My name is Mia.
I am 15 years old and live in Boulder, CO. I am currently a sophomore and will have lived in the U.S. for three years.
There were many ties to my eating disorder; first of all, I was a very picky eater, which restricted my choices early on, specifically the school cafeteria food. I would not eat lunch at school, not out of restriction initially, but because I could not stand the taste or smell of a British school lunch. This began at the beginning of 2021 – however, I was not starving the entire day – I would have a robust breakfast and snacks throughout the day and before my gymnastics class. I would not restrict any sweets but rather indulge in them, which later ceased as I was consumed by my eating disorder.
July 2021
After our summer holiday in Los Angeles, my parents decided to conduct a spontaneous road trip across the U.S. We began from California, proceeding to visit Nevada and Utah, before finally arriving in Boulder, CO. My family quickly became enamored with the quaint city – it was the epitome of beauty against the Flatirons with the promise of the American high school experience. Soon, my parents and I were set on moving here. An obsession developed in moving to the States, as a plan to move here began falling into place.
Simultaneously, an unexplained anxiety was encroaching on my happiness with living in London. I felt suffocated by the monotony of my life, desperate to get out of the tiny world I lived in where my school, home, and gym all were within a mile radius of each other. Days seemed to take an eternity.
Thus, I was thrilled when the opportunity arose to join my dad in visiting the house we purchased in CO. But it ultimately proved to be detrimental, with America’s emphasis on nutritional labels and the paranoia that resumed even more pressing when I returned.
May-September 2021
My hamstrings and back were suffering from a seemingly irreversible injury. It was not until October that I realized that my flexibility could not be salvaged due to these persisting injuries. I had to quit gymnastics. My sport, to which I had committed over 4 years of 10 hours per week, had been wrenched from my hands. All my dearest friends, and most importantly my passion outside of academics had dissipated. I was inconsolable and coped with this loss by diverting my energy and concentration to exercising.
After school, I would go to my local gym and work out intensely with my dad. I was so glad to focus my efforts on it, I did not realize that I had not been fueling myself as I needed to. Combined with gradually worsening malnutrition, I began becoming more obsessed with exercising, especially certain functions that I did in gymnastics for conditioning such as crunches.
December 2021
At this point, my anxiety had reached an unbearable level. I would refuse to walk on cracks and I did so elevated on my toes. I complied with these irrational demands in paranoia. Our flight, with my siblings and mother, was delayed, excruciatingly elongating my compulsions. We arrived at our rental house in the crisp, biting air of Colorado in late December, as our permanent house was being remodeled.
Taking us to the mall in downtown Denver, my mom alerted us of a fire starting across the highway from our house. This ramped up my anxiety to another level – I distinctly remember eating half of a kid-sized portion and being unable to lower my heels around lines of the ground. In the parking lot, our aunt calls us to give us the worst thing we could have ever heard – our rental house burned down.
January 2022
I went into a spiral. We hurried to Los Angeles the day after the fire, where my family found comfort, but I only found myself digging into this health-obsessed hole of restricted eating. When we got back, countering my previous attitude and excitement about the move, all of a sudden, I despised Colorado. It was cold and I had lost all the objects I held most dear to me.
My parents had taken notice that I looked visibly much thinner on the way back from LA. We visited the doctor, and she said I needed to gain weight – stating I should not exercise. I had not been able to go to the gym for almost two weeks by that point, and I was scared of losing the fitness that I had worked on with my Dad before leaving London. In what I considered compensation for the lack of working out, I began doing certain compulsive exercises in secret. At the same time, I was increasing my resistance to food – having panic attacks, and fights with my dad, as I slowly struggled to fight this growing eating disorder.
My parents permitted me to do yoga. Ultimately, this was a privilege that had to be taken away from me, due to my inability to resist my compulsions. Thankfully, the social side of my life never strongly intertwined with this occurring. I had formed some friends – principally the first people who let me sit with them, but never strong bonds. We had nothing in common, now that I reflect on it. When I went to the Eating Recovery Center, no one at my new school remembered me leaving – only acknowledging when I returned as though it was my first day there. I was super fortunate in that regard.
February 2022
Anytime I could, I would give in to my compulsions. Even in class, nothing restrained me from clenching and unclenching my whole body, which I perceived as some sort of loophole to the no-exercise rule. I began talking with an eating disorder therapist, who I love and still talk to today; she recommended that I go to the Eating Recovery Center.
At this point, my parents and I decided I should stop attending school, as my attention span had been severely reduced, and by staying home, I would receive the extra supervision that I so desperately needed. Still, when my thirteenth birthday came around, little progress had been achieved. I stayed the night with my aunt, and for some reason, everything went downhill from there. Barely a week later, I found out I was going to the center. I was completely devastated.
Checking in
Checking into the hospital was the worst and best thing to ever happen to me. I had been away from my parents for multiple weeks at a time during the summer holidays. However, that had been with my grandparents. In the final days before I arrived at the center, I had developed an impenetrable attachment to my parents, as I so intensely feared being alone. I feared myself. If left alone, I would panic, knowing what to do with the freedom – my eating disorder dictating the cruelest of endless compulsions to punish my lack of energy. I could not physically or mentally bear it anymore.
On the way to the center, an eerie sense of calm had taken over, as I listened to the recently released Red (Taylor’s Version). This moment was soon shattered. Seeing my parents leave broke me – I was resolute to see them as soon as I could. It would be a few weeks before we were able to visit in person as pandemic restrictions were still in place.
