Once You Say It, It Can't Be "Unsaid"

One of the members in my group therapy class, on our first night together, was talking about letting people "in" on her secret life as someone with bulimia. She said, "It's kind of like telling people that you're gay - once you say it, it can't be 'unsaid.' You may want them to know, but once they do, it's the only thing they can see."

All day today, this is the question that has been resonating in me: now that I've "come out" as eating disordered, is that all people can see? And more importantly, does it bother me that my private eating disorder is now front stage and center? In all of my important relationships, it seems that anorexia and my life is all we can talk about... which leaves me both immensely grateful and intensely worried that I am becoming "the selfish anorexic kid."

On one hand, tackling this beast requires shining a light on what has long been hidden. I feel more authentic and more honest than I have in years. Telling the truth has been my sword in battle, and I have intentionally surrounded myself with people who know I am struggling. I can no longer abandon the battle unnoticed - there are people fighting with me. The authenticity has peeled back layers of complexity in my relationships; I am learning that everyone feels broken and has a story to tell. And instead of scratching epidermis-level stories about my life, I've plunged deep into the dermis of my soul. The results have been rewarding, but now I wonder, is the only thing people see when they look at me the sickness I am fighting?

Today I have a case of what I've deemed the "coming out blues." Now that people know I have anorexia, it is all that we talk about. They ask how I am, or if I've eaten, and I answer. We talk about their lives, their bodies, their histories with pain and struggle. I am grateful, but it is simultaneously overwhelming. My eating disorder used to be the only thing that I thought about; when I was around other people spinning imaginary stories and problems, I could "dream" my way out of my own head. And now, when I am alone, I am still thinking only about my body, my food, this disease... and my conversations with the outside world provide no escape. People know. They ask. We talk. I don't lie.

I am so afraid of being one-dimensional, and I'm starting to fear that others see me that way, too. I don't want to be single-minded forever. I want to talk about art and politics and dreams and struggles that don't involve my disease. Right now, such talk would be superficial - it isn't what I am thinking about. And even when I probe the people around me to talk about what's on their minds (I can always listen and respond), somehow the conversation always comes back to our bodies and food. I feel guilty for monopolizing their minds and our conversations, and though I am grateful, part of me wants to scream, "THERE'S MORE TO ME THAN THIS!"

The scariest thing is that right now, I'm not sure what that "more" is.

Today at work two of my close friends and colleagues worked beside me for hours, and while we talked about lots of things, I was acutely aware of their attention to me. It wasn't policing, but I felt "watched," simultaneously cared for and judged in the same breath. Both of my colleagues talked about their bodies, times of weight gain or loss, and what "worked for them." They asked me to eat with them and tried to shower me with food and ideas to help. All of it was wonderfully loving. I hated it.

First, I need help and ideas. But I am annoyed because my colleagues don't know everything about my disease, and don't realize that in trying to help, they are often actually stroking the part of me that I am trying to silence. I can't freely eat pastries or come to a feast - there isn't a "simple" solution. My coworker Dee said today, "Leah, I've had anorexia, and the best part of it is that there is a ridiculously easy solution: you just need to eat!" Thanks, Dee. I know. But it's not that simple.

Dee wants to have me over for dinner on Friday night. I am warmly touched, and I accepted the invitation. I don't want to go, but I will. I'm tired of always saying "no." But I really don't want to spend the evening having food thrown at me, with every bite I take being watched. I don't want to be the center of attention while we're eating; right now, the simple act of eating is stressful enough. Dee told me to expect a feast, she and her partner are going to make me a "shit-ton of food." The intention is so kind, but the gesture is misplaced. If access to food was the only problem, such a dinner would be the answer. But my brain is the problem, and feeling unsafe and guilted into eating more food than I want to only allows the eating disorder to run wild.

But I said yes. I am going. I'm thinking about asking someone else to come along, so that I won't feel like I'm alone in the spotlight. And I should just be honest, and tell Dee that I want to come, but that I'm scared and need to feel safe. I have to respect her enough to know that she'll understand, and love me for being real.

I just hate that now that I've "come out," I can't "undo" it. I can't just talk to people about going to a baseball game without wondering if they're thinking, "is that stressful for her, having to be somewhere with hot dogs and ice cream?" I don't want people to see me as a crazy, single-minded nutcase; but maybe that's what I am. It's just hard to hide, now that I'm in the sunlight and out of the shadows that have long been prophesied by my disease as the only way to stay safe.

My brain felt more sane today. I was more relaxed and less panicked. I felt rational and non-reactive. Two days of regular eating, and I already know that I feel better. I have purpose, direction, and a goal. But I'm also trying so hard to get through this that I have put the fear growing inside me on a shelf, and I'm trying desperately not to touch it. It's like I've lulled the beast to sleep temporarily, and I am terrified that if I go deeply inside to examine what's there, the beast will awake and punish me for trying to run. All of the icky feelings - terror about being fat, worry about what people with think, anxiety about the permanence of the pounds coming towards me - are quieter now, but also quarantined. What will happen when I meditate on them and open the box? I'm too scared to look in that direction. For now, I am running away from it and pretending it's not there, praying that I will find enough strength in the next weeks to confront my demons with more armor than I had before. Today feels like a battle, but I can sense in the wind that a bigger one awaits. The storm is coming. I can feel it. And I don't like the unknown.