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This piece was originally submitted to The Dialouge Projects on June 29th 2016.
Although I have struggled with mental illness for a long time now, sharing my story and just generally talking about my struggle with mental illness has always been something I’ve been really ashamed of and a part of my life I have always wanted to hide. But now, I have finally found the courage to share my story.
Photo Credit: Dave Martyn
TRIGGER WARNING: the following material may be triggering for some individuals - please read with caution.
It was like walking into shadows for all those years, at first I fought it, wrestled with it, then let myself sink deeper down and gave into all those urges and destructions that ran through me. My entire life feels like one big waiting game. Waiting for death; waiting for life to begin; waiting for help; waiting for people to leave me alone; waiting to be saved.
TRIGGER WARNING: the following material may be triggering for some individuals - please read with caution.
Over the past four years I have been admitted to treatment six times, had my parents bail me out of jail four times, ruined countless relationships, and lost faith in myself. Not only have I been in a decade long battle with anorexia, I also developed an addiction to alcohol in my early twenties.
What We Gain
I have to admit, dear reader, that I have struggled and struggled and struggled with this post. There were so many important things to write: about body image, about recovery, about fighting the good fight against this insidious, downright abusive thing we call ED. And then this tiny voice, deep inside, whispered: write about what you gain, when you let go.
TRIGGER WARNING: the following material may be triggering for some individuals - please read with caution.
I want to talk about body image. It's something that affects everyone to some degree. Having said that, some of our brains have developed neural pathways that hone in on what others wouldn't even notice, such as a look or a comment made by someone else.
If we were all programmed with the same exact genes, experiences and interpretations, I suppose globalized beauty ideals would be adequate goals to reach if they represented all of us. But, do they? Well, what beauty ideals do represent and where they come from have numerous theories, which all seem to have a valid point to make.
Beauty depends on the angle from which it is explained. It involves attraction to posses, hold, value or admire attributes that are recognized in oneself or elsewhere, whether it is a landscape or a face.
So, what’s in a plan, anyway?
In short – the answer is NOTHING. But, it took me a while to realize and fully understand this.
I thought that my plans defined me, and when I deviated from them it automatically meant failure; as a person, in my beliefs, and every part of my being. My plans were what made me proud, made me feel like I was successful, and made me feel complete.
I was watching my doctor type when my heart dropped. Around her already slim wrist, just under the sleeve of her white lab coat, was a black Fitbit.
I felt physically sick.
I’ve seen my GP for a few months now and overall I really liked her. She listened to my needs, didn’t have the fake “concerned” face when I described my struggles, and laughed when I made stupid jokes. But seeing this Fitbit? I started to re-evaluate everything.
Photo taken by Maha Khan in Abu Dhabi.
TRIGGER WARNING: the following material may be triggering for some individuals - please read with caution.
I had a very strange childhood. I was born in Belarus and raised in the UK by my father’s mother, and learned many life lessons in very hard ways. I was raised by a grandmother who lived on benefits(British welfare) and enjoyed watching EastEnders (a British sitcom) all the time. She was an addict. My father eventually remarried and was absent from my life.
TRIGGER WARNING: the following material may be triggering for some individuals - please read with caution.
Unlike anorexia, which is characterized by discipline, restraint, self-sacrifice—traits that society upholds as virtuous—bulimia traffics in a consuming, corrosive sense of shame. After all, there is nothing respectable about gorging yourself past the point of physical discomfort. There is nothing dignified about jamming your fist in your mouth to induce vomiting. Habitually wrapping lies around your self-destructive behavior is far from honorable.
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