12 years ago, stepping on the scale brought the greatest highs of validation and the deepest lows of rejection. As my bare feet touched the clear, glass, bathroom scale, my heart leapt into my stomach as I waited for the flashing number to tell me my worth for that day. Was I enough? Or did I fall short? Would this glass square that sat on the cold, tile floor be proud of me today? Or tell me I was a failure and I needed to do better? Be better. Be anything but me. Standing on the scale for those very few seconds was a great high. It was like looking into a crystal ball and waiting anxiously to hear your future for the very first time. If the number on the scale read something my eating disorder was okay with, my day would consist of the same restricting, calorie counting, exercising, and consuming thoughts as any other typical day.  If my eating disorder didn’t agree with my number, then the day was spent doing any activity to lower that number. “Lower” was the word that shouted in my head.” LOWER so that I could cover up the shame I felt for not being good enough. LOWER so that I could feel safe again. LOWER so that the battle in my head didn’t wage so intensely. LOWER so that I could gain back the control. LOWER so that I felt loved and accepted. “You are not okay, Andrea, until that number is LOWER,” shouted my eating disorder, Ed as I later named him, and I would do anything to quiet the severity of His voice.

If I could only weigh that magic number, then I would be happy and all of my dreams would come true. Ed would be proud of me and he wouldn’t shout horrible things to me anymore. Regardless of how low my number reached on the scale, it was still never enough for my eating disorder. As a therapist, I have learned to stay away from words like ‘never’ and ‘always’ because these words are so commonly used but rarely true. In this instance, however, it really was NEVER enough for my eating disorder because it wasn’t about the number on the scale or the food I avoided or threw-up. It was about the beliefs and messages that I carried with me from the moment I went to bed until the moment I woke up. It was about how I felt about the person I saw when I looked in the mirror. My self-worth was given a margin of error of 2 pounds and when I went outside of that, I felt like nothing. I tried to control the food, scale, and fitness to prove to myself that I was worth something. The result of that was this: the things I tried to control ended up controlling me. I was consumed by calories, nutrition, the scale, food, weight, and my appearance. Andrea had left the building and Ed had taken charge. My disorder transformed into recovery when I was able to separate myself from Ed and recognize my own identity apart from my eating disorder. I learned that I had a choice to disagree with it and disobey it.

Once I learned the tools to separate my voice from my eating disorder’s voice, the door was open to make healthier choices. It was an ugly, drawn-out, blood, sweat, and tears battle but in the end, I won. And not just a soldier limping off the battlefield but as a warrior, carrying the flag to the mountain with God leading the way. While I do have my battle scars, the scars I carry have transformed into tattoos of victory. Through my journey, I learned to accept the beauty from the ashes of my story. I learned to accept my imperfections as the things that made me unique and beautiful. I learned that loving myself was imperative if I wanted to love others. Most importantly, I became the person I was created to be. The gap-toothed little girl who after opening a gift of a pencil with her name spelled out in pink, glittered letters was filled with so much joy that she ran wildly around the house had finally found herself again. It feels good to be home.

How did I win the war? Stayed tuned for the next post.