recovery. Despite my five-foot, five-inch frame and 118 pound body, all I saw was a grotesque creature staring back at me. The thing is, I never really needed to lost weight in the first place. There is not a doctor on this Earth that could say I was overweight.
Once those voices in my head started speaking to me (correction: screaming at me) I had had enough. Surely if I lose all this weight, the voices will leave me alone. Well, I was wrong.
Boy oh boy, was I wrong.
I did not realize it, but even before my severe restricting began, I had already been depriving myself of nutrients. My last period was in December of 2012. It was now February 2013, and the worst of it hadn't even begun.
I was now consuming a maximum of 1,200 calories per day and going to the gym every chance I had. My diet consisted of strictly "light" foods: non-fat plain greek yogurt, canned tuna, unsweetened almond milk, Zero Noodles, and tea. Yum. On days I was feeling risky, I would whip up a peanut butter sandwich made with forty-five calorie peanut butter on diet bread-- only half the calories of real bread. Delicious. I became an obsessive calorie counter. My mom got rid of our scale because it stopped working. For about two months, I was not able to weigh myself. I began to keep track of my progress in inches and how my clothes fit. Since I could not go by the number on the scale, I thought I sill was not losing weight. When my jeans were falling off my body, the eating disorder told me it was the clothes getting bigger, not me getting smaller. The eating disorder told me that even lettuce had too many calories. The more my mind got consumed, the more my body suffered. 1200 calories turned into 500. 500 turned into 200. The circumference of the tape measure quickly decreased as I began wasting away.
Every day consisted of the same routine so as not to interfere with my weight loss. Here is what a typical day looked like at the time:
5:45 am -- Run on the treadmill at the gym for 30 minutes
6:30 am -- Get ready for school (in front of the heater)
7:00 am -- Breakfast (oats & half of a banana)
8:00 am -- School
12:30 pm -- Lunch (alone in my car, usually consisted of a "salad" a.k.a. lettuce with some salsa and 1/2 an apple)
3:00 pm -- Work (on my feet for three hours)
6:30 pm -- Go home to "eat dinner" (or push some food around my plate to make it look eaten)
11:00 pm -- Lay awake in bed thinking about food, and carefully planning out each of my meals for the days to come
This. This was not living. This was abuse. And to think-- I did this to myself. It pains me to recall some of the awful things I did to my poor, young body.
I remember curling up into a ball in front of my plug-in heater every morning because I did not have nearly enough calories in my body to keep my warm. I remember pacing back and forth in my room for hours on days I did not make it to the gym. I remember not even having the energy to walk across the barn to see my horse. I remember skipping riding lessons because I was too tired and weak. I remember watching my hair fall out. I remember spending night after night alone in my room when the rest of my family was out at dinner. I remember crying in my bed and not knowing why.
I wish I didn't remember these things.
Nobody could see how miserable I was. What people could see, however, was the change in my body. Soon everyone began to notice. And I really do mean everyone. People at school, people at the barn, complete strangers, and of course my parents.
April 2013. I was pet-sitting at a friend's house while they were on vacation, and noticed there was a scale in the bathroom. It was as if I had struck gold. I pounced on that scale like a hungry tiger. Mind you, my mom had still not gotten a new scale. The last time I weighed myself, I was 118. The number I saw just two months later shocked me.
106 pounds.
I couldn't believe my eyes. 106? It couldn't be. I couldn't even tell you the last time I weighed 106 pounds! I stepped on the scale at least four more times after that. The number did not change. For the first time in a long time, I was proud of myself.
You would have thought I would be satisfied at 106 pounds. I had gone beyond my goal weight. I was receiving compliments left and right. Yet for reasons unknown, I still could not find happiness. I was not aware of it at the time, but the eating disorder sent me into a period of depression that lasted until after I started treatment.
The next week was spring break. One of my best girlfriends from back home was coming up to spend the week with me. I will refer to her as Kendall. I had known Kendall since I was twelve years old. Ever since we met, people would ask us if we were sisters. To be honest, we practically were. We told each other everything, and spent every weekend together, since we went to different schools. There was always a sense of competition with Kendall, though. People were constantly comparing us-- our size, height, intelligence, personality, everything. It was as if we were twins. She was "the pretty one." She had crystal clear skin, pearly white teeth, the perfect body. She was the type of girl boys would spend hours stalking on Facebook. You name it, she had it. I often felt like I was living in her shadow.
During the last few days leading up to her arrival, I remember working out extra hard and eating even less. I wasn't even excited to see her. All I wanted was to be skinnier than her when she got here.
I am ashamed to admit that I ever felt that way.