My new life
My first meal at the ERC went fairly well. Though it was the largest portion I had been able to complete in a considerable time, I was unable to finish. The counselors brought the Boost out, and instinctively my suspicions arose. Some of the people at my table did not complete their meals and had a larger cup than me, inciting a level of competition. This persisted, and my mindset to get better was soon overshadowed by the prominent trait, also demonstrated in gymnastics and academics.
I had no roommates. Earlier, I had advocated for this situation, but I would soon regret it. I had no one to keep me accountable for my behaviors, except occasional therapists passing my room. Two days into my stay, nurses had to draw some of my blood, as my blood sugar had been too low. I was scared, but at the same time, I enjoyed sipping the orange and apple juice. That next Monday I was aware that I had not been eating any meals throughout the weekend, yet I still had little Boost. Something was off.
I talked with my psychiatrist and we had a frank discussion; if I did not attempt another meal, I would be getting a feeding tube. I had a weak resolve to complete it. On that day, the rest of my cohort and I were supposed to be seated with the rest of the group, finally integrating into the larger meal group. However, a couple of days later, I was no longer able to sit with them, but rather with those who struggled greatly with eating. This discouraged me immensely. Upon seeing that my meal arrangement persisted in solitary, I lost all hope and did not complete, let alone attempt.
Breaking point
The gravity of my psychiatrist’s warning had not fully been realized. During independent time, a nurse took me to the primary health room where we get our blood drawn. I saw another nurse. Bawling, I screamed that I couldn’t and wouldn’t get a feeding tube. They tried to calm me, but it was not in a comforting, sympathetic way, but rather a cold way, given they had to see this production occur frequently.
They told me that if I did not cooperate they were going to have to get someone to hold me down. I paused. Looking inward, I was stupefied that my eating disorder had amounted to this extreme level. I could not be relied on to save myself. I was so physically and mentally incapacitated due to my malnutrition. When I felt the tube go through my right nose, I became resolute. I was not going to rely solely on this mechanism for my recovery. I wanted to recover for me. To become myself again.
February-April 2022
The next few days I put my best effort forward to complete most to all my meals. I wanted so desperately to be with my comrades from my cohort and be surrounded by people. The succeeding meeting with my recovery team I was desperate to get this tube out – I insisted that I could eat on my own. My dietician emphasized the benefits of using this tool – that it allowed me some grace when building back my nutrition, and that my efforts had not gone unnoticed.
I was beyond pissed due to the obscurity of her words. At that point, I was unable to agree with her, something I can do now. Diverting my attention, I recalled that my therapist had given me a star chart of the phases – this became an immense help. Always a goal-oriented person, I was more than happy to be incentivized for my efforts.
I passed from phase 1 to phase 3, working on my mental side, by participating in group sessions and finishing all my meals and snacks. From being the most delayed in recovery, out of my cohort, I became the first to reach stage 4. My feeding tube was finally taken out. I had made friends with the majority of my fellow patients, taking on the role of a leader in a recovery mindset. In my mind, I wanted to emulate the older girls who had helped me when I was struggling.
Ultimately, around a week after I got my feeding tube out, I walked out of the residential center for the last time. My parents brought me to our newly renovated home (unaffected by the Marshall Fires) in Louisville. After many months, I was reunited with my cat. And sleeping in a bed that was my own.
April-May 2022
PHP had not gone smoothly. I was allowed more time with my parents, in regulated exposures that had grown cumulatively. Eager to have a furry friend for the family, my dad brought my sister and me to Fort Collins to pick out the best of a litter. The day I picked out my puppy – despite the joyous occasion was plagued by how I saw myself. My face had been the roundest I had ever seen, an unwelcome sight making me utterly perplexed and devastated.
The alienation of my image had completely overshadowed the excitement of the day. I relayed to my parents my feelings that had stemmed from the draining hours of partial hospitalization. Too much time to dwell on the reality of treatment. I was pulled out much to my relief to turn my attention to my new life. At school, I had not been a significant figure and I tried to keep it that way. I navigated the last few weeks of school, sitting with some of my friends, who inquired briefly about my disappearance but were never interrogated.
May-August 2022
Throughout the summer, I constantly combatted thoughts about my appearance. I was reassured by my parents that the fat in visually high volume around my face and my central organs had gone there in response to my body’s fear of starvation and that it would eventually settle. Gradually, I slowly took less interest in my face, becoming more focused on making new life experiences that I had missed out on. I made middle school friends, learned to love the sport of lacrosse, and tried new sports and foods.
Along this journey, in the first few months after the ERC, there were many other potential triggers – how my family talked about food, comparing portion sizes to my siblings, and, of course, social media. In this time, I am beyond thankful for having my outpatient therapist, who I was able to voice my concerns about these sore points and who helped me talk through them. She helped me stay grounded, as well as adopt coping skills. No recovery is linear – and there were many moments in different stages that could have set me back.
Today
Now that I am in high school, I am so grateful for having gone through recovery – and sticking with it. Despite the severe lows, I am so appreciative of having fully committed myself to healing. If I had pulled out of recovery, it is hard to imagine the potential consequences.
I think it’s important to remember for people to avoid comparisons between stories as they are all unique and different according to each person. I hope that by writing this, I can alleviate some of the stigmatization of getting help that is prevalent in today’s society. If you are reading this and currently struggling with an eating disorder, know that you are not alone – recovery is worth it – here are some resources if you or your loved one has an eating disorder: https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/
-Written by Mia Perry
