My Eating Disorder Story: From My Body to My Smile
Well, here we go... The post I've been hesitant to write for quite some time now. Would I be disclosing too much? How would people react? How much detail should I provide? Would sharing negatively impact my professional career?
After playing out the different scenarios in my head, I thought, "This is me. This is part of my story. And if I want to help the Gabi's of the world, they need to know that I too, struggled. That they don't have to fight the battle alone. That although I will never understand what it is like to be in their exact shoes, I am someone they can relate to. I'm not just a mental health professional. I am much more. A reliable resource. A confidant. A support system. "
So, with that being said...
This, is my Eating Disorder Story.
It all started when I was 7 years-old. As summer came to an end, it was time for my annual check up at the pediatrician's office. Little did I know, my doctor would unintentionally plant a seed that would slowly grow over the course of the next 10 years. What I like to refer to as, The Eating Disorder Seed.
At that annual check up, 17 years ago, my pediatrician informed my mother and I that according to the growth chart, I was "overweight" and potentially on my way to "obesity." At just 7 years-old, I heard the word obesity for the very first time. At just 7 years-old, I was told to go on a portion controlled diet. Crazy, right?
Now, at 24 years-old, I have a 7 year-old sister. I couldn't imagine telling my little sister—or any 7 year-old for that matter—that she is "overweight" and that she can't have pasta for dinner every night. That she has to "watch" what she eats, because she may "regret it" later on.
I wasn't sure what the doctor's plan was. All I knew was that there was a "problem" with my body, and that it needed to be "fixed." What my mother understood, was that her daughter's health was at risk. So, not knowing any better, she did what many mothers would have done in her situation, and she helped me lose the weight. Being the incredible mother that she is to this very day, not only did she help me, but she went on the diet with me. She prepared all of my food for me. She ate exactly everything I ate. She didn't want me to feel "different" from everyone else. She tried her best to normalize the situation—even though we know now, there was nothing "normal" about it.
After being on a portion-controlled diet for approximately 3 months, I lost the "necessary weight" and was told by my pediatrician that I was "healthy." Little did he know, my mental health was about to take on a mind of its own.
Fast-forward to middle school, and I regained the weight and more. Huh? I wonder why...
I now know why... Because diets. don't. work.
Soon into my first year of middle school, my parents got divorced. That was tough. I felt confused, betrayed, sad, and basically, all of the negative emotions in the dictionary, combined. I then began to numb my emotions with food. That was the first time I unknowingly turned to food as a coping mechanism.
I was teased throughout all of middle school. I was called "rollie pollie," "chubby," "fat," etc. You name it, I probably had the nickname at some point. And honestly, it sucked. There's no better way to describe it. It was hurtful. And most of all, it was confusing. I didn't understand why the boys had so much to say about my body, and so little to say about my personality.
Looking back, yeah, it hurt, but I don't feel any animosity towards them. Society programmed them to believe that a woman's beauty was determined or dependent upon her physical appearance—i.e. her body. I know this because, it's what society made me believe. That unless I was thin, I was insignificant. That I simply took up space.
Then, high school hit. That's where everything took a turn for the worst. I discovered all the diets: Atkins, Weight Watcher's, My Fit Foods, The Fast Metabolism Diet, The South Beach Diet. Name a diet, and trust me, I've tried it. I became obsessed with becoming "skinny." I calorie counted. I over-exercised. I used diet pills. I used "fat burner" creams—who the hell knew that even existed! Anything I could get my hands on that "promised" me weight loss.
Ironically enough, it didn't matter how much weight I lost, or how many compliments I received, I still wasn't happy. I may have "looked happy," but I promise you, on the inside, I was falling apart. I was slowly hitting rock bottom.
Unfortunately, it wasn't until the summer before my sophomore year of college that I was formally diagnosed with an eating disorder. At the time, I was diagnosed with Binge Eating Disorder (BED), which was later changed to Other Specified Feeding or Eating Disorder (OSFED). The essential features of a binge-eating disorder are recurrent episodes of binge eating that must occur, on average, at least once per week for 3 months. An "episode of binge eating" is defined as eating in a discrete period of time, an amount of food that is significantly larger than your usual day-to-day meal portions. Binge episodes usually occur due to a period of extreme restriction. OSFED, essentially means, "You've tried it all! So, it's hard to fit you into one category."
