How Do I Talk to a Friend or Family Member With An Eating Disorder? (Or You Suspect They Do)

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This is 2017’s National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, and I’m excited to be writing a few posts based on requests.

My first post is how to talk to a friend or family member with an eating disorder or who might have one… from my perspective as someone in recovery. While I was struggling through the years, I heard from friends and family that they felt powerless. It was like watching a sinking ship and not knowing if they could do anything to stop its demise.

While it is impossible to cure another person, friends and family members are NOT powerless. I think about the camp counselor who talked about her own eating disorder openly without shame while I was symptomatic but not yet diagnosed; the friend who reached out to the school administration when she was concerned about me; my mom who spent countless hours trying to understand why I wouldn’t eat. I might have resented them at the time, but now I know that they planted seeds that would bear to fruition later. I didn’t enter recovery in their timing, but it did happen.

I will forever have memories of friends, family members, professors, and co-workers expressing their concern to me over the years. If you think that your words don’t make a difference or impact to someone deep within an eating disorder, you’re wrong.

I will give a cautionary note, however. For every good friend who expressed concern and gave me unconditional love during my journey, there was another who met me with insensitivity and stigma.

Talking to someone with an eating disorder can be a tricky endeavor. On the one hand, you want to express love and concern, but you don’t want to do so in a way that is off putting or hurtful.

In this blog post I will be outlining some “do’s and don’t’s” derived from years of experience of what has and hasn’t helped me.

  1. Do ask about it…

… but try not to probe or make assumptions.

Bringing up your concerns with someone you believe to be struggling can be anxiety provoking. It is a whole lot easier to pretend everything is okay. However, if you have a sinking feeling that something is wrong, and you are close enough to the person to broach the subject, by all means consider it.

Before you do so, consider these two things:

a) Don’t push it– If you bring it up and are met with defensiveness, it might not be the right time to talk. People with eating disorders can be highly secretive. In my deepest stages of denial and shame, I avoided all conversations about how I was doing. I remember how one time prior to admission to residential treatment, a teacher asked if I had an eating disorder. Taken aback, I mumbled something about having a rare digestive disorder. I wasn’t ready to admit how out of control or scared I was. Eight years later, I still remember that conversation as formative. She did not push the issue but expressed concern, and that meant a lot. Even though I wasn’t in a place to talk about it at the time, I respected her for bringing up the subject.

b) Check your assumptions– In society, we tend to associate eating disorders with “thinness” (whatever that means), but that’s just not accurate. Most people with eating disorders are not underweight. Anorexia is the most rare eating disorder, and bulimia and binge eating disorder are more common. People with eating disorders often fluctuate between periods of restriction, bingeing, and purging. I know some of my most symptomatic, out of control times were when I looked healthy. Don’t automatically assume that someone’s thinness is anorexia. It might as easily be a thyroid issue, an autoimmune disease, drug abuse, or simply body type. Similarly, don’t assume that someone doesn’t have an eating disorder because they appear to be healthy.

I have a “spidey sense” in my judgments about whether someone has an eating disorder, but I can be wrong. I am also careful about bringing up the subject of a possible eating disorder. Far before I bring that topic up, I make sure to talk about my own experience, normalize the reality of eating disorders, and check the facts.

. . .

2. Do seek consultation…

… but avoid gossip.

I can’t tell you how horrible it feels to know that people have been talking about you in the whispers you slightly overhear as you pass by and in hushed conversations you know have happened. I think by all means people learn more about eating disorders if they suspect a problem in a family member or friend. Education is important. Talking to a dietitian, therapist, or an organization like the National Eating Disorders Association can be a great move. HOWEVER, when that trickles into gossip and shaming, it stops being helpful.

Sometimes a family or friend group might need to get together to discuss how best to broach the subject with a loved one, but as soon as it turns into judgment and teasing, it can become toxic.

A note about consultation: It is strangely easy to read an article from BuzzFeed or some other reputable source (joke, but in full disclosure, I love BuzzFeed) and think you’re Dr. Phil or something. “Is it about control?” I’ve had people ask me in condescending tones. As if that comment is unique and your therapist hasn’t talked about control 900 times. Eating disorders *can* have an element of control, but it is ALWAYS much more complex. Eating disorders are associated with a cluster of things that may or may not be related: psychological factors, personality types, presence of past trauma, significant stressors, biological predisposition, family history, etc. A cursory look at a non-scientific article or watching a horrible Lifetime movie about anorexia cannot make anyone an expert.

