I tried to hold a conversation with my dietitian last week about exercise, and it ended in me biting back tears.
If there is one phrase that I hate and I’m tired of hearing from everyone, it’s this one: “Melinda, I can’t tell if I’m talking to you or your eating disorder right now.”
I am NOT my eating disorder. My name is not Ana. It’s Melinda. My name has never been Ana, so please stop treating me like I’m her.
I have an eating disorder, but I am NOT my eating disorder. It’s not some adjective used to describe me, nor does it define who I am as a person.
Let’s get this straight, I fucking hate anorexia. It has hurt not just me, but everyone around me. My eating disorder isn’t something I’m proud of, but actually something I carry with shame.
My eating disorder doesn’t get to do the talking anymore; I do.
Did I just say that and genuinely mean it? Because if I did, that’s really impressive. A year ago, the thought of recovery terrified me because I didn’t know who I’d be without anorexia. Giving up my eating disorder felt like giving up a huge part of myself, and honestly at the time, it was the only part of myself I liked.
Now I’m on the other side, and I realize I’m okay. I was so scared of giving up that piece of myself, and I really didn’t need to be afraid. It didn’t hurt like I thought it would. Actually it’s feel really good to finally be something more than my eating disorder.