ARFID – Let's Queer Things Up!

When we entered into this world, I can’t imagine that we feared becoming more. Back then, the moon was full and the world was fuller; the majesty of being small was only in relation to everything that was still unknown.

We had not yet been told to fear hunger. We knew hunger in the way we know our names — you always answer to it.

Body, this is my olive branch to you.

I was 27 years old when “anorexia nervosa” appeared on my medical chart. In a quiet moment, staring at a flickering screen, I listened to my breath empty out of my body, a mix of relief and petrification.

Someone named what I could not: I was hungry.

The kind of hunger that moves in like an eclipse, enveloping your whole world in empty shadows. The kind of hunger you invite because staying small, in a cocoon or a corset of your own painful design, feels safer than stepping into the fullness of your life.

Your stubbornness and mine, colliding day after day. I ask you to die; you demand to live. I ask you to diminish yourself; you hold the line. I ask you to hide; you remain tangible. I am angry at every headache, every dizzy spell, every time I nearly fell down on the train. I am angry that you keep me tethered here.

I mistook your refusal to allow me to starve as a weakness, but I’m breathless now, looking back at all the ways you would not back down from survival. All the times you revolted, sounding every alarm, as if by sheer force of will we might find the urge again to live.

Body, I am in awe of you.

You are daring and spectacular. You’ve shrieked in defiance of every label you couldn’t hold. You held the truth of “boy” before I could feel it for myself. You were uncompromising in the truth of what you carried, chest open on an operating table, with a river of bright red blood exposed by two perfect incisions.

The truth of the body, you whispered, runs deeper than the mind. When I woke up, shrouded in the fog of anesthesia, I felt us move closer — like two pieces of a puzzle, surrendering to each other — and I was not afraid. The shape was new and the picture was clearer.

The bottom of the glass, the bowl, the bottle was not enough to dissuade you from being. When I hid, you followed; when I silenced you, you boomed and bellowed like thunder. I am still here, you sighed. You would not disappear. You would not dim.

Body, you are a vision.

When I began to eat again, I could feel you coming back to life. The noise was ecstatic and overwhelming. Sometimes I raged with so much hunger, it scared me. It was the first time I knew myself as an animal first, above all else.

Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten that you needed me, that I needed you, that we were bound to each other. You were so patient still. You promised me a home when I had nowhere else to go. You promised me a vessel for the adventure of a lifetime. You were the light that drew me back, like a moth continually pulled from the darkness again, and again, and again.

Sitting in the dark with me, you waited. A lighthouse on the cove, a flare popping open in the sky, a smoke signal spiraling — every pang of hunger, every shaky hand, every heart palpitation and terror a subtlety that said, “More than this, Sam, we need more.”

Body, your courage stuns me.

I realized I was truly starving when I couldn’t shake the tunnel vision. Had the walls around us been any smaller, it might have become a casket. Back then, the world was a single dimension, an endless stream of self-imposed calculations. They were abstractions I used to comfort myself, to convince myself that I’d done good.

I will be exactly enough, I told you.

For the boys who couldn’t love me, the parents who couldn’t understand me, the world that couldn’t see me. I will make myself so small and inconsequential, I’ll be as harmless as the fly that sits on the windowsill. I will be the closest thing I can to being nothing, because to be nothing means that I will never take up more space than I deserved, more love than I’d earned.

But you refused. You kept the lights on. I shattered every lantern; you reassembled the pieces.

And stubbornly, you survived, so that I might one day understand that worthiness is not awarded like a ribbon at the spelling bee.

There is space here. There is love here. And both are the gifts of being.

Body, teach me.

I am learning to love you back. I pause to feel the spaciousness between each breath.

“Marvel at this,” you remind me, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Let me show you.” One bite at a time, you restore me. The warmth returns to my belly. The sweetness to my laugh. The glow to my cheeks.

I will not pretend that I’m not afraid. There are days when I will be withholding. Being alive is a tremendous responsibility, and every so often, it scares the hell out of me.

To be a breathing, feeling, trembling animal is something none of us are prepared for. We enter this world screeching and gasping and blue, and spend a lifetime learning to breathe our way through it.

But I will not abandon you. I will come back, again and again, as many times as it takes to live.

That is what I can promise you.

