Comparison is the thief of joy

A chill hangs in the air outside. Burnt orange leaves dance their way down the empty city streets. Inside, the low hanging lights are dim, and the quiet chatter of people envelops the space. My family and I are gathered around a candle lit table, getting ready to enjoy the late November holiday at an upscale Charlotte restaurant. It’s the first Thanksgiving where we haven’t cooked the whole nine yards. I loved the idea of eating out: no dishes, no cleanup, no more blundering conversations about the political climate. 

 

My parents let out a chorus of exclamations. The food is brought out on gleaming china with each dish impeccably presented and steaming–a level of perfection a home-cooked meal can only strive for. However, instead of being excited to dig into the mountain of food placed in front of me, I become increasingly overwhelmed. My heart rate speeds up. My vision blurs with tears. I realize that I have no idea how many calories are on the plate. My brain goes into overdrive as I struggle to calculate the amount of calories I am about to consume. This proves to be futile. Instead, I pick at my plate, more worried about the number on the scale than enjoying a meal with my family. 

 

According to the National Eating Disorder Association, “Anorexia has the highest case mortality rate of any mental illness.” This disease is not one-size-fits-all and manifests in various restrictive patterns, affecting over 20% of women in college. 

 

I am one of those 20%. 

 

*** 

 

“Have you heard of the 5 stages of grief?” This was the first question my new therapist, who specializes in eating disorders, asked me when she diagnosed me with anorexia nervosa. I scoffed at the question. How could this apply to me? However, after a few sessions, I began to internalize what she meant. I had suffered a major loss. Over the last 10 months, I had lost my health, my friendships and myself. 

 

Denial was easy during the first few months. It was only supposed to be five pounds, and I didn’t want to admit that the girl I had become was suffering. I denied myself a social life, too scared of the liquid calories. My health began to crumble as I only allowed myself to eat when I saw the number on the scale go down. Every morning I woke up shaking. I was in denial that I was sick, yet proud of the newfound control I had over my life. 

 

During spring break, I went to Panama City Beach with my roommates for my first “real” college spring break. We were excited to make memories. Now when I think back, all I remember is the constant fear of eating in social settings–trying at all costs to avoid food-related situations. I had quickly transitioned from being conscious about my health to suffering from a deadly mental illness. 

 

According to the Bulimia Project, an organization intent on increasing knowledge surrounding eating disorders, “Malnutrition can have an impact on mood, behavior and thinking, and the structural changes anorexia nervosa can cause in the brain may also contribute to these eating disorder symptoms. Grey matter shrinkage has been found to primarily affect areas of the brain that are key to emotion regulation.” 

 

I became angry. I became irritable, short tempered and a constant ball of brain fog and memory loss. I struggled in school, something I had never encountered before. I lost my dream position as editor of the student-run newspaper. It felt as though I was failing at everything I had worked so hard to achieve. I grew furious with myself. The castle of cards I had so carefully built from my feelings came tumbling down, driving me further down the self-destructive path I had so neatly laid out. 

 

*** 

Then came the bargaining. 

 

It wasn’t even the incessant back-and-forth with my parents, as if I were a high-profile witness at the trial of the century, that bothered me. It was the fact that I continuously lied to myself, and over time, those lies became easier to believe. 

 

“If I skip breakfast, then I can eat dinner,” I’d tell myself, creating rules and justifications for my behaviors. “If I work out an extra hour today, then I can eat two meals instead of one.” This self-negotiation spiraled into a maze of restrictions. I started convincing myself that as long as I stayed under a certain number of calories, everything would be fine. Each compromise only dragged me deeper into the disorder, twisting my view of what was enough. These bargains were a trap. One that I would never win. 

 

Depression followed. By this time, I had completed my sophomore year of college returning home for the summer a shell of the person I once was. One night, while lying in bed ready to go to sleep, I became extremely aware of my heartbeat. It echoed in my ears as I lay in my dark room, slowing with each passing moment. I placed two fingers on my neck to check my pulse. The seconds between each beat felt like an eternity. That night, I was scared to go to sleep because I was unsure if I would wake up. All of a sudden, it wasn’t just my parents begging me to get better; my very own body was screaming that it could not take much more. 

 

*** 

I had hit rock-bottom. 

 

I had lost myself in the tunnel of disordered thoughts, and the deeper I went, the harder it became to find a way out. I spent all my time on the couch, feeling sorry for myself. I was unable to envision a healthy future. I was too tired to move and constantly trembling from a cold that had settled deep in my bones. Honestly, I didn’t think I was sick enough. Yet no matter what I did, I would never be sick enough for my eating disorder. 

 

It wasn’t until my hair started falling out at the end of May that I realized I had taken it too far. The competition had gotten out of hand, and I was on the losing side. Despite all the warning signs my body had been giving me for months, it was the hair loss from malnutrition that served as my wake-up call. I hadn’t realized how much my hair contributed to my confidence until I saw the clumps in my hands. 

 

Finally, I could accept that I had an eating disorder.

 

This chapter of my life is far from over. In fact, every day, I must continue to make the choice to get better. I am recovering not only for myself, but also for my future. For me, recovery is extremely challenging. Yet I am beginning to realize that my body is the least interesting thing about me. While I am far from being completely recovered, I can acknowledge that every single day I make the most difficult decision: to not fall back into the disordered patterns that had become my norm. Each night, I am proud of the progress I have made. 

 

As of a week ago, I am now 20 years old. I am working on regaining my health so that I can look back on the “best years of my life” with a smile. Slowly, the bruises from malnutrition have begun to fade, and I am allowing myself grace in situations out of my control. I can now recognize that ever since that eye-opening Thanksgiving dinner, I have been battling the world’s deadliest mental illness. 

 

Yet I survived it. 

 

It’s hard to change my disordered thoughts. Especially when they had become my religion for almost a year. But, comparison is the thief of joy; a lesson I learned the hard way. I am grateful for everything my eating disorder has taught me. I have learned countless lessons in resilience and trust and above all, I am slowly understanding that I am worth it.