Living at NYU as a recovering anorexic

I passed out cold at my high school graduation. Not when I was walking the stage, or anything dramatic like that, but when I briefly left the lineup to go to the bathroom, knowing I was going to faint, like I had so many times in the year prior. Thankfully, a kind person shook me awake and I made it back in time to receive my diploma, a fake smile plastered on my face. That night, I went out for dinner with my family. I ordered tuna at a steak house—steak is my favorite food of all time—barely ate any of it, and wondered why I wanted to cry so badly. Then I went home and ran until I collapsed.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was dying of anorexia. You may wonder how I could have been so incredibly oblivious to not know there was something seriously wrong with what I just described. I wonder, too, but I will do my best to explain.

July 2013 – April 2015

Eating disorders are notoriously insidious. Mine snuck up on me in ways that are entirely accepted by society. I told everyone I was on a “health kick.” I started replacing my beloved cupcakes with fruit smoothies, sandwiches with salads, and overall fixating on “eating clean.” (For the record, I still don’t know what that means, or why one way of eating is “clean” while another is “dirty” or “bad”). I began running daily. Soon, this habit became a full-blown, terrifying obsession.

I would stand over my mom as she cooked, demanding to know how many calories were in the rice she chose, cutting my food into smaller and smaller pieces, then running 15 miles. I would cancel any and all social engagements that had anything to do with food. My grades suffered. I was cold constantly, I lost a lot of hair, and I cried more times a day than I could count.

I’m sure it’s easy to sit back and wonder how I let it get so bad. To this, my best answer is that I could have never done it alone. Look around. If you go to NYU—and even if you don’t—I promise you know at least one person whose life is being ruined by an eating disorder. Sure, they aren’t always the emaciated woman in five jackets on the street, knocking on death’s door, but they are sick. And they have become sick in part because of a complicit societal agreement that says we—women and men—are somehow better in every way when we are more in control of what we eat and how often we masochistically work out.

If Madison Avenue had its way, the streets would be lined with women, eyes glazed over from hunger, desperately seeking the next thing they can buy to alleviate the emptiness they feel inside. Our culture takes beneficial things, like eating fresh food and getting physical activity, and morphs them into some kind of rule book on how to be a Healthy Person, a Happy Person, a Good Person. Instead of these habits adding to your life and making it better, they can transform into absolute monsters that dominate it, to the point where you really don’t have a life at all.

By the summer of 2013, my amazing parents sent me—screaming and crying—to treatment. I took a year off before college to get better and have never looked back since. It hasn’t always been easy, but it’s beyond worth it. I have a life filled with happiness and love and wonderful food, whenever I want it, without any trace of apology.

Photo by Anthony Tran

I am thankful to countless individuals that I survived this battle. Most of all, I have learned to be thankful to myself for never completely losing sight of what my life has the potential to become. Disordered eating or not, living in New York City can easily make you feel like you’ll never measure up to some elusive, unattainable level of beauty, intelligence, or wealth. I am here to tell you that you never will. It is utterly pointless to try. What you can do—right here, right now—is take a step back and be grateful for your authentic, absolutely perfect self.

I will be writing a weekly response column and you can email any questions you may have to [email protected] or text via (917) 391 0632 and I’ll do my best to give advice on anything from food to dating to fashion.