Pearls of wisdom from the abyss

7 little lessons learned a decade on from a life-altering hospitalization

CW: ED

Ten years ago this week, I was hospitalized at what was the lowest point of my eating disorder. It was neither my first nor my last rodeo, but the most memorable and perhaps the most transformative in ways that have left me both healed and scarred.

I’ve struggled over the years with what and how much to share regarding my experience with this illness, and my desire to help others is constantly at odds with my fierce preference for privacy. Ultimately, my frustration with the cultural discourse surrounding EDs—and the shame that still clouds each affected person’s experience with them—encourages me to continue offering my perspective.

A decade after what were the most difficult three months of my life, here are some little things that I’ve learned, for whatever they’re worth.

“The Marquise de Seignelay and Two of her Sons” by Pierre Mignard, 1691

1. Hardly a revolutionary idea, but, keep a journal, including (and especially) the funny shit. It can be tedious, but as time marches on, it reminds me how much I’ve grown (even when it doesn’t feel like it), and my lord, I have some great material should Netflix come calling (including a dramatic scene being caught smuggling instant coffee packets into the joint in my bra while on a caffeine ban…now go to #2).

2. The little things really are the big things: I’ve learned to appreciate the mundanity of everyday rituals—getting a coffee, fresh air, going for a walk, etc.—because there was a time they were taken away and I realized just how much joy they bring to me.

3. Never underestimate the power and the beauty of a gesture: I will always remember the people who have showed up for me when it was probably easier not to. A quick text or a handwritten note go a long way, and sometimes saying the wrong thing is better than saying nothing. I’ve saved all of them (I’m an archivist of sentiment, you see).

4. I still struggle with this one, but: I try to remember that someday we’re all gonna die (sorry) and no one is gonna give a fuck how much we weighed. I don’t care if that’s cheesy—I don’t want that to be my legacy, if you can even call it that, and I realize that being consumed by such an obsession (although in the context of most EDs it’s merely a symptom) undermines my potential to do meaningful and impactful things in life.

5. Recovery (from anything) cannot exist in a vacuum. But having, somehow, survived this illness and its isolating nature over a 20+ year period, I’ve met vast resilience and know that the human capability to do things alone is pretty much limitless.

6. The specifics–the weights, the calories, the frequency of behaviors, the number of times in treatment (if any)–are largely irrelevant to the depths of one’s struggle and what constitutes as being worthy of care. What is important, though, is the discrepancy between how dire of a position I was in, and how it might have presented to the outside world at the time–and how painfully common of an experience this is for people with EDs. Contrary to popular belief, EDs do not have a look.

7. And lastly, I’ve learned that the best and funniest people are those who have seen some darkness. And under such circumstances, levity is absolutely essential. (This is also why I adore British people, but that’s a conversation for another day.)

   If you or someone you know struggles with an eating disorder, please visit The Chain’s vetted list of organizations that offer resources and support, including the Alliance for Eating Disorders and the Crisis Text Line.