“You Have An Eating Disorder.” - No One, Ever

It has come to my attention, by uncouth action of my own, that to suggest that a person may need help with an eating disorder is frowned upon. Which makes me wonder:

“Why is it considered poor taste to inform someone that they are mentally unwell?”

Let’s begin.

X

Real talk:

I selected my college based off the gym.

When picking where to get my degree, rather than weighing the academic rapport, clout, or elite status of my choices, I had more consideration for the variety of weight machines, number of indoor tracks, and size of their lap pool.

Exercise and nutrition were my devout “passions” of the time. Academic-wise, I did pretty well for myself, graduating magna cum laude. But don’t be fooled: I didn’t go to college just to study. Rather, I spent the majority of my time on campus putting those lessons into practice.

My new stomping grounds were conveniently far from the watchful eyes of those who know me, and simultaneously, they were conveniently located by not one, but two free, all-access, nearly 24/7 gyms.

To say the least, I instantly abused my newfound privilege, habitually practicing everything I was learning. But despite the fleeting reprieve found from constantly giving in to my obsessive, disordered compulsions to exercise… I wasn’t exactly enjoying myself at all.

What with being in the gym so frequently, I soon learned the routines of my more athletic classmates. As in: what days, times, and how frequently they came to the gym. Thinking back, I find it hard to believe that nobody recognized me in return. Nobody seemed to bat an eye at the 18-year-old girl casually maxing out the leg press machine, or cycling in place over a rapidly growing puddle of sweat on the floor. So naturally, I took this as proof that I was functioning well within the realm of “normal.”

But what is normal?

These days, I’m convinced anything can be passed for normal.

Juice cleanse? Normal.

Fasting? Normal.

Vegan? Normal.

Avoiding carbs?

Blaming sugar?

Lactose intolerant?

Allergic to gluten?

Love fitness?

New Age and Ancient Ayurveda?

Wearing only leggings and a sports bra in public?

Afraid of food, while simultaneously keeping your sourdough pet alive deep in a kitchen cabinet somewhere?

Check, check… aaand check.

Except, not.

There’s no beating around it: I have a problem with our society’s burgeoning, flagrant disregard for *actual* normalcy, for the sake of accomplishing nothing other than the appeasement of someone else’s increasingly delicate, unchallenged feelings. We have grown so conditioned to avoid offending other women, that we inadvertently push them further into the disordered prisons of their minds.

And so, instead of calling out the blatant, self-abusive bullshit most women put upon themselves in the name of wellness and self care, we praise their fervently fastidious adherence to the chameleonic list of dietary rules du jour.

In fact, the longer I’m in remission, the more I realize just how frequently we encourage - and even praise - other women’s disorders. We invite our anorexic coworkers to yoga, fawn over our vegan friends’ shitty “burgers,” and listen intently as the woman next in line at Whole Foods waxes poetic about her panacean anti-inflammatory diet that a group of “experts” in Texas have her on.

But here’s the thing: it’s not working.

Because even with our best, most peaceable, unoffending intentions… we’re fueling the beast.

Back in college, there were multiple days where I wished the girl complimenting me on my cycling form was actually coming over to tell me I could finally stop pedaling. I would’ve given anything to have someone recognize the torture I was putting myself through; to have somebody, anybody bring me face to face with what I needed to hear: that I didn’t need to keep exercising any more. That I finally took it too far. That there are other ways to live. The problem with accepting everything as normal is this:

when normal is disregarded for the sake of social innocuousness, there’s no longer any recognition of taking something “too far.”

People arguing against me might say that if someone had confronted me, there’s no telling how I might have reacted to such a remark. Maybe if my fantasy had come true, I would have scoffed and continued on with my discontented attempt at self-flagellation. But maybe it would have planted a seed. Maybe it would have been enough to knock me out of my stupor. And there’s only one example I can think of where something akin to my Cycling Savior occurred…

Years ago, I visited Italy. Known by many to be The Land of The Food, my then-cripplingly disordered view of the world had me viewing it more as A Vacation To Brood. I spent most of the trip stealing away on walks, doing sit-ups in my room, and eating apples. My riveting endeavors in Europe eventually culminated in me ordering broccoli for lunch from a restaurant in Rome, and my sister calling me out as anorexic.

This was the first time anyone had dared using the big “A” on me. To describe my reaction as “mortified” would be a gross understatement. But luckily for me, her comment hit it’s mark. A seed was planted. And I knew: what I was doing was beyond the realm of “normal.”

In all fairness, her comment didn’t exactly work like a silver bullet. At first, I took her scrutiny as a challenge. I took her frustration as indication that we were in competition, and clearly - in all my delusions - I was winning. And herein lies the main problem with the argument for remaining dictationally prostrate in order to dodge any social discomfort: my sister’s comment was an outlier. The inherent issue with outliers being that they’re not often trusted.

We tend to believe what the majority dictate.

When it’s one person railing against the opinion of many, we value the opinion of the masses almost every time. We dub this “social proof,” and it’s the reason we have things like ratings on Yelp and stars on Amazon.

Think about it: The first doctor to suggest hand washing as a means of disease prevention took his own life after years of public derision. Galileo was shamelessly scrutinized for believing it was Earth that rotated around the sun. It wasn’t until more people chimed in with their accordance to these theories that we were convinced of their accuracy.

More to my objective: I didn’t realize at the time that my sister wasn’t trying to “make me fat.” She was just worried about me. But looking back, I’m so grateful that she didn’t coddle me. And if more people had been apt to speak the truth about what I was doing to myself, I’m inclined to believe that I would eventually have had no other option than to allow the evidence to finally overwhelm my steadily deteriorating charade.

My point is this:

Even with my liberally misanthropic view of the world, I have a hard time believing that at least some of us aren’t yet too dull to notice the disordered abuse going on around us. So, instead of shrugging out an all-too-casual “Who is John Galt?,” I propose an alternative.

The next time you witness self-abusive behavior, let this be your motto:

Fuck the societal pressure that keeps your tongue corseted, lest you offend another with your observations.

Voice your concern. Call out disordered behaviors. Offer help.

I promise you, potentially contributing to saving somebody’s life is well worth the slap on the wrist of a few sidelong glances from your peers.

With hope and love,

Maria