. . .

3. Do express concern about eating habits…

… but don’t do so during meal time. 

Eating with someone you’re almost sure has an eating disorder is difficult and uncomfortable.

It is SO tempting to reach across the table and critique a meal choice, or say something like, “Is that all you’re having?”, or, “Why aren’t you eating more?” In my experience, those conversations are never helpful. The person with an eating disorder, who is likely anxious from the experience eating out, is on guard and gets defensive fast.

I get it– meal time seems like the most logical time to express concern. After all, it is commonly thought that meal time is in fact the problem. When I was deep into my eating disorder, going out to eat was SO MUCH more than an hour at a restaurant. It was the fasting before and after; it was the fear of eating in front of people; it was planning a binge later in the night so I didn’t have to eat in front of people; it was looking up the menu online beforehand; it was counting calories hours before I stepped foot in the restaurant.

It is better to bring up the specific behaviors later in the day when meal time is over. Stick to the specifics about behavior and don’t make it personal. An example: “I noticed when you were at dinner tonight, you ordered a low calorie entree, and you kept putting parts of the meal in the napkin on your lap.” –> I know, easier said than done!! I’ve been the recipient of a lot of insensitive mealtime comments, but I’ve also given some insensitive mealtime comments to friends I knew were struggling. I get it: Frustration can mount in the moment at mealtime, but try to hold off until later. You’ll end up having a much better conversation.

. . .

4. Do focus on food…

… but look at the greater picture, which has a whole lot more to do than just food.

Someone I knew in graduate school said something to the extent of, “I don’t know why families don’t lock the family member with an eating disorder up and force the person to eat.”

While that is absurd, I have heard so many comments that are similarly invalidating and off base:

“Just eat.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“Don’t make this such a big deal.”

That approach doesn’t work.

Eating disorders are both about food and not about food. Of course, eating disorders are highly related to weight and food habits (that’s why they’re called eating disorders) but in some respects have little to do with food.

Restriction was my teenage coping mechanism to deal with a lot of internal chaos– undiagnosed generalized anxiety, crippling OCD, existential anxiety, depression, and feelings of hopelessness, and worthlessness.

In my years of being symptomatic, I was way more likely to talk about those things than my eating habits. I hated when people would make it seem like gaining weight or eating would solve all of my problems. My eating disorder served multiple functions in my life, and until I dealt with those, I didn’t get truly better.

On the other hand, eating disorders are necessarily about eating.

If someone is underweight or malnourished, it is impossible to look adequately at the big picture. Medical, nutritional recovery is a precursor to psychological recovery.

Sometimes in more psychoanalytic approaches to recovery, it is conceptualized that when a person deals fully with the psychological parts of the eating disorder, the symptoms will dissipate. That also doesn’t work.

If you are bringing the subject up with someone, consider the rather paradoxical statement that eating disorders are about eating, but they don’t give us the full picture of what’s going on.

. . .

5. Do take action if necessary

… but think it through first.

Eating disorders are dangerous.

Period.

It is well-known that anorexia has one of the highest mortality rates of all mental health issues, but it is definitely possible to die of bulimia or binge eating disorder too.

The first thing I tell people who haven’t gotten into treatment is: SEE A DOCTOR.

Eating disorders can be associated with some serious medical complications that can kill including (not an exhaustive list): potassium/ electrolyte imbalance, low heart rate, low blood pressure, and general heart abnormalities (that’s why people with eating disorders must have regular EKG’s).

I will reiterate here that someone of average weight, overweight, or obese can die of an eating disorder as well. All of the above medical problems can happen to a person at 70 pounds or 370 pounds.

That is why if you truly suspect a loved one or friend has an eating disorder, don’t stay silent.

In all three of my three major anorexia tail spins, the initial descent into the illness and two subsequent relapses, I needed intensive medical intervention to get back to normal. Two of those times, it was not of my own choosing. Friends, family, and even my school had to intervene on my precarious downward spirals, and thank God they did. Otherwise I might not be here right now.

With that said, if you are seriously concerned about someone who is NOT getting treatment for an eating disorder, there might be cases in which you should advocate for medical consultation or even hospitalization.

For someone with a SEVERE and UNTREATED eating disorder, it could be that lovingly suggesting a trip to the doctor or ER for a medical evaluation is what is needed in the moment. Or, perhaps looking up residential treatment options and calling the person’s insurance company for help.

