My Eating Disorder Recovery Story

I was always called fat by my mom. I  also remember hearing women talk about so and so being fat or how much weight so and so put on.  It always seemed to be the topic of conversation when I was a little girl.  

I was a dancer and a baton twirler at a young age so maybe that is what people talked about in that circle.  I do remember looking down at my thighs in first grade, spread on the chair, and thought, “My legs are fat.”  From then on, I tried to hide them.  

I grew fast and quick.  I was 5’3” tall in fifth grade.  I had stretch marks from that growth that I would hate for the longest time.  I was called “big-boned,” “broad,” and “fat.”  

My mother used to say, “Nikki can’t fit into that…she is just too fat.”  To me, I heard the disgust, the disapproval, and the power she felt from making me feel bigger in my body but smaller in my heart.  

It seemed that I was too much of a lot of things and not enough of most things.  Too slow.  Not fast.  Too average.  Not smart.  Too goofy.  Not serious.  Too much energy.  Not focused.  

In high school, in the 80’s, I walked into the weight room one day.  It was empty so my friend and I decided to box squat.  We had seen it done but had never tried.  We kept putting on the weight.  160, 180, 200, and the numbers kept climbing.  260 pounds was starting to get harder.  

When the guys walked in they began to joke, “What are you going to do…try out for wrestling?”  Can you imagine if the response was different?  But it wasn’t.  Every girl in the 80’s was expected to look like a twig, long legs and skinny, two things I would never be.

My mom refused to buy me a prom dress for my junior prom if I couldn’t fit in a size 7. I was a size 11. So, I bought a size 11 dress with my own money from a thrift store and felt beautiful anyway.

That summer before my senior year of high school I worked as a lifeguard.  One day as I jumped off the diving board, a fellow lifeguard commented on how I looked like a “wrestler”.  That is when I decided…I needed to lose weight.

Nobody begins a diet, drinks alcohol, or experiments with drugs thinking, “I can’t wait to be addicted to this.”  Yet, this is how it happens.  For me, it began as trying to lose 10 pounds.  I changed the way I ate and it came off easily.  Then it was 5 pounds more….then another 5 pounds… People began saying kind things to me that they had never said before.  

“Wow!  You look good!”  Even my mom complimented my weight improvement.  

My senior year, I fit into a size my mom wanted me to be and she bought me a prom dress.

The shift began slowly, deep inside my head.  5 more pounds became a challenge and something that I had complete control over.  

Every eating disorder patient will tell you of a different high they would get.  My high came from being empty.  The longer I could be empty, the more euphoria I had.  It is when I felt the best.  

However, when I ate I would learn that I could make myself throw up.  This gave me more options.  I had control.  And control is what I loved.  I could be empty whenever I wanted.  This emptiness created a prison that would be ALMOST impossible to escape.

I thought about it day and night.  Would I eat?  Would I not?  If I did, could I throw it up?  Did I need laxatives?  How many calories?  When would I run?  When my parents needed milk, I would run to the store and run home with the milk.  I ran in the middle of the night if I could not sleep.  I slept with weights buckled around me (my own contraption) hoping it would make my stomach flat. 

In 1.5 years of dieting, my body weight was cut in half.  My hair was falling out.  I was addicted to laxatives.  I used a variety of objects to shove down my throat to engage my gag reflex.  And I was not finished losing weight!  I had 5 more pounds to go.  Just 5 more.

I had been too weak to finish playing Fall Ball for softball in college. I was lucky to finish exams.  On December 17,  after my first semester in college, my dad took me to a special eating disorder unit in Baltimore.  I screamed at him not to leave me because I wasn’t finished losing weight.  He looked back with tears in his eyes and left.   

It was a place where I would be “fixed”.     

I did not return to college and lost the scholarships that I had.  I was the youngest woman on the unit and I finally felt understood.  I didn’t have to explain myself.  I did not have to hide my addiction.  In this unit, you had to gain 1 pound a day.  If you did, you had privileges, if you did not, you had to stay in the common room and could not go back to your room, use the phone, or have visitors.  

On Christmas day, my friend Ann and I were the only ones not allowed privileges.  We sat in the common room and watched everyone have Christmas.  I remember thinking, “How could my life get any worse than this?”  Yet, it did.

Nobody from my family showed up for family therapy…..because we did not have any problems.  It was my problem.   My brother was a drug addict and I almost died from my eating disorder but we were all good!  I went to individual therapy where the doctor just stared at me, I talked, but nothing was really solved, and time was up. 

I went to group therapy where we talked about our body image and I was encouraged to “let my feelings out”.  I was given Prozac to help my OCD tendencies.  I was on my way to recovery…or that is what everyone thought.  Actually, the thought was, “If you just eat, you will be fine.”  

