Food, Denial, and Finding Your Way Back to Yourself
If you’re here reading this, let me tell you something straight up: you’re already miles ahead of where I was. Admitting you’ve got a problem with food? That’s monumental. Me? I spent years locked in a toxic romance with denial. It was my ride-or-die for three solid years of anorexia. No one could talk me out of it—not therapists, not my mom, not my own damn body screaming for help.
This wasn’t a “phase.” It was my entire life.
Denial: The Ultimate Shield
Funny thing is, I didn’t recover because of therapy. Quite the opposite. The more they pushed, the tighter I clung to my destructive habits—like I had something to prove.
“I’m still eating three meals a day,” I’d tell myself at 40 kg. “I’m not skipping food or throwing it up. I’m in control.” Yeah, right.
I was running on 1000-1200 calories a day, meticulously planned down to the last bite, convincing myself I was winning some imaginary competition. The less I ate, the more weight I lost, and let me tell you—I was hooked. Looking back, it wasn’t much different from a heroin addiction. Calories were my drug, my escape from a world that made no sense to me. Food was my coping mechanism, my rebellion, my alibi.
The Vicious Cycle
By the time I hit 45 kg, my mom was panicking. Me? I doubled down. I cut foods out, brought them back, and cut them out again in this endless, mind-numbing cycle. But in my head, I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Denial wasn’t just my shield—it was my fortress, and therapy was just another battle to avoid.
And then there were the physical side effects—the ones I ignored. At 16, I developed amenorrhea. No periods, no sexual urges, no emotions. I wasn’t living—I was existing. My world boiled down to calories, chasing the perfect body, and burying myself in schoolwork. Cool boyfriends? They were props. Didn’t even figure out I was gay until much later, and trust me, that revelation was a plot twist for the ages.
When the Mask Cracks
High school ended, and with it, the structure I’d built my disorder around. That’s when I swung the other way—straight into bulimia. That’s when I finally admitted something was seriously wrong.
It wasn’t until my seventh therapist—the last one—that I found a way out. He was the only one who didn’t push me to fit into a box. He encouraged me to move to a different country and pursue my dreams, and that choice saved me in more ways than one.
Why Therapy Failed Me (Until It Didn’t)
Here’s the thing: the real issue wasn’t food. It wasn’t even my parents. The problem was that I had no idea who I was. Therapy was so focused on family dynamics, but no one—except that last therapist—helped me figure out who I was outside of everyone else’s expectations.
That’s where the eating disorder started. Not at 16 when the symptoms showed up, but at 13 or 14, when I started trying to fit into molds that weren’t mine.
I was a creative, sensitive kid who loved climbing trees, building Legos, and wearing boys’ clothes. I had this wild imagination and a total disregard for societal expectations. But somewhere along the way, I morphed into something unrecognizable. The eating disorder followed, a symptom of trying to fit into a world that didn’t suit me.
Who Were You Before It All Got Complicated?
I’m not saying your story is exactly like mine. But I’m asking you to pause and think: Who were you before all this? Before the rules, the expectations, the masks? What did you love doing as a kid? What made you feel alive?
That matters more than you think. Because recovery isn’t just about food—it’s about rediscovering the real you buried under all the BS.
Become Who You Really Are
This journey isn’t about fitting into some societal idea of “normal.” It’s about breaking the rules, smashing the masks, and stepping into the badass, unapologetic version of yourself.
You’ve spent enough time living for other people. It’s time to live for you.
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