** Now: Before you attempt this kind of conversation with someone, heed caution! Most people who are diagnosed with an eating disorder have a treatment team or are getting support of some kind. If that is the case, step back and offer support in other ways. Suggesting hospitalization or a doctor consultation additionally has a high likelihood of pissing off the person’s eating disorder, so be prepared that you will likely be met with resistance.

There are some cases when this kind of conversation happens more organically: For example, if a friend passes out or complains of heart palpitations.

. . .

I think the reason many people don’t express concern to a friend or family member about what they’re seeing is out of fear. I get it– it’s scary. People don’t inherently know how to bring it up or what to say.

You are brave and caring to consider having a conversation that might save a life. Sometimes simple comments can go a long way, things like:

“I love you, and I’m concerned about you.”

“It seems like you’ve been struggling lately, and I want to help.”

“If you ever want to talk more about what’s  been going on for you, I’m here for you.”

For more information or to take a free screening, check out NEDA’s website.

In keeping with the National Eating Disorders Awareness Week slogan for this year, I’ll finish with this: “It’s time to talk about it.”

Becoming a Liberal Christian Part II: Beach Evangelism and Rob Bell

Humility

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My anorexia and faith had long been intertwined, but as time went on, there was no choice for me but to fall on my knees… in a more palpable way than saying the “Jesus prayer” years earlier. After nearly 5 years of suffering from anorexia, my life had crumbled before me. A vacant, hollow shell was getting good grades and applying for college, and I ended up in residential treatment for my eating disorder and OCD shortly after graduation.

My first two days at treatment were excruciating. Without my eating disorder behaviors, I felt like I was being stripped down to nothing. Who was I? Where would I turn? The existential angst that had always plagued me came at me with a vengeance. I felt like I was internally bleeding, and I needed something– a tourniquet.

In my soul searching, I stumbled across Matthew 11:28-30, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” 

I wept. 

I imagined Jesus saying, “Are you downcast and hopeless? I will give you hope. Are you exhausted and riddled with addiction? I will give you peace.”

I craved the Jesus of Matthew 11:28-30. I imagined snuggling into God’s arms of love, grace, forgiveness, and rest. This was no longer the distant, aloof God of my childhood. This was a bruised, human God, with outstretched hands, giving me a chance at life… which I would never get with my eating disorder.

For the first time ever, it felt like my heart had found its home.

When I think back on this summer, I think of sweet attunement with the Lord and a huge amount of growth. I was hungry (pun partially intended) for any Christian book I could get my hands on– the Bible, devotionals, Christian inspirational books. An angel from a local Wisconsin church would transport me and some other patients to church weekly. At church, we would watch Nooma videos, Rob Bell’s mini-sermon videos that were so popular at the time. I met with the hospital chaplain often, and I asked her why God gave me an eating disorder. She replied that my sickness was akin to her own hypoglycemia. The rural Wisconsin church and this chaplain showed me grace and compassion that stayed with me.

I left treatment with a new mandate, not a zealous, argumentative quest, but a desire to live for God– whatever that meant. I was never going to be the same.

Paradigm Shift

At the beginning of college, my mind’s focus was no longer on the college experience of football, drinking, and joining a sorority: I wanted to honor God in every way, and that started with church. I got involved in a fairly conservative evangelical church, and by the end of my freshman year, I was on a certain conservative evangelical trajectory.

On a church level, this trajectory encompassed quiet times (i.e. extended prayer times) and beach evangelism– oh yes, I did beach evangelism. I felt dirty approaching random people on the street simultaneously trying to be friendly while attempting to convert them, but I did it. That was what my church was telling me to do. 

My first boyfriend and I even “courted” instead of dated, in the style of the once-popular I Kissed Dating Goodbye, the implications of which included saving kissing for marriage. (Note: Don’t read that book. Don’t kiss dating goodbye).

And yet… more and more, there were reverberations in my mind that something was amiss. One of the people that catapulted my paradigm shift was Rob Bell (the picture below was taken of Rob and I at one of his tours).

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First it started with watching his Nooma videos while at treatment, and then I religiously started following his church’s podcast. I read Rob’s books and even handled marketing for his Sex God tour. Rob was the “spiritual mentor” who I met all of two times but changed the way I saw God. He was also perhaps my transitional object, my bridge to an adult worldview. Rob was the first one I heard say, over and over in sermons, “God is the God of the oppressed.” He talked about Jesus’ Third Way, one that does not incorporate violence or keeping the status quo. Rob was authentic and mobilized his listeners to go out and be the hands and feet of Jesus on Earth. He preached social justice and Jesus’ subversive message. Rob talked about difficult subjects, like Leviticus and violence in the Old Testament.