My best friend was traveling over 200 miles to visit me and all I could think about was wearing a smaller pant size than hers. I will tell you right now, that spring break was awful. Most of my meals consisted of either apples or salad. We went out to eat, but our conversations didn't get very far. Thoughts of food and calories consumed my mind. When it was time to order, Kendall chose a BLT with a side of fries. The waiter's eyes then fixed on me.
"And for you?" he asked.
"I'll have the garden salad with a side of fruit, please."
Kendall looked at me as if I were an alien. With seven eyes. And three heads.
I later found out that the very next week, she went to her school counselor in tears because she was so scared for me.
It was around the same time that my parents began to realize this "healthy lifestyle" I was pursuing was nowhere near healthy. My mom had dropped a few comments here and there about my eating habits the last few months, but never forced me to change anything. So I didn't. I told her I would, but didn't.
By May of 2013, people's praises and compliments turned into question and worry. A boy I used to work with, Drake, came to visit one weekend after being away at college for almost a year. When he saw me, he was speechless. Immediately, he ran up to my mom.
"Feed her," he said."Feed her right now."
I can't say for sure, but I think it was that comment that drew the line for my mom. The next day I remember being in the kitchen making my usual "breakfast" when she walked into the room. There was an uncomfortable silence for quite some time. My brain was too fixed on precisely measuring one quarter cup of low-fat cottage cheese to even acknowledge her presence. Finally, she began to speak. And let me tell you, the woman didn't beat around the bush.
"So what are we dealing with here? An eating disorder?"
Immediately, I burst into tears. I didn't know what to say. I was ashamed. I was angry. Angry at her for accusing me of such an awful thing. Here I stood getting lectured for living a healthy lifestyle.
"I know you haven't had your period for months. Your BMI has to be below fifteen. This is not healthy. I don't know what you're trying to accomplish here, but I know you're smarter than this."
I don't remember what I said to her that day. Honestly, I don't remember if I managed to say anything at all. I just remember crying. Why couldn't I be good enough?
After that conversation with my mom (or whatever you would like to call it) not much changed. Sure, my parents were pushing me to eat more, but my disordered mind could easily outsmart them-- hiding food in my napkin, sneaking bites under the table for the dogs, "eating out with friends" as I would tell them. My eating disorder turned me into a liar.
I wasn't even sorry.
For weeks, my mom searched frantically for an appointment with a doctor. A nutritionist. A therapist. Anyone who knew what they were doing. Unfortunately, every doctor was booked until July, and the nutritionist would not see me unless I was diagnosed with and eating disorder by a psychologist, who was also completely booked for the next month.
A month. My poor, frustrated parents were supposed to stand by and watch me waste away for another month. By this point, I was already down to ninety-nine pounds. My mom tried so hard to get me to eat without starting an argument. It didn't work. I could see the desperation in her eyes, but the eating disorder would not let me obey her wishes.
Finally, summer of 2013 had arrived. I finished off the year with a 4.0 GPA, and felt amazing… on the surface, at least. I was still losing weight, I got a new job at a doggy daycare, and in two weeks would be on an airplane for the trip of a lifetime.
Months ago, Kendall invited me to go with her on a trip to Europe with her parents (she comes from a very privileged home, to say the least). To my surprise, my parents agreed. At the time, they thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for me to experience the unique European way of life. We would arrive at the capital of Switzerland, then visit the Eiffel Tower and Omaha beach in France, and finally finish off the trip in Belgium before heading home.
As the date of departure got closer, my parents became more and more hesitant as to whether it was even safe for them to send me on this trip. To be completely honest, I was a bit concerned for myself as well, but I could not tell them that. Departure date was set for June 16, 2013.
By June 15, I still did not know for certain if my feet would ever touch Swiss territory.
June 16, 2013. Kendall's parents had the car loaded with four fifty-five pound suitcases. Unlike everyone else's, mine was packed full of Quest bars and Ensures. My parents were letting me go in hopes that maybe getting away for awhile would help my state of mind. I will never forget the terrified looks on my parents' faces as I watched through the tinted window in the back seat of the car.
Yes. Freedom! Two weeks free of food monitoring, nagging, and fighting!
As. If.
A few days before the trip, my mom emailed Kendall's mom. She told her everything. Then Kendall's mom told her. I was humiliated.
During those two weeks, my eating disorder took a turn for the worst. My restricting was out of control. I lived on salads, coffee, and Quest Bars. The Quest Bars were part of the deal I made with my parents. If I would not eat the food there, I had to eat least eat those to keep me going. There was a second part to our "deal" as well. I was told to have five Ensures per day while I was there. Five.
Let's just say, none of those Ensures never saw the light of day.
