The first time I went to a modeling casting call, the owner of the agency told me I had the body of a runway model, that I could move to New York or L.A. and I was "blessed" with legs. His words were said with no harmful intent, but regardless they had fueled me. They fed this angst from within, the beginning of the end, an unapologetic request for change. It was everything I wanted to hear, my light in a dark tunnel - "see" the voice told me. "I told you it was working." This voice (my eating disorder) was, at the time, confused to be my inner critic and conscience. I thought it was innocent, I thought it was me.
And I couldn't have been more wrong.
I was about a year into harsh mentalities and food rules during this second photoshoot. I had just started a diet and had no plan of stopping. I never considered any of it to be unhealthy, let alone disordered. It was the epitome of a silent illness and I was living it well. It had come without warning, affected me without acknowledgment and disguised its dirty secrets. The more I gave it, the more of me it asked for. I didn't know where I was going, but I was certain about what I was doing. I was able to fulfill the requests and I knew exactly what was expected. Hard and fast rules - this consistency was what I craved.
With the demands of the disorder, I could do nothing at all and still feel productive. Working extremely hard, off very little, made me feel controlled and worthy. Having guidelines provided comfort, rules bringing order to a hectic life and routine calming a scattered mind. The tendencies I exhibited were a psychological response to the world I couldn't keep up with, a suffocating fear of uncertainty crept upon me.
Looking back, my obsession seemed to be a clearly designed distraction. It came at a time when my life was anything but stable, when I was asking more questions than there were answers for. Absorbing this lifestyle came when there was nothing else to grasp. I could do this for as long as I wanted - a promise that could be kept. Unfortunately, this truth would make recovery all the more hard - it felt like I was leaving the one thing that never left me.
It was hard to let go of my rules and live life in a completely different way, in a body I had rejected for so long, accepting a weight that told me I was not good enough. Seeing a new "me" and moving on from the perfectionistic, distorted image drilled into every inch of my mind.
The promise of certainty was how it all started, but that motive was quickly lost. It became jumbled in a sea of routines and restrictions. Pushed beneath the surface so deep that I forgot how it started, what I originally wanted, how sly it pretended to be, the initial goal of "just 5 pounds." This need for control reframed every opinion I had in life. I was physically different of course, but what I did not realize was that psychologically, my brain had been just as morphed as my body. It began to think differently, feel different, see different, convince myself of insecurities, assure my second guess tendencies and always promise me that I could keep going.
My life had become so insignificant - shrinking with every pound lost - that I had trouble finding the purpose of my existence. Wake up, try not to eat, do school, convince yourself to be productive, burn calories if you have enough energy, eat something small, convince yourself not to eat more, text someone so you don't feel alone, obsess about all the things you want that you can't have, cook for a long time, eat a little, do homework, feel irritated, walk, shower, take something to help you sleep, go to bed and try not to wake up hungry. Repeat. I knew I couldn't live like this much longer.
A hunger for certainty had clouded my hunger for anything. I didn't know what I wanted or where I was going or how to stop. It was a never-ending game, the same thing day after day with no hope of change. A cyclical environment listening to a mind I thought I owned. Under the wrong impressions, but too scared to question another way. I just wanted to be certain - about something.