The summer after my freshman year of college, I read the book The Irresistable Revolution by Shane Claiborne. A Mennonite and pacifist, Claiborne clinched my belief that God is the God of the hurting, vulnerable, and oppressed. In his book, Claiborne talks about going to Iraq to sit with Iraqi civilians following America’s Iraq invasion. Claiborne wrote,

“We must mourn the lives of the soldiers. But with the same passion and outrage, we must mourn the lives of every Iraqi who is lost. They are just as precious, no more, no less. In our rebirth, every life lost in Iraq is just as tragic as a life lost in New York or D.C. And the lives of the thirty thousand children who die of starvation each day is like six September 11ths every single day, a silent tsunami that happens every week.”

Reading this book, it was clear that I was having a faith identity crisis. I started to wonder if my version of Christianity was inclusive of the fact that EVERY life is precious, even the lives of our enemies. In the upside-down Kingdom of God, God was calling the church to something so different than beach evangelism and Bible thumping. He was calling the church to be with the sick and hurting; to provide holistic care that involved theology but also catering to physical needs; to go to the ends of the earth, not just to save souls but to turn the entire world upside down.

Did I know what that looked like? Absolutely not. On the contrary, I barely knew anyone of different socioeconomic classes, races, or sexual orientations. I didn’t know what God was calling me to do.

One thing I did know is that I was no longer at “home” with traditional conservative evangelicalism. I couldn’t live in an insulated church that didn’t have room for these ideas. At the same time, I wasn’t ready to throw the baby out with the bathwater. I still attended evangelical churches, and I even voted for John McCain in 2008.

As I inched nearer to college graduation, I wondered about my vocation. I switched professionals tracks from psychology, my first love, to ministry. My thought process was this: I loved theology. I loved helping people. How best serve God besides go into full-time ministry? Here’s where my “crazy liberal ideas” started: I wanted to be a minister or pastor. Not just a youth director or secretary, as most conservative evangelical churches utilize women. I wanted to be a legit, ordained minister. At my Christian college, I was on the “pre-seminary” track because my school affirmed women going into ministry (go Calvin!). I even took a summer internship at a church to “discern my calling” (i.e. think about whether or not to go to seminary).

I was learning a lot, but I was torn about grad school. At my summer internship, I had a revelation: there is much value in psychology for the church. I saw a church riddled with wounds and mental health issues, and here I was with a gift to understand and help people with these issues.

At school, I learned in psychology and theology classes that all that is good is God’s. I believe at the core of my being that psychology is good and useful. It is much needed in the church, and I love it. If God is involved in the restoration of ALL things, that means I could both be devoted to God’s work AND choose a full-time profession besides ministry. In the end, I decided to graduate school in psychology. In full disclosure, I went to Fuller Seminary partly because they have a clinical psychology program that incorporates theology classes and partly because that is Rob Bell’s alma mater.

I went to Fuller with no expectations but also searching for something . I wanted a broader knowledge of psychology and theology, but also a deeper relationship with an infinitely beautiful God whose love has no bounds.

In my nomadic way, I picked up and moved to southern California, with no idea what I was in for.

A Letter To My Former Therapist

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Dear J,

The three years we worked together were the best and worst of my life. I knew at the beginning– in my bones, I knew— that you were it. You were my ticket out of misery and into living a full, rich life. My first thought about you was, Wow, this woman seems like the reincarnation of Carl Rogers. Your empathy was unprecedented.

I didn’t have a solid enough sense of self at the time, but I could feel that you believed in me. When I doubted myself, when I slipped back into old patterns, whatever happened, you were there. You treated me like I was a worthy, capable, real human being.

Sometimes, I could believe that. Other times, I relied on your strength, and you believed that for both of us.

You cared about my feelings– no — you loved them. You acknowledged whatever I was feeling and took it seriously. I was stunned by how much you cared about me. Maybe even by how much you loved me (in the most platonic of ways).

In your eyes, I was a capable, intelligent therapist, prone to struggles, yes, but worthy of love. You trusted me not only as a human but as a professional.

