Brooke: Free from Finding Value in Weight and Numbers

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a very self-conscious person. It’s possible it was caused by society, or maybe by my critical father (whom I still love unconditionally), or perhaps another cause I haven’t yet identified. My first events of negative self-perception had very little to do with weight or numbers. This changed, however, and by the time I reached the fifth grade, I had gone on my first silent diet and lost my first silent pounds.

After, I must have decided dieting wasn’t interesting or beneficial to me anymore because I gave up restricting my food intake in any way. No one seemed to notice. I was told I was thin before, during, and after my diet, and pride filled me as I took “skinny” as part of my identity.

Middle school was filled by on-and-off struggles with both depression and self-harm. I didn’t mention my troubles to anyone other than one close friend. By high school, my eating disorder had returned, striking full force. I began restricting and tracking my weight again.

While being accepted by others and thought of as “skinny” was important to me, soccer was also a priority. I decided I couldn’t continue both my disordered eating and soccer, so I tried my best to eat normally.

By sophomore year, I had changed my mind yet again. I kept achieving my weight-loss goals, but my eating disorder always pushed me to seek another target low. I was constantly paranoid and hyper-vigilant about my food consumption. Pretty soon, I had convinced myself everyone around me was trying to trick me into gaining weight by slipping extra calories into my drinks and food.

I hardly spent time with friends in order to avoid meals, snacks, and especially questions and comments surrounding my refusal to indulge. After a while, restricting forced me into reactive eating, yet I still tried to compensate for the added intake with over-exercise and more restriction.

At one point, I thought I wanted to die.

I wondered how long it would take for my body to finally give up. I knew if I wanted to turn things around, I would have to be honest with a supportive group of people, and I would have to stop rejecting God’s love and grace.

I went to my school guidance counselor for help, and was we could meet at a later date. Each time I went to his office, I was basically ignored and forgotten. Before giving up on asking for help, I confided in my youth pastor and pastor.

They encouraged me to tell my parents, which terrified me.

When I told my parents, my mother looked confused, while my father seemed very angry with me. Each was likely just as confused as the other, but handled and expressed their emotions differently.

Recovery from then on had little to do with my parents. My youth pastor and pastor became a second set of parents for me through the next six months. I leaned on them, and together we leaned on God. I relearned how God has new and everlasting love and forgiveness for me everyday. He knows every version, account, and view of my story, and he still runs after me. He isn’t disgusted by me, and never was. He knew I would be messy, and it still doesn’t change a thing for Him. It changes everything for me, though.

To me, full recovery is still a fuzzy concept, even 3 years after choosing recovery.

No matter what definition a person wants to assign to the term, I know the rest of my life will include progressive work on my self. I know eating and looking at myself in a mirror is not as hard as it was before recovery. I know I have weaknesses, just like anyone else. I know sometimes you have to take life one day at a time, and sometimes even 5 minutes at a time. I know I can use my struggles for a bigger, more beautiful purpose. I know I’m not defined or constrained by numbers of any kind.

I’m loved, valued, and cherished despite it all.