As I type this, I’m on a weekend trip in honor of my 10-year eating disorder residential treatment admission anniversary. I’ve been hiking with my dog, drinking iced lattes, eating yummy food, sleeping, and reflecting.
All month leading up to this milestone, I’ve been giving mental health talks through NAMI’s In Our Own Voice and Ending the Silence programs, and on my own as a disordered eating and diet culture “expert”. In each of the six talks, I spoke about the causes of my eating disorder, warning signs, levels of treatment, ways my family and friends supported me, and prevention (dismantling diet culture, normalizing body diversity, deconstructing “health”, etc.). I shared that I ascended from outpatient therapy to Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP), Partial Hospitalization Program (PHP), and finally Residential, before descending all the levels again. I recounted how my PHP therapist kicked me out of the program for disruptive behavior, recommending I admit to residential, and how I laughed at her – I wasn’t sick enough, even though I’d lost my period, was cold all the time, had a low heart rate and electrolyte levels, obsessively read ingredient lists and watched baking shows, no longer had many friends, frequently isolated, and barely had a relationship with my family. I reasoned that I wasn’t as thin as others who were struggling, plus I was still getting good grades and working several jobs. I wasn’t sick enough to need residential.