Not having a formal diagnosis made my journey through my eating disorder and to my recovery much more challenging. Four years ago, I was at my lowest weight during my struggle with anorexia. It was Christmas and I was at my nana’s house. I had been performing my typical strategy of avoiding mealtimes, which was quite easy due to the number of people.
Trigger warning: Descriptions of eating disordered behavior.
While at her house, I stepped on her old scale, the kind the doctors have in their offices. I weighed myself. When the number came up, my first thought was “I bet I could be smaller.” Then, I burst into tears. I remembered that the last time I weighed so little, I was in the seventh grade. I was 20 years old at the time.
I was 5’3, so I was technically underweight, but only by a few pounds. I felt like I needed help, but it seemed so difficult to get. I had talked to a counselor at my university earlier that year—they were at capacity for patients and, despite me telling them about my food struggles, they had no open slots. At that point, my weight was not low enough to cause alarm. They recommended some other counselors that I could see, but none of them accepted my insurance. I continued my downward spiral.
Whenever I went to my mother, crying, telling her about my anorexia, she hugged me and calmed me down. But one of the first things she said to me was, “I don’t think you have an eating disorder.” Perhaps it was a coping tactic to deal with a child telling you that she is mentally ill, but we didn’t discuss the topic again. I never told my father.
When the spring semester started, I called the counseling center as soon as possible to be sure that I got one of the few slots. During my intake, I told them that I was turned away due to capacity and that unless I saw someone at the counseling center, I would be unable to see anyone due to my insurance. I went to my first appointment that month, and I am still thankful for this.
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