By Rachel Steele
[Trigger Warning: eating disorders. Please take care while reading.]
I often think about the little blonde headed girl that I was growing up. She was fearless and empathetic and was never afraid to take up too much space. For all she knew space was meant to be taken, stories were meant to be shared, and life was meant to be lived from the field and not the sidelines.
I often recall the days spent eating ice cream with my friends, playing kickball in the street, and having my biggest worry be as small as a splinter in my finger. I often think about that little girl, and how the world took such innocence and made her believe that she was never going to be good enough, never going to amount to anything, and never meant to reach her fullest potential because of a number on a stupid square scale that she couldn’t seem to get small enough.
I never understood the term “ignorance is bliss” until a 13 year old me saw herself in a car door reflection and immediately knew that the God given body she had, needed to be fully reconstructed into one that was much smaller than hers. What started as more makeup, and dressy clothes turned into days without eating, nights crying into my pillow, and years of a self destructive path that turned into an anorexia diagnosis at the age of 20.
You see, I wasn’t supposed to be the girl with psychological issues. A girl like me with a great support system, close friends, and genuine joy wasn’t supposed to inherit traits that would deem as damaged and broken. – but that’s just the thing with mental illness, it doesn’t really ask you for permission, but instead makes you feel so belittled that you have no other choice but to change.
For years anorexia was my friend. She let me hate myself, and then told me exactly how to fix it. She gave me tips on performance tactics- simple things to get me through the day, and then in private let me vanish and morph into who she wanted me to be. I slowly, but then all at once, wasn’t Rachel anymore. I was a number on a scale, that’s all I needed to be – except that number was never quite small enough.
That’s the thing that anorexia doesn’t like to promote — the whole weight loss thing is great, hell she’s sold it to millions of people around the world, but there’s a lot of information she refuses to release.
I remember finding random bruises on my body, and my hair falling out in the shower. I remember never wanting to be seen in public, or at all. The sweatshirts in the heat of July, and body checking in every mirror and reflection, but never being able to tell which mirror was telling the truth – although I could find flaws in all of them. – and most importantly I remember that small was never going to be small enough.
That I had to work myself to be sicker in order to be proud of the accomplishment that is as
prestigious as “anorexic.”
But no, Anorexia doesn’t tell you about that, or about the mandatory therapists you’d need to see afterwards, the not being trusted to eat alone, the years of re-teaching yourself the things that should be so simple, – like eating breakfast.
She doesn’t tell you because she doesn’t want you to know. She doesn’t tell you because maybe then you just wouldn’t want her help. I am 23 years old now. I have lived over 8,000 days and half of those days I have spent caring more about the body that I am in, rather than the person that I am. I have spent half of those days sitting on the sidelines, afraid and too tired to do anything else other than watch. Half of my life that I will never be able to get back.
I’ve participated in such destruction and harm that for years of my life I spent it being a disease rather than being a person with a disease – but those days are over for me, and they can be over for you too.
I hate that I’ve spent my life being addicted to restriction rather than being addicted to living. Because when your looks fade and grey takes over, as it always does, what will you have to show for your life? Will you have become a person of strength and stretch marks to show where you’ve been and the life you’ve lived, or will you have given so much to becoming thin that you may not be here to tell any story at all?
If you ask me I think recovery is possible. It’s not linear or easy, but it’s worth it. I’ve felt more alive in the bigger body I’m in now than I ever did in any of the smaller ones before. I have felt more peace in my days, and laughter in my soul because of the chance I took on taking my life back. I am not expecting to ever love the way that I look, but recovery has taught me to appreciate it, to need it, to want it.
It has taught me to take a moment to think about that little blonde headed girl I used to be, and never let anyone or anything tell her how much she’s worth. For she is priceless and beautiful and should be cherished by the world. I want this for you too. If you are looking for help, reach out to the National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA) for support with your recovery. And please connect with me, because I want you to know that you are not alone.
At age 20, Rachel Steele was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa — a disease with the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disorder. But her struggle began long before the diagnosis, when her 13-year-old self saw her reflection in a car door and decided she needed fixing. Now 23 and in active eating disorder recovery, Rachel chooses to share her raw, unedited truth of her journey in eating disorder recovery — not as a medical expert or a therapist, but as a survivor. You can see more of her story on her blog Rachel’s Recovery, follow her Eating Disorder Awareness Instagram @rachelsrecoveryxfed or her personal Instagram account @rachelsteele2.
