Regarding her own disordered eating, Fiona Apple said it best when she sang “Hunger hurts, but starving works” in her song “Paper Bag.” She illustrates what many of us do when dwelling in the confines of our own minds too long, experiencing trauma, undergoing constant changes, and unable to keep up, or are pressured to mythically turn your coal of a body into a diamond. Whether it’s achieving a desirable figure through unspeakable means or giving in to the relentless comments on your body, disordered eating is a haunting specter, significantly impacting those with a mental illness.
Before I was diagnosed with bipolar II in the spring of 2022, I had severe bouts of disordered eating and extreme dieting. I was just starting college and finding it hard to adjust to a new environment, not knowing how to make friends, and being too socially insecure to join clubs. This fueled my depressive episodes which sparked my voluntary starvation. Having my weight fluctuate so rapidly during this time elicited fear of my own body. The fluctuation coincided with my own mood swings so whenever I found myself in a depressed state of mind, I would restrict my own eating. Even when I would flip to a more hypomanic state, my eating would still be limited. First, it was skipping breakfast. Then, it extended to lunch. I skipped two of the three meals and soon, I was having half-dinners and relying on water to keep me going. Moreover, headaches were a new constant for me. None of this was healthy in the slightest and it showed. My rings and bracelets were getting looser, my jeans were too big now. My doctor commented on it. My parents pitifully called me “flacita” (skinny in Spanish), a nickname often to be conveyed in jest but can still hurt nonetheless. Hunger hollowed my body.
I didn’t want to look in a mirror and scrutinize myself. I didn’t want to see this abhorrent aberration before me. I didn’t want to continue fighting this dysmorphic side of me that wouldn’t let me rest. Everything revolved around my body. I had family members constantly making comments. I was too skinny one day and the next, I was on my way to being overweight. This warped image of myself fractured my self-esteem and worsened my undiagnosed mood disorder. Every aspect of my body was on frightening display which would send me into a frenzied panic. Looking at myself and pointing out every flaw in my figure certainly didn’t help either. What resulted was less effort in my appearance, baggier clothes not for fashion purposes but to hide how disgusting I thought my body was, and an avid avoidance of mirrors. I couldn’t even glance at myself without wincing at what I saw. To quote Frankenstein’s creature, “At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was, in reality, the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.”
After starting therapy and getting diagnosed, I was on track to eating again. My therapist was willing to let me explore this side of me that I was ashamed of and her encouragement really helped in this deep exploration of my relationship with my body. She made sure I would set reminders to eat at a specific time. She told me to start my meals off small before working my way up to a regular full meal for my body to adjust to gradually. For a time, this worked. In general, therapy was my gateway into analyzing my disordered eating deeply. Much of it had to do with childhood trauma, past abuse, and, of course, my mood swings. In a depressed state, I couldn’t eat. When I was in a hypomanic state, I was still eating irregularly. It became clear to me that I was genuinely harming myself. Starving yourself is a form of self-harm. You’re punishing yourself by not getting sustenance. You purposely succumb to sickness because you think you deserve it. My therapist and I worked to have urgent reminders to eat to combat the thoughts. The reminders were a gradual adjustment and they didn’t immediately work. Like most things, it was a matter of change and as a not-so-proud hater of change, I needed time but soon enough, I was willing to make the adjustment little by little.
When I started medication, a sudden fear arose of my weight fluctuating again. I was quickly reassured that gaining weight might potentially occur but that it doesn’t happen for everyone. Starting medication helped to ease my irregular eating. It would remind me to eat around the time I would take my meds. In their own little way, my meds became the perfect reminder. Taking my meds in the morning signaled me to eat breakfast instead of brushing it off as I had previously done. Medication may not be the end-all-be-all for those of us with a mood disorder or solve every minute problem plaguing us but it certainly tapped into my disordered eating and helped regulate my sustenance intake again. And yes, I did slowly gain a little weight but I was eating fine again and was actually getting help for my bipolar disorder in the process.
Associating meal times with an activity was what made me eat regularly again. It can be after a regular routine like exercising or practicing or, like for me, taking medication. Whatever that activity may be for you, it can serve as a reminder to eat. Eventually, my brain would adjust to me and urge me to eat when I took my medicine or did my morning exercise.
Gaining weight has been no easy change either. At times, I was back to my routine avoidance of mirrors and not perceiving my body. I would cry when my favorite jeans were getting too tight. I hated any article of clothing that showed off my body even a little. Crop tops were completely out of the question. But, in all of this, it’s still my body.
Your body is your body. It is neither a positive nor a negative figure. It does what it’s supposed to do. It hurts when it doesn’t look how you want it to look but for me, it doesn’t fail me. It only motivates me to keep going. To keep eating. To keep keeping myself alive.