Words cannot describe how you changed my life for the better. You helped patch my ragamuffin, broken self into a mosaic of messy parts. The mosaic was in the making.

But then again, words cannot describe how you changed my life for the worse.

In a whirlwind, what became a healthy, therapeutic relationship led to your emotional unraveling and at the end, a break up via email, with no closure.

To say that the end of our relationship destroyed me is cliche but true. My life, just like yours, unraveled at the seams, and everything was turned upside down.

You, the person who believed in me, who laughed and cried with me, who I would send my most personal writing, who was my rock, disappeared into thin air. In a moment, you were gone.

Just as I was starting to trust you and the walls were down, you left me without defenses. I was raw, cold, crying, emotional, and numb all at the same time.

I developed a disgust for therapy. I left graduate school. I moved back home to be closer to family. I changed my life completely because I didn’t believe in people anymore, and I didn’t believe in myself.

Almost 3 years later, the scars are still there, and sometimes, they bleed. I cannot trust my new therapist of almost 2 years. She reminds me so much of you, it’s scary. I see you in her sometimes, in her mannerisms and words, and I quiver. I don’t know if I can let anyone into my heart again. Not after you. 

“I wish I could do something to make it safer for you to open up,” my new therapist tells me.

“People always leave, just when you count on them,” I respond.

This has become our therapeutic struggle. I can’t trust, and I think about abandonment constantly. Would I get hurt now if my new therapist leaves? What about now? I can’t hurt again like I did with you. My sense of self can’t sustain another loss of that magnitude.

I think about you less and less over the years. I don’t cry every time I go into Ann Arbor anymore, nor do I listen on replay to Sia’s “Titanium,” a song I remember playing at the time of our relationship’s demise.

I still grapple with this: What happens with all the memories, the loving, painful, bitter, scattered memories?

I have tried locking them all in a box, and it never works. The moments we spent together spill over, sometimes through tear-streaked eyes, and sometimes with a smile.

I’m not back to normal following this experience. I have occasional flashbacks of you, and I remember every moment from when our relationship turned sour. I remember the angry emails we sent back and forth. I remember where I was when you broke up with me.

Then, I remember your face and how you used to laugh at my weird humor. I remember your expressive eyes, and your frown. I remember how you advocated for me. I remember the good things sometimes, and I don’t want to forget those. You were a huge part of my life and my story, and I can’t only hate you and have that be the end.

You weren’t just the “bad object,” you were the “good object” too. 

And yet, what you did and how you ended things caused me so many abandonment issues and trauma, I have needed years of therapy for years of therapy.

The sad thing is, nobody talks about the death of a therapeutic relationship. Nobody talks about a loving, trusting therapeutic alliance gone south.

If I was grieving the loss of a best friend or family member, it would be socially acceptable to feel grief. With a therapist, not so much. Does one ever hear, “Hey, I am a wreck, my therapist broke up with me today”?

Psychotherapy can be wonderful, yes. It can be healing and transformative and beautiful. 

… but it can also hurt. It can cause trauma and pain. It can sting, hurt, and wound on a gut-level. Nobody talks about the latter. 

But you know what, J, I am coming out of the closet. I want to say goodbye to you, but I also want to publicly acknowledge my grief. For years, I was quiet about the matter. No longer.

I am left, almost 3 years later, with no answers, ambiguity, and lots of pain. For a long time I thought it was me. Something I didn’t do. Maybe, despite all odds, you could come back to me if I did x or y.

Now I am learning that it was never about me.

It was about you.

It was your baggage and emotional issues that ended our relationship, and it wasn’t my fault. We will likely never meet again. On a good day, I can be okay with that.

So goodbye, J. You were a great therapist… one of the best. You started me on a path to healing that I hope I’ll one day finish. But I won’t finish that journey with you.

Sincerely,

Charlotte

 

 

 

On Gaining Weight

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Weight gain.

Even the words can be uncomfortable.

In a society that shuns women gaining weight for almost any reason, talking about gaining weight is understandably awkward. However, for people in eating disorder recovery, weight gain (recovery reframe, courtesy of my dietitian: weight “restoration”) is often a natural, healthy part of the process… and yet, rarely do people talk about it.

So let’s talk about it. Let’s talk about weight gain restoration.

I have had to gain weight at many points in my life… the consequence of relapsing in and out of anorexia for years. The most excruciating times have been in residential treatment, when I was expected to gain 2-3 pounds per week.

