The first time I made myself throw up, I was 12 years old. I remember kneeling on the cold, ceramic tile floor in my middle school bathroom during lunch, hoping no one would open the door. How I could feel the weight of the world on my shoulders at that age is something I still grapple with today as I piece together the parts of my past I don’t enjoy reflecting on. I was far too young to have felt so insecure, pressured to grow seamlessly into my body during a turbulent adolescence. Even more chilling to me is the realization that I first began referring to myself as fat much earlier – I recently traced my thoughts back to a diary I kept in 2004, when I was only nine years old.
For years, the sincere concerns of my friends and teachers seemed only to encourage my irrational and unhealthy weight loss goals. The phrase “I think you’re getting too thin” echoed in my deluded mind as a compliment rather than a warning. I also relished in knowing that I was not alone; growing up, several of my friends confessed their own eating problems to me. I felt connected to these beautiful, intelligent, athletic, funny and happy women (even a few men) who struggled with similar conflicts as they examined their bodies in the mirror. I hope today that they are alright.
Fortunately, I woke up one morning horrified that I could trace my rib bones with my fingers. Though I struggled for years with disordered eating and purging, I sought professional help and support instead of pushing it away. For many others with disordered eating behaviors, it takes more dire circumstances and drastic measures to convince them to regain control of their bodies and minds. Change came slowly as I began to like myself and became more wary of internalizing often accurate assessments of my personality (I have formerly been described by some as as “pushy” “intense” and “not funny at all”). It was then that I stopped considering my appearance as a barometer of my self-worth. Nothing in my life was more liberating.
I am writing not to call attention to my own problems, though by choosing not to run my story anonymously I have (scarily) claimed ownership ofmy personal life in a highly public way. I write instead because I share a struggle that I am convinced is not unique to me — a struggle to be respected, to be a leader, to be successful and to, at the same time, own my psychological short fallings as a part of my past, present and future. As a woman in a position of relative authority, I find this particularly difficult. Experience has taught me that the world is unkind to perceived weaknesses, especially in a gender already perceived by the woefully ignorant as inherently weaker. I counter that women are strong. We face mental illness, ridiculous societal expectations, sexual assaults, biases and stereotypes, and still we overcome.
In an uncharacteristically forward way, I write to end the stigma that I and more than 50 million Americans should hide our battles for fear of being thought less of, deemed incompetent to lead or unworthy of employment. Rather than fear being “found out” by friends and colleagues who otherwise see me in a positive light, I feel great strength in my academic, professional and social successes in spite of fighting a mentality that tries to hold me back. I was born with it, the same way I was born with brown hair, olive skin and crappy eyesight, and I choose not to feel ashamed of it. The belief that 50 million of us must perpetuate the illusion of never struggling only increases our collective embarrassment when we admit to ourselves, behind closed doors, that we do struggle and sometimes require help to achieve balance.
I hope to one day live in a world where no parent tells their child that mental illnesses are “all in your head,” or where people are afraid of talking openly or writing about their past in fear that a Google search of their name will subject them to a world of criticism from friends, family members and human resource departments. In that world I see my fellow Fordham students, who may currently feel burdened with their mental illnesses, walking with their heads held because that they are unhinged, capable and in solidarity with each other and myself.
