Shedding the Anorexic Identity

A few weeks ago, I gave away the last of my "anorexic" clothing.

The clothing that was too young. Too short. Too...anorexic.

I mean, a micro-miniskirt on a forty-six-year-old? Seriously?

I feel myself becoming more free each day.My identity was wrapped up in being thin and sick, and these clothes were symbols of that identity. The too-small jeans in double negative sizes. The tiny tops that looked like they belong on an eleven-year-old. The micro-minis that I was oh-so-proud of wearing, not realizing how ridiculous I truly looked.

Unlike many anorexics, I did not hesitate to show my emaciated body (that is, when I wasn't too cold.) I thought I looked fine; slim and waif-like and all that crap. I mean, a part of me did realize that protruding hip bones and deflated breasts were indications of something seriously amiss. I did realize that my frequent trips to the ER for racing heart beats and dizzy spells were not normal.

But denial hangs around a long, long time, and the ability to delude ourselves is so very powerful.

I am not sick. I do NOT need treatment. I am NOT anorexic. I am just fine! Fine fine fine!

Yes.

So I proceeded to build my identity around being an uber-anorexic. I was sick, damn it, and oh-so-very special because I did not need food. I wore my NEDA symbol with pride, pretending I was trying to get better while secretly planning the further destruction of my body through starvation and self-harm and all those behaviors that define an "anorexic."

It would almost be funny if it weren't so tragic.

Yes, tragic. The tragedy is that I have yet to meet an anorexic who wasn't brilliant, educated, and full of potential. The people I know who are anorexic have teaching degrees and science degrees and graduate degrees, and could potentially discover the cure for AIDS or make some other difference in life...if they weren't so enmeshed in the disorder known as anorexia nervosa.

So how does one shed the anorexic identity? For me, the first step was getting rid of those things that screamed anorexia to me. The clothes.

It was painful. I reached out for the pair of cute, low-waisted flare jeans in my closet. I loved those jeans! I thought they were so hip, so modern, so...young. Next I angrily grabbed the micro-minis off their hangers. But...But...What if I could still wear them? Shouldn't I at least try them on? Yeah, right. And trigger myself right back into a relapse. And what grown woman should be wearing a skirt that barely covers her rear, anyway? Next were the cute little tops. Groan...I looked so adorable in that top! That is, if you discount the fact that my arms were as slim as an eleven-year-old.

I shoved each piece of clothing into a large garbage bag, wanting to get rid of them before I changed my mind. You see, these clothes were the barometer of my identity. If I could fit into them, I was me. If I could not, I had to strive to.

I have often written that anorexia is not about being thin or pretty. At some level, we know that we are not beautiful, that people are recoiling at our emaciated bodies. And yet, there is an element of striving to be thin inherent in most people with anorexia. It is not the pursuit of beauty or the ideal body shape; instead, I think it is a control issue. My world was spinning out of control, so I could control one thing—my weight. And by God, I was going to do it even it ended up killing me.

Of course, much more can be—and has been—written about the causes behind anorexia and other eating disorders. I am not sure it even matters to me anymore. Instead, to me, recovery means jettisoning anorexia and embracing life.

Discovering a new identity, the person hidden behind the layers of starving and self-harm and self-hatred. I'm getting there.