In the purpose of being real, my experience of weight gain has been less than wonderful. In treatment, I spent a lot of time in oversized sweaters, laying stomach-down on couches, and trying not to gag over my thrice daily supplements. The whole process was physically uncomfortable, not to mention that psychologically, it felt like a death. I was starting to look “normal,” and I didn’t know how I felt about that.

From what I can tell, my experience of restoring weight is not unique. Someone with anorexia gaining weight is the equivalent of someone afraid of heights who has to use the Empire State building elevators every day for work, or someone with a spider phobia working in a spider-infested cubicle.

It sucks.

My main point is this: Weight gain restoration is horribly sucky but it is an absolutely crucial reality of anorexia recovery. For the rest of the post, I’m going to unpack that.

Why it is sucky:

  1. It is physically difficult for someone with anorexia to gain weight. *Disclaimer: I am not a scientist or dietitian, but I’ve seen dietitians for years, so here’s what I’ve gathered from that. If you want information from a real science writer I’ll link to Carrie Arnold’s blog here.* When someone has been engaging in eating disorder behavior, the person’s metabolism is low and body goes into “starvation mode,” as it tries to conserve nutrients and body weight.  Weight gain is difficult because the body temporarily goes into a hyper-metabolic state, meaning: It can take a LOT of calories for a person who has anorexia to gain weight for a period of time. This hypermetabolism doesn’t last forever (it goes away after 3-6 months), but while it is in effect, the weight gain process is all the more difficult.
  2. Misinformation people give that scares the shit out of you even though what they’re saying is factually unfounded. I can’t even begin to tell you how many inaccurate, triggering things I’ve heard over the years like, “Wow, I could just eat a hamburger and gain 5 pounds.” Or, “I gained a pound yesterday.” Or, “That dessert went straight to my hips.” Or worse, “I just look at a slice of cake and gain weight!” The reality is that gaining weight isn’t so straightforward. Around 3500 calories equals a pound. So unless someone is eating an additional 3500 calories per day, gaining a pound from one day is highly unlikely (and note: that’s 3500 calories on TOP of what a person normally eats). Not even to mention, bodies can fluctuate about 5 pounds per day anyway, depending on the time of the month (for women) and fluid intake. If the scale is “up,” it is much more likely the effect of water, rather than a nighttime snack of cookies.
  3. The appearance comments are awful. It is hard for people not to notice if you’ve gained a fair amount of weight. I have heard my share of annoying, triggering comments over the years. Recently, someone came up to me and said, “You’ve put meat on your bones.” Um… ok? How is a person even supposed to respond to that? “Thank you…?” “I like ice cream…?” I mean… what? Even the, “You look healthy,” comment can send me into a tizzy. It’s better not to say anything. I know if I’ve gained weight. I don’t need to hear about how you feel about it. I wish I could say I can brush off the appearance comments with ease like the feminist, anti-fat-shaming woman I am, but I can’t. They affect me. As I said earlier, gaining weight already feels like a death.

Why it is crucial:

  1. I would argue that physical recovery is the most important first step to recovery from anorexia. Without that, a) the person’s life is at stake, b) the person’s bodily organs, such as the brain, heart, and other vital organs are not getting replenished, and c) the eating disorder is still serving some purpose and therapy is ineffective. I have spent years trying to half-ass recovery, or doing pretend recovery, while I really wasn’t willing to do the work, including braving the uncomfortable feelings of weight gain. Anorexia recovery often requires weight gain. If someone is underweight and that person’s dietitian says weight gain is necessary, it’s not just something optional. For me, the real work of excavating my life didn’t even begin until I was weight restored.

I get it. For people with anorexia, gaining weight sucks. There are a million things I would rather do than gain a bunch of weight. Weight gain is sandwiched (pun partially intended) somewhere between running, which I hate, and waking up early, which I also hate.

But withholding the necessary weight for proper bodily functioning is a form of self-abuse.

Again, gaining weight in recovery from an eating disorder is not optional. It’s not fun, but it’s also not optional. Partial recovery is not real recovery.

So my recovery warriors:

You are more than a number on the scale. You are more than bodily discomfort or a slice of cake. I know that getting to your goal weight is far from easy, and neither is the road to anorexia recovery.

I am saying this as much to you as I am to myself, because I have been going through my own weight gain — dammit, I mean restoration– process, and I’m not letting myself off the hook either.

Nothing wrong with a Body by Boost!