Kendall and her parents spent the next two weeks living like anyone on vacation would. They made frequent stops at pizzerias, cafes, and bakeries-- stuffing their faces with mouthwatering treats I would only ever re-pin on Pinterest. We walked for literally miles each day, getting lost within the unfamiliar streets of Paris, Zurich, and Belgium. I was so weak, I could not even take in the beauty that was surrounding me. In fact, I could hardly stand on my own two, tired feet. I could tell Kendall was worried. She knew I was not okay. I was no longer the Brittany she once knew. This was not the Brittany that ate five dollar foot-longs after school with her friends. This was not the Brittany that used to go for midnight swims. That Brittany wasn't there anymore. She was replaced by something other than herself. The new Brittany was always tired. The new Brittany couldn't even see half the time because she was constantly blacking out. The new Brittany was losing her hair. The new Brittany cared more about calories than friends. The new Brittany cried all of the time.
The old Brittany (the real Brittany) would have wanted to keep traveling for two more weeks. The new Brittany just wanted to go home.
One night, Kendall and I took a walk after dinner. I tried my best to act like my old self, but we both knew the real me was nowhere in sight. There was a silence between the two of us for quite some time.
"I don't know exactly what's going on with you, but I want you to know that I will always be here for you."
I didn't even know what to say to her kind words. Why was she being so supportive? She should hate me. For the past year, I was an awful friend to her. I ignored her. I shut her out of my life because I didn't want to be reminded of all the wonderful things I would be experiencing had I not moved away. I did this to so many people. Too many. It was Kendall's kind words, though, that allowed me to see that mends could still be made to the relationships I had damaged. That was the moment I realized I did't want to go on living like this.
On that trip, I was offered a taste of cultures so unique, so unfamiliar to anything I had ever experienced, and I refused it.
When I returned home, I was almost unrecognizable. If there was any life left in me before that trip, it was gone now. During those two weeks, I lost five pounds. I was now down to ninety-three. Twenty-five percent of my body weight-- gone. While I was away, my mom scheduled appointments for me with a doctor, therapist, and dietitian in hopes that someone could get through to me. I remember hiding away in my room between every meal until she finally came in and gave me no other choice but to eat something. My dad refused to bring up the subject of an eating disorder. I did not talk to either of them during this time. Sure, words were exchanged between us, but it wasn't really talking. It was emotionless, and I simply said whatever I could to make the conversation end as soon as possible.
I felt like they were angry at me. Angry at me for doing this to myself, angry at me for doing this to our family. I was angry at myself for the same reasons. How could I do this to my loving, benevolent parents? It wasn't their fault. They work so hard to give my brothers and me the best life they possibly can. They put a roof over our heads, feed us, and support us in everything that we do. They did all of this for me, and I had repaid them by destroying myself and all of the relationships I had once built.
I know I speak for at least 99.9% of eating disorder sufferers out there when I say this was not a choice. Yes, I chose to control my food. Yes I wanted to lose weight. I did not, however, go into this with the intention of destroying myself and the people around me. By the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late. For me and many others out there with anorexia, restricting was the one thing I could control when everything around me changed. It was my way of telling my parents something was not right because I did not know any other way to communicate that to them.
I did not understand why I was being forced into recovery. Why did my parents care so much after everything I had done? I didn't deserve recovery. I felt a constant pang of guilt inside me for the unconditional love and support I had undeservingly been given.
It was this unconditional love that made me realize I had to recover. Deep down, I still did not believe I was deserving of it in the slightest-- but I had to do it for them, at least. I was done feeling like a disappointment.
During that time, there were moments when I thought I hated my parents. There were times when I thought they were the worst parents in the world. There were times when I wanted to yell and scream at them because they didn't know what they were doing. Correction: The eating disorder made me believe all those things. The real me could not thank them enough for their patience, perseverance, dedication and love.
They were patient at dinner when they sat at the table with me for two hours as I painfully picked at the sweet potato sitting in front of me.
They made me persevere when I insisted on giving up.
They dedicated their precious time to help me when I was struggling to find the light at the end of the tunnel.
They loved me even though I did not love myself.
I have come so far since this dreadful time. I have a long road ahead of me still, but the difference between the Brittany you just read about, and the Brittany you speak to today is that this Brittany wants recovery. This blog will act as a record of my thoughts, feelings, and experiences as I learn to separate myself from my eating disorder. I will share my victories and defeats, as well as expose the harsh realities of the illness.
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| A mere three months difference. |
Recovery is the hardest choice you will ever make, but I also believe it is the best choice you will ever make.
Okay, if you are still here reading this, wow. I do not even know what to tell you. You are a saint. You deserve an award, a prize, or maybe a cupcake. You deserve all three, actually. A piece of cake, for sure. Oh, and a red cape, because you are a superhero. But mostly, you deserve a cupcake.