After the summer of my sophomore year, I returned to college at UT Austin, and unfortunately, because eating disorders are conniving and manipulative, I convinced my therapist at the time, that I was "completely recovered" and that she had nothing to worry about. My "completely recovered" story was a lie the eating disorder came up with in order to get my therapist off her back.
And yes, I refer to my eating disorder as "her." Why?
Because I was not my eating disorder.
My eating disorder and Gabi were two completely different people. If you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about, refer to my previous blog post—I break it down for you.
Fast-forward to May 2018, I graduated from The University of Texas—hook 'em horns am I right?! And I was on my way to graduate school at Pepperdine University, to pursue my Masters in Clinical Psychology to become a Licensed Professional Counselor (LPC). All I could think about was my end-goal. Do well in graduate school. Graduate. Sit for your licensing exam. And live out your dream of starting your own private practice. I was so focused on what the future had in store, that I totally lost sight of the present moment. I put my mental health on the back burner.
I finished my first year of graduate school with all A's, excelled at my internship, and yet, I felt unfulfilled. Empty. Lost. It wasn't until two things happened that really made me take a step back and re-evaluate my life.
1. One of my long-standing clients asked me, "Hey Gabi, I've really been struggling with learning how to love myself... Any advice or feedback?"
My jaw dropped—definitely not literally, more figuratively, as my client probably would have felt very uncomfortable. But, nonetheless, I was shook. I didn't have the words. I had absolutely no idea what to respond. Thankfully, session was just about to end, and I was able to reply, "Definitely a topic we can discuss. Let's come back to that next week in session. I'll write down a reminder for myself to ensure we don't forget to discuss it." Talk about saved by the freaking 50-minute time limit on sessions!!! Phew!
That, right there, was clue #1. How the hell are you supposed to help people Gabi, if you don't even like yourself—much less, love yourself? The answer is, it's not possible.
2. In the course of three days, after buying my brand new car, I managed to scrape the bottom of it while pulling out of work, and scrape the side of the passenger door, while turning into my apartment complex garage.
Yeah, I know. Pretty bad. I swear I'm not a bad driver—although I'm sure it's sounding that way. I was completely out of touch with my body. I was distracted. Worried. Anxious. Pensive. Stressed. All of the above. I had just gotten back from Las Vegas with two of my good friends, and I was hyper-focused on not gaining the weight I had lost prior to the trip. Between graduate school, my internship, my part-time job, and settling into my new apartment in Marina del Rey, my one worry was weight gain.
Bingo! That, right there, was clue #2. I was living in California—experiencing weather Texan's only dream of, doing well in both school and my internship, and finally figuring out a rhythm, yet all I cared about was not gaining weight. In fact, worse! I was worried about being able to lose more weight.
That's when it all hit me! I needed help. And not just any kind of help. I needed a higher level of care. I needed treatment. As much as I didn't want to admit it out loud, I knew I wasn't okay. I was really struggling. So, I mustered up the courage to call my parents. I told them everything. How badly I was struggling. How I hadn't recovered from my eating disorder. How, if anything, it only got worse. How I needed help.
Thankfully, I am blessed with unconditionally supportive parents, who didn't even think twice, and responded, "Okay sweetie, we will get you the help you need. Thank you for being open with us." And, my mother, being the go-getter that she is, found a medical doctor who specializes in eating disorders in Houston. She reached out, and had booked me an appointment within hours.
In sum, I took 6 months off of graduate school, returned home to Houston, and entered a Partial Hospitalization Program (PHP). I completed three months of PHP and two months of Intensive Outpatient. I worked alongside a treatment team of specialists, and received top-notch care.
Now, over a year later, I can honestly say those 5-6 months, were the most difficult yet rewarding months of my life. Never had I thought I would be able to develop a healthy relationship with food and my body. Never had I thought I wouldn't be counting calories, weighing consistently, and over-obsessing about weight loss. I genuinely thought that there was no "fixing me." That there was no light at the end of the tunnel.
Boy, Was I wrong?!...
This experience was a blessing in disguise. I wouldn't wish an eating disorder upon anyone, but I would be lying if I said it hasn't further ignited my passion for the field of Psychology and my desire to help other women and girls just like me.
If you've read up to this point, I commend you—I know it's long—and I thank you for listening to my story. I hope my story sheds light on the severity of eating disorders and emphasizes the fact that they are the #1 cause of death in mental illness.
If you or anyone you know is struggling, below are a list of helpful resources in order to ensure that you or a loved one gets the help they need:
