Anonymous
Photography by Jackson Covert
Before reading this letter, we'd like for you to know it discusses Anonymous'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 Caroline L.'s or Dana Q.'s letter. If you're reading this, your feelings are valid.
If you're reading this, know that you're more than a number.
You deserve to eat - regardless of your size or what you plan to wear out tonight. Growing up, I was always teased for being the "big" kid. I was taller than all my friends in first grade, and I weighed more than them, too. I never felt at ease in the pink ruffles and skirts that my peers were wearing. Instead, I opted for too-large t-shirts and men's gym shorts. It didn't take long for the other kids to pick up on my insecurities and pick me down to the bone.
Ironic, now, seeing as that I believed carving myself down to the bone would solve all my problems. If it had, you wouldn't be reading this. I grew up in a diet-centered household. My father had a rigid timetable for his breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and he would become vocal and irate if his schedule was disturbed. My mother's favorite pastimes included telling us how some dishes were "just too sweet" for her palette, exclaiming that she was being "bad" for enjoying certain foods, and constantly dismissing herself as "fat, pig-like, or a cow." This is where I learned the art of self-deprecation.
By the age of 7, I had already participated in my first "juice cleanse." It's no surprise that I developed bulimia as a sophomore in high school. It started as a casual thing where I would purge only when I had eaten a "bad" food. Then, it became a daily occurrence. Then, it happened 3, 4, or 5 times a day. My chest constantly ached, my face would not stop breaking out, and my cheeks swelled like a chipmunk. That lasted for about two years, at this pace, before I realized that I was causing serious damage to myself.
I started recovery, and I was doing just fine - then the pandemic hit. I was stuck at home for days on end with nothing to do except hate myself and think of all the ways I deserved to be punished. I got into TikTok and subsequently learned what "calories" were. The people we idolize glorify skipping meals and promote bodies that can't be achieved without surgery. Each day became a competition with myself to eat less than the day before. I was happy when people started noticing my "results." Their praise was like confirmation for me to keep it up. I did.
I lost a lot more than weight; I lost my smile, I lost my hair, I lost all interest in everything I had enjoyed. I was 18.5 years old, going into heart failure. I can't even have children anymore. My mother threatened to unenroll me from SMU if I didn't try to improve. Eating disorders are so deadly, yet there is a heavy social stigma that tells us not to talk about them.
If you're reading this, know that you don't have to suffer in silence. Asking for help makes you stronger, not weak. For so long, I kept the mentality that I didn't deserve to get better. In my case, God was ultimately my saving grace. Through him, I understand I am worthy simply because I believe and he has made me in his image.
If you're reading this, please know that you are enough.
Anonymous, Southern Methodist University
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