Empty stomach, empty life
What it’s like having an eating disorder
By Kelsey Grimes
(Ante Lusin / Pexels)
I had been dipping my toes in fad dieting since high school. I first Googled the word “thinspo” when I was 18, out of sheer curiosity. It was innocent enough. I had never been truly happy with my body, and the skinny Victoria’s Secret models and girls in bikinis with perfect beach bodies smiled, laughed and flaunted their small frames without a care in the world. Being thin seemed glamorous. I thought, maybe if I lost some weight, I, too, could ooze confidence like them.
So I did. I bought a scale to weigh myself once a week, just to keep track of my progress occasionally. I bought a food scale and carefully counted my calories, just to make sure I was staying “healthy.” And instead of driving, I walked to my college classes, just to make sure I was being active. At first it was really great! I got tons of compliments from my friends, everyone wanted to know what I was doing. Only a few more pounds and I would love my body! I decided to push a little further.
So I did. I weighed myself three times a week, just to make sure I was being consistent. I weighed everything I ate and started skipping dinner, just because I hated feeling full in the evenings. If it wasn’t in my fitness tracker or didn’t have a label, I didn’t eat it. I kept walking to classes, also took two yoga classes a day, and started going on runs with my boyfriend. It was great but… I could lose a few more pounds — it would be easy and I would be perfect.
So I did. I started weighing myself every morning to see the numbers drop. I started skipping lunch too, and only eating if I had exercised enough that day… because I had now adopted the idea that I needed to “earn my food.” And sitting in class just seemed like a waste of time at this point, so I skipped classes to walk, run, and do more yoga. Except yoga was a little bit uncomfortable at this point. My tailbone hurt from sitting on thin mats on hard, wooden floors. But people were really starting to take notice now. I was being called “thin,” “skinny,” but was I really? I could lose another pound or two, and then I would be happy.
So I did. I started weighing myself multiple times a day. And some days I just drank pressed juices. On the days I did eat, I took laxatives so I could still feel that empty feeling inside. And on top of skipping most of my college classes, it was now too cold in the lab where I worked, so I took half-days, which meant more time for exercise. It would be great… I was almost there! I just needed to push myself a little harder.
So I did. I started to not do anything that wasn’t too close to my apartment because of my strict schedule of checking my weight… in combination with the laxatives that were now part of my daily ritual. My diet now consisted of only three or four things, my “safe foods.” If I had anything else, I would panic and compulsively spend the rest of the day exercising until the pains in my chest forced me to stop for the night. I had to leave my job because I couldn’t sit in the lab for more than 15 minutes at a time. But it would be fine, I thought, because I think I’m getting close to “thin enough,” so close to perfect. I just needed to keep going.
So I did. I started having panic attacks when the scale didn’t show a specific number in the morning. I remember bursting into tears at a Mexican restaurant because I ate one chip too many, mascara running down my face and tears falling onto my vegetable fajitas. I ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I saw all the work I had been doing to become “glamorous” and “confident.” My skin was flaking because it was so dry from lack of nutrition. My hair was thin and falling out. My entire body was covered in a layer of lanugo — thin, feather-like hair that my body grew to compensate for not having any fat to keep itself warm. Sure, I felt discouraged — this can’t be healthy. But in the dim lighting of the Mexican restaurant bathroom, I stared at the girl in the mirror and repeated the mantra… it would be great. I would love my body any day now! I just needed to keep it up.
So I did. I was hardly productive now that I was seeing stars and blacking out at times, so I was forced to give up my PhD program and quit my job. I moved back in with my parents. I broke up with my boyfriend and isolated myself from my friends because they cared too much and asked me to eat. What did they know? But this was all great because the time I was wasting with them could be better spent walking. (I had to stop running because I was having chest pains all the time now.) My parents forced me to see a doctor.
So I did. I was told I was sick, mentally and now physically. But how? This was great, right? I mean… I would have been showing off my body if it wasn’t for the two sweaters I had to wear at the beach because I was so cold. And I definitely would have had a little more confidence now in a bikini, but I hadn’t been able to shave the hair under my arms in weeks due to the deep concave shape of my armpit that my razor could no longer reach. But I was convinced: this was going so well. Nobody was going to take this away from me. I was almost there.
And if “there” was death, I was absolutely correct. I was too consumed by my thoughts to see clearly, but I was dying.
But I didn’t. I spent three long months in the hospital. Doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, dieticians, social workers, therapists. Scans, tubes, wires, tests, specialized diets, so many rules. Everyone telling me the same thing: there was no “there” — that perfect place I was killing myself to achieve. They told me if I didn’t devote my life to recovery, my eating disorder would kill me.
So I did. I made the hardest decision of my life to recover: to give up all the control that I craved, the identity to which I had so desperately clung, to give up all the rituals in which I had found so much comfort. I was finally able to recognize that while I consumed nothing, my eating disorder consumed me completely. I had lost so much to anorexia already — not only the weight but my career, the trust of my friends and family, all the time I spent suffering. I did not want to lose my life. There was only one choice: to do everything in my power to take care of myself by treating my body like I already loved it, in hopes that one day I actually would.
So I did. To this day, I celebrate the anniversary of my inpatient admission as if it was my birthday. The day I truly learned that I could never live a full life on an empty stomach. The day I stopped numbing my hunger and my feelings, and fed myself. The day I began to actually embrace my hunger for life, and chose to nourish myself not only with food, but with experiences, education, relationships. The day I realized that I could be so much stronger than my eating disorder if I chose to fight every day. So I am.
Kelsey Grimes is a psychiatric nurse whose own struggle with anorexia nervosa inspired her to dedicate her life to helping others improve their mental health. She loves to advocate for others, is an avid road cyclist and baker, and can otherwise be found on the beach with her golden retriever, Oliver.
This piece was written and shared during the IDONTMIND Writing Workshop. Learn more about our free, nine-week course and be the first to know about the next workshop here. Visit Mental Health Connecticut’s YouTube channel for a video version of Kelsey’s story.