Hungry Hate

TW: This post contains mentions of eating disorders and sexual assault. Please use discretion before reading.

National Alliance for Eating Disorders Helpline: 866-662-1235
National Sexual Assault Hotline: 800-656-4673



I think we all kind of hate ourselves in our own special ways. And unfortunately, I think for most people (namely women), that hate starts early. 

It's subtle enough. Looking down at your thighs in the third grade as they stick to the metal bleachers or leathery seats on the school bus and you think, "I wish these were smaller." So you prop your toes up like you're wearing a pair of stilettos to lift your thighs an inch or two, to give the illusion that you're a skeleton with no skin or bones or muscles to hold you upright. 

My experience with an eating disorder is not unique. I suppose what may be unique is that I put off touching my eating disorder in therapy for the better part of a decade. My current therapist is an ED survivor herself, and works specifically with clients who deal with eating issues, so... no time like the present.

I explained in a session recently that the truth of having an eating disorder feels so difficult to admit because it feels like the purest form of self-hatred out there. And yet, as I stated, it's not unique. In fact, 9% of the U.S. population suffers from an eating disorder, and it's one of the most fatal mental illnesses out there.

Like many women who pursue pageantry, my disorder didn't start there, but it did thrive there. As much as I'd admit it to myself or not, the opinions of other people mattered (or rather, still matter). During my peak years in pageantry (2014-2018), a new movement of "body positivity" was ushered into the Miss America Organization. The only catch? Still be a size 4, honey, because you're not winning in a fat body. There's a very real internal conflict that I have as a recovering pageant gal, and that conflict lies at the five-way intersection of people-pleasing, diet culture, body positivity, "doing it for the 'gram" and desperately trying to give less fucks.

My therapist explained in the aforementioned session that eating disorders are sneaky, and work in really conniving ways to get our attention. It starts subtle, with a "oh, I'd just like to lose 5 pounds!" and before you know it, you're weighing food, telling yourself what foods are deemed "good" and "bad," and are obsessive-compulsive about your step count, pacing back and forth down your hallway at night to reach 10,000 steps. My eating disorder reared its head in 2015, where I subsequently lost 20 pounds by not eating. I was going through my first real god-awful breakup, I had a family member who was sick, my mom's best friend died, and my life was, to put it kindly, in fucking shambles. Instead of eating, I thought it best to go out every night (once, for a 14-day streak), and drown my sorrows in cheap liquor and basically any fraternity boy I could find. I'm not proud of it, and it certainly isn't my finest story. But, it's mine and it's one of survival. I am grateful to have had friends and family who finally told me they were worried about me. Because truthfully, I was also worried about me.

The following years were spent dealing with the repercussions of my sexual trauma from my past and, unfortunately, from the future. There was no time for the eating disorder, and I think a lot of other survivors may feel similarly. Other things happen in life that need attention first, and in some ways, the eating disorder feels like a friend. Survival became my first language. I eventually graduated college, kept competing in pageants, and when I lost because a panel of random strangers thought I wasn't good enough, I swung to the opposite end of the pendulum and screamed "fuck you" from the rooftops. I became Miss F*ck It and if you had an opinion of me, by golly I didn't care. Except... I did care. I still do. A lot less, sure. But I care.

I don't need to ask myself any longer how I got here, or how any of us get here, really. We get here because if our Instagrams aren't perfect, if we aren't deemed fuckable by Joe Shmo, then we're worth nothing. We get here by the relentless pursuit of demonizing women's bodies, like how if you're in a smaller body you're 'good' and if you're in a bigger body, you've failed. We get here by projecting our own fucked up beliefs of what bodies 'should' be onto other people, and feeling disappointed when they 'fail' us. We get here by food scales and macros and protein powders and intermittent fasting and keto and Atkins and sculpting and toning. We get here because we can't stomach, even for a moment, the thought of existing in all that we are.

It should be noted that women who develop eating disorders are also more likely to have a co-morbid mental health condition (hi, my name is Maggie and I have like, fourteen). My underlying OCD tendencies are really fun when my ED starts showing up, as you can imagine. Having an eating disorder is a lot like playing capture the flag only you're the one running for the flag, you're the one holding the flag, and the flag keeps moving back farther and farther, so you never reach it. You're the enemy and also the solution, but no one tells you that you have to throw away the goddamn flag.

I have a note on a whiteboard in my office that reads "I do not break the promises I make to myself." This used to be in reference to things like a morning routine, getting a workout in, or meditating. My promise now is to not be a fucking asshole to myself. 

I've gotten so damn hungry and so tired of the hatred that I think maybe it's a promise I'm willing to keep.