Lucy P.
Photography by Rhianna Womack
Before reading this letter, we'd like for you to know it discusses Lucy P.'s experience with an eating disorder. If you think that reading about this will be triggering for you, we encourage you to take a pause before reading this letter, center yourself, and prepare any resources you may need to access after reading it. If you'd rather not read this letter, we encourage you to read a letter on a different topic, such as Dana Q.'s or Anonymous's letter. If you're reading this, your feelings are valid.
If you are reading this, I’m still here.
I was taught a lot of things growing up. Practice your times tables, brush your hair before school, take care of your thigh gap, put your plates in the dishwasher, your emotions make other people uncomfortable so hide them, stay active, don’t gain weight, eat sweets while you’re young, fear the muffin top, do your homework before watching tv, don’t eat a snack too close to dinner, and never get a final grade lower than an A.
Fortunately for my parents, I was a great rule follower. The lessons seemed fair, and life was good. I was skinny (until I wasn’t skinny enough and my parents put me in more sports). I had good grades (even though I cried over small homework assignments). I had friends (so what if they excluded me often? At least I was skinny and had good grades).
By my freshman year of high school, I was so skinny, I had to wear leggings under my jeans to make them look like they fit. I spent 15 minutes blow-drying my cold body before leaving the house. I hid food in a bag and threw it away at school. I hid in the second stall on the right of the cafeteria bathroom during my fourth-period class and cried. Scribbles of meal plans and calories could be found in the corner of every one of my notes. I believed my best friend when she told me anorexia is gross and she couldn’t imagine being friends with someone like that.
That winter, the hospital nurse told my mom they should hospitalize me. My heart rate was 2 beats per minute away from the immediate hospitalization rate. My mom took me home. I was confused. No one told me I was dying. Standing up made me dizzy, and I couldn’t walk up my house stairs without stopping to catch my breath, and yet no one told me I was dying. My mom cried when she saw me, and my dad looked at me uncomfortably. My brothers were confused. My friends left me. And yet, no one told me I was dying.
I didn’t gain weight for myself. I didn’t care about myself. I gained weight so I could one day have children, and so I could play sports again. I was not allowed to exercise while in weight restoration. I wasn’t even allowed to walk around the block. I was ashamed of my fitness level.
A year ago, my mom told me that she thought I would die before graduating high school. She said she went to work every day thinking I wouldn’t be there when she got home.
I was taught that my sickness was gross and shameful, and embarrassing. I was taught that people who knew about it would leave me, just like my high school friends did. I was taught to hide. It took me four years of therapy to maintain a healthy weight. I still don’t often tell people about my eating disorder. It still embarrasses me. I am still ashamed. But I don’t want anyone else to ever feel like that. I don’t want anyone else to ever hide scrambled eggs and waffles in their robe pockets while their parent’s back is turned. It is okay to be sick. I wish someone had told me that. You can’t stop yourself from getting sick, but you can choose to get help.
Lucy P., University of Michigan
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