My experience with therapy

I was 15 when anorexia took over my life.

At my lowest, I wasn’t pursuing the toxic beauty standard anymore; I was holding onto that feeling of emptiness as a protective mechanism.

Protecting myself from what, you ask?

From everything the critic in my brain bashed me for: my awkward social skills, inability to fit in, losing my dancer identity, communication issues with my parents, not achieving more, etc.

But I guess a tiny part of me remained rational because I wasn’t forced into therapy like many others who went through similar challenges.

I reached out for help myself.

I called an Ed recovery specialist, filled out the form that was supposed to be done by my parents (because they don’t know English very well), and booked a consultation appointment for myself. I discarded and restarted the form many times because Ed felt threatened, and when he screamed and persuaded me to obey him, I gave in.

My journal entry from March 2021

My body was giving in too. I wore three layers of clothes to school that April and still felt chills in my bones. I couldn't sleep on my sides because my ribs would rub against one another and it hurt.

But those are not the main reasons why I ultimately put myself into therapy. I wanted a light that could point me in the right direction. I wanted validation. The kind of validation I didn’t and couldn’t get from people around me. I didn’t know if I could tell my friends what I was going through, and the few times I broke down in front of my parents, shamefully admitting that I was struggling with food, they told me I was fine and not to overthink it (they didn’t understand eating disorders at the time so I don’t blame them). I wanted to know that I was sick enough to get help, sick enough to recover.

People who have never experienced ed may feel confused about why one would want to reach rock bottom to feel like they deserve help. It doesn't make sense in any other type of illness. A cancer patient would not want to wait until stage 4 for treatment. But eating disorders are mental illnesses; they mess with your rationality. There's no such thing as “sick enough,” and I knew that even at my lowest. I knew I deserved help simply because I was in distress and misery. But knowing what to think and actually believing in it are different. I knew I should recover so I don't lose more of my life, but I needed the validation that I deserved to heal. And that's what my treatment team gave me.

I thought the affirmation from my therapist would work like a starter pistol, I would race to the finish line of recovery, and it’ll all be happily ever after.

I wish it were that easy.

I was overwhelmed with feeling so many emotions after numbing myself for so long. I was tempted to engage in disordered behaviors whenever it got too hard, so I could feel “safe” again.

When I was finally able to feel the benefits of my healthier body and brain, Ed came up with a new scare tactic - “You are not that sick anymore. Now people will stop caring about you again.”

So the reason why I started therapy became why I stopped a year later. Those few checkups where my therapist or doctor was concerned, telling me I wasn’t making progress, a tiny part of me felt comforted and reassured. It meant that I still had somewhat of an identity as a girl in recovery; it meant that I didn’t have to do the hard work of developing my own identity outside of ed just yet. Therapy wasn’t working for me anymore because I was using it solely to solicit validation, which got me stuck in quasi-recovery.

After many discussions with my parents, we decided to stop therapy and let me search for my own healing method. This was simply my experience, and it may not be the right approach for others. I believe that therapy gave me the “approval” and taught me the skills to fight ed, but it was up to me to implement them and do the hard work. I had to convince myself that I didn’t need validation from anyone to want happiness and contentment, to want a life free from constant self-deprecation. My treatment team couldn’t hold my hand forever. They pointed me in the right direction, but I had to walk this journey on my own.

You are enough, and you deserve to be happy, always.