Being in a hospital where they make your food, watch you eat your food, take your meds, watch you go to the bathroom, talk about your feelings….that is the easy part. 

You then have to go back to your dysfunctional family that never visited you in the hospital and live it out.  That wasn’t going to be challenging at all.  Not at all. I had to go back to the place that made me sick.

My mom would say, “Don’t blame us for your problems. We have given you everything you need, you are just fucked up and crazy.”

After 2.5 months in the hospital, I was released to go home.  I really cannot put into words what happened but in one month, I lost 15 pounds again.  

 In a heated argument with my mother, I told her what I had wanted to tell her since kindergarten.  It was the best feeling in the world.  I yelled with the biggest amount of venom, “You are the problem. You never loved me. You hate me and I hate you. You are the biggest bitch I have ever met, and I will never ever be like you.”

This was my first attempt at finding the voice that had been hidden. It wasn’t pretty. It was mean and it landed me out of the house with some belongings in a trash bag.  I was kicked out of the house and homeless.

That was the moment I realized that getting better was my responsibility.  Yes, bad things happened to me. But my story was not going to be a story of blame, it was going to be a story of recovery. I had no idea how, but I knew that recovery was up to me.  

I couldn’t blame anyone for where I was at this point (which was pretty low).  I had to make decisions every day to get better.  This was also the time where my friends became my family.  

I moved in with my childhood best friend.  Her mom loved on me the way I needed.  She always had dinner and then you were expected to clean up and not throw up.  It was soooo hard.  

But slowly I gained some confidence.  I took a year off of school and worked three jobs.  After several months of minimum wage jobs, I decided that getting my degree was what I needed to do.  I did not have any money. 

I had my work ethic, my determination, and a glimmer of my sense of humor.  I slowly began to rebuild my life.

Every step forward seemed to push me two steps backward.  It seems that “just eating” doesn’t get rid of the demons that caused the disorder.  There was a lot of work and pain to process. I had to unlearn the bad habits and relearn the healthy habits.  

The magic pill of Prozac had to be taken regularly. And I would not always do that. That left me suicidal and participating in self-harm again. That release of pain helped me feel.   

The demons and I battled every single day.  Some days I won, some days they won.   

From the outside, I looked “fine”.  If you asked me, “I was fine.”  Everyone expected me to be fine.  So to please everyone….I was.  I hid my wounds and became a master of this.  I participated in the life everyone expected me to do but inside I fought a battle every hour to keep myself sane and fed.  

When you are a perfectionist and people pleaser this is what you do.  I had food rituals that could not be disturbed and I constantly fought the question, “Do I rent this or own it?”  

I filled my life with work and school.  I went to school full-time and worked three jobs. This busyness kept me structured.  But it also kept me from eating.

There were pivotal moments in my recovery that made me realize that life was worth fighting for daily.  My dad pleading for me to live made me choose small goals to heal for good.  

Getting my first teaching job made me realize that I had to be fueled to keep up with students.  

Becoming pregnant when they did not think it was possible was another milestone. I stopped throwing up when I became pregnant with my oldest daughter.

 Having two girls back to back made me want a different childhood and healthier perceptions for them both.  I knew I had to heal so they would have better.

I have learned to give myself grace to not be okay.  I have learned that recovery is not perfect and takes a long time.   Relapse happens but it does not have to be a downward spiral to undo how far you have come.  I have learned that being honest about my struggle helps others.  I have learned that I have wasted so many years obsessing over the expectations that others have for me instead of discovering my own.

It has been 34 years.  I am still trying to figure out so many things but food and my body are best friends now. I am at peace.

My brother was a drug addict and it is one thing to stay away from your drug. For me, food was my drug and I had to become friends with it. That took a very long time and so much work.

Life is not fair for anyone.  We are dealt a family and their choices have consequences.  We also make our own choices and every choice has consequences.  

There were many days when death looked better than what I was facing.  

And every time in that loneliness and despair, I fought to rise.  

From the outside, it would not look miraculous but when I was on my knees pleading for a better way, I would always find the strength to rise.  I slowly learned to paint beauty with the ashes.

The word “FAT” added fuel to my self-hatred through every mirror glance and skipped meal.

I was never fat. I was never broken. I was becoming.

And now? I don’t chase acceptance. I embody power.

If someone were to call me a wrestler now, I’d smile—because finally, I see the strength I always had.

I love the life I have created.  If someone had told me that I would be standing here with the confidence and strength I have now I would have never believed it was possible.  

Because my brain was hard-wired in a certain way and critical elements were not met when I was growing up, I believe that I will always be fighting my demons.  

The only difference is that my winning streak is much better and my armor is more complex.  The past 40 years have been spent fighting to unlearn and undo things while breaking out of a prison I created.  The next 40 years?  They will be spent living in the freedom I fought so hard to have.