When Determination Becomes Destructive.
It's been 10 years.
10 years of revolving arguments in my head about food rules. Of the voice telling me what, when, where, and sometimes even with whom I can eat. It's been 10 years of spending over half my day arguing with myself about the things I consume. 10 years of obsessing over calories in and calories out. Over exercise and "self-discipline." These past 10 years have taught me many things. One of them is the power of self-talk, both positive and negative, and how it can change the trajectory of your life.
Starting out on my journey, I saw nothing but positive things. I had encouragement flowing through my mind, determination during my workouts, and a goal I was striving for. Somewhere along the way, though, my positive became destructive. The determination went from reminding myself I could do something hard to telling myself I didn't have enough determination because I ate that one thing. My goal shifted from something specific to simply "just be smaller."
But when I think about how I got here, I realize the story didn't actually start 10 years ago. It started long before that. "No one wants a fat wife." Of all the comments I've heard throughout my life, that one has hit the hardest and continues to linger. Being made to feel like, because of my size, I wasn't deserving of having a person. That somehow being smaller would make me more attractive, more desirable, and more worthy of being loved.
Then there were the endless comments throughout childhood that contradicted nearly every food choice I made.
"You shouldn't eat that."
"Are you sure you're not hungry?"
The "let's try another diet for you" followed by "let's go out to eat."
I grew up in an environment where diet culture was encouraged and celebrated. I cannot remember a time in my childhood when a diet wasn't being chased or planned. I was bullied by people at school and even some adults around me. I was called names and made to feel less than. I would be picked on for eating, even when it was the exact same thing or amount someone else was eating.
Somehow, I was still the one doing it wrong.
After deciding I was going to lose weight, the praise came fast and hard. I was complimented and praised for all the lifestyle changes I made. What I ate, what I drank, what I weighed. I was praised for my dedication and hard work. No one said anything negative when I was working out for four or five hours a day. Instead, they were telling me how much of an inspiration I was. Everyone thought I had such strong self-control. What they didn't realize was that I felt like I had almost none. People complimented me for the very behaviors I was struggling with. After not seeing someone for a long time, conversations would begin with how much weight I'd lost or what I was eating. The discussions continued, and the struggles grew.
When everyone around you is giving you compliments and encouragement to continue, how do you recognize that the very thing they're celebrating is what's hurting you?
My enjoyment of exercise never left once I started, although my motivation has always ebbed and flowed. I've based the amount of food I'm allowed to eat on the calories I've burned. I've talked down to myself for missing workouts. I've had thoughts of unworthiness simply because I didn't make it to the gym. Working out is still fun. I still enjoy it. But the mental load that comes with it puts so much pressure on something that was supposed to be good for me. Especially when I have so little time for it these days. I set calorie goals and based my everyday actions around those numbers.
The shame and guilt surrounding food started slowly, but eventually they built a house. The floorboards of my worthiness were constructed from the belief that less and smaller were better. The walls around food and my body became higher and more permanent with every new rule.
If I didn't follow those rules, ate more than I allowed myself, ate before my designated time, or let too many people see me eating, the destructive and self-deprecating thoughts came faster. And somewhere inside that house lived the creature I had spent years feeding.
I believed that being smaller would make my life better.
And the complicated part is that I experienced firsthand how differently society and people treat you when you're in a smaller body. They acknowledge you. They choose you for teams or activities. They hold the door for you and greet you. You're no longer this invisible thing that people pretend they cannot see.
I watched Brittany Runs a Marathon and started thinking about how Brittany was treated by those around her. While Brittany decided she wanted to change her life, the relationships with the people around her began to shift. Thinking about this hits me on such a deep level. The movie isn't just about weight loss. It's about determination, relationships, making changes, and finding yourself. But it also made me think about the line between doing something because you want to improve your life and doing something because you believe changing yourself will finally make you worthy of the life you want.
At what point does determination become destructive? When does discipline stop being something that helps you and start becoming something that controls you?
I read books and listen to people who have recovered talk about their eating disorder journeys. I can quickly tell myself I'm not like them because "I don't have an eating disorder." The reality is, I do.
And the reality is that it impacts nearly every facet of my life. It seeps into my marriage, parenting, and friendships. It causes tension and heartache within all of those spaces.
The creature has taken dinners with friends and family, the impromptu stop for ice cream. It has taken the enjoyment of holiday treats, birthday celebrations, and trying fun new things. It has taken the ability to simply eat with friends rather than sit and panic about the calories on the menu. It has taken time and energy that could have been spent enjoying the people and experiences around me.
Recovery looks different for each person with an eating disorder.
While I consider myself in recovery, I know there are still parts of my life where the eating disorder has more control than I'd like to admit. There continue to be days when my main goal is to eat as little as possible. Days when I try to eat clean and avoid anything I've labeled as "bad." There continue to be days when I have strict food rules and feel the need to track everything I consume. But there are also days when I enjoy a cheeseburger and fries. Days when I don't count my cookies, my grapes, or my Cheez-Its. Days when I can eat something simply because I want it, without having to negotiate with myself first. For me, recovery has been about learning to find balance. Not balance between the days I restrict and the days I don't, but learning how to have a healthier relationship with food without constantly swinging between extremes.
It's learning that food doesn't have to be earned, that eating something I enjoy doesn't mean I've failed, and that missing a workout doesn't determine my worth. And maybe one of the hardest parts has been learning to forgive myself. Forgiving myself when the difficult days come. When the old thoughts creep back in. When I find myself following rules I know I don't want to live by anymore.
I'm learning that those days don't erase the progress I've made. That I can acknowledge I'm struggling without turning that struggle into another reason to be hard on myself.
If I could go back to the person I was in 2016, I would tell her that determination doesn't have to mean extreme. I would tell her that the behaviors encouraged and celebrated by the Instagram weight-loss world aren't necessarily healthy just because someone claims they are. I would tell her that being strict and following all the rules can eventually cost you people, experiences, and parts of yourself. I would tell her about the hospital stay because of rhabdo. About the times people questioned what I was doing and the looks of concern or shame on their faces. But I would also tell her about the parts of the journey that felt good. About feeling more capable, experiencing changes she had wanted for so long, and finding pieces of herself she hadn't known were there.
And I think that's what makes all of this so complicated. I can recognize that some changes felt good while also recognizing that some of the things I did to get there caused harm. I can appreciate the brighter moments without pretending the darker ones were necessary. I would tell her that food isn't supposed to take up this much space in her head. That missing a workout doesn't determine her worth. That determination doesn't have to be punishment.
And that being smaller was never supposed to be the price of being loved.
It's been 10 years.
10 years of learning, unlearning, and trying to quiet a voice that has become far too familiar. For so long, I thought determination meant pushing myself harder. Following the rules. Doing more. Being smaller.
Maybe now determination looks a little more like knowing when to be gentle with myself.
For 10 years, I've lived with this creature inside my head.
I'm still learning how to stop letting it make the rules.
And maybe, for now, that's where I am.
Still learning. Still working through it. Still figuring out how to take up space in my own life without feeling like I have to earn it.