I’ve teased apart the taste of honey when drinking my tea. I’ve let raspberries slowly dissolve on my tongue; I’ve savored every bite of a sponge cake flavored with cardamom and pistachio, so decadent you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

I’ve learned to cherish the warmth of someone’s chest against mine, the ephemeral magic of a song so loud it reverberates inside me, and the ripeness of a pea-pod from a stranger’s spring garden, sliced open between my teeth.

When you speak to me, the cadence has become familiar — I need, I want, I am, we are. Together, we move with clumsy but purposeful choreography.

And I know now to hold the gratitude for where you’ve carried me. I know that you are not an anchor, but rather, an altar. You house everything that is sacred in me.

Body, you are a blessing.

This blog post was sponsored by Eating Recovery Center in honor of this year’s Eating Recovery Day on May 7th! The theme, #MyRecoveryLetter, is an open invitation to reflect gratefully on what has helped us in recovery. I invite every one of you to share your own letters to whomever or whatever has helped you in your journey!

Struggling with food? Body stuff? Or just need someone to talk to? The National Eating Disorder Association (NEDA) is a wonderful place to start. They’ve been an incredible resource for me — and I hope they’ll be for you as well!

This blog is not sponsored by any fancy pants investors that are trying to sell you stuff.

It’s funded by readers like you via Patreon!

Photo by Chris Jarvis on Unsplash.

I don’t usually write about my mental health when things are “fresh.”

Not in the last couple years, anyway. I prefer to let things marinate, and to make sure that the words I choose are empowering, uplifting, and most importantly, resolved.

I prefer to give advice when I’m on the other side of something — largely because I know I have a responsibility to my readers, to make sure I’m nudging them in the right direction. I know this blog can be a lifeline for folks who need something hopeful. I try to remember that.

But sometimes, when I perfectly package that hope for an audience, I can delude myself into thinking that I’ve cracked the code and, therefore, can tidily leave a struggle in the past. The perfect conclusion to the chapter, as it were.

“I know better now,” I think to myself. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

If you were to Google “transgender body positivity,” I’m fairly sure more than a few things I’ve written will come up. I’ve been interviewed for podcasts and articles, and hoisted up as an example of a trans person who — in a simple shift in perspective and following the right insta accounts — came to redefine his relationship to food and to his body.

Three articles that appeared in a Google search for "transgender body positivity," all written by Sam. — *I wrote **all three of these**.* Delightful.

That version of events is one that I love, because it’s so simple and comforting. One shiny, bright epiphany, and I emerge victorious, having evolved beyond any worldly, frivolous concerns about my stretch marks or eating ice cream for breakfast.

“Fuck you, diet culture!” I jubilantly exclaim. “I know better now. I’ve learned my lesson.“

When you are a mental health advocate and writer, especially in such a public way, it’s easy to trick yourself into thinking that you have all the answers to your own problems. But that illusion of control and self-awareness is exactly that — an illusion, and a deceitful one at that.

It’s easy to point to the years I’ve spent in this space, and everything I’ve published about this exact thing, and insist I’ve got things under control. It’s not my first rodeo, pal. Or second. Third. Fourth. (I’ve got experience on my side.)

If I can support others through their recovery, surely I can navigate my own. Even as I write that, I know it’s patently ridiculous — giving good advice is much easier than applying it to yourself, especially where mental illness is concerned.

But the version of me that I prefer is the one that said in this interview, as recently as last June, “When you get to the other side of whatever you’re struggling with, you’ll see that not taking those chances — living only half the life you could’ve been living — is a lot scarier than any disaster you imagined would come from eating that slice of cake or whatever it was.”

Says the person who is, really and truly, living in that fear in a life half-lived right at this very moment.

Body positivity has felt like a relationship I dove into at such a young age, long before I knew myself or even my eating disorder. And once I was in too deep, having positioned myself as triumphant, I didn’t know how to step back enough to ask for help.

I wanted to believe it was like an incantation I could say in front of the mirror several times — “all bodies are good bodies! all bodies are good bodies! all bodies are good bodies!” — and POOF! I was absolved of any guilt, shame, or fear I felt around food or my body.

I could say all the right things, like a script that I’d rehearsed, and love the idea and the image of myself when I peered through those rosy-colored lenses.

But where eating disorder recovery is concerned, a script — even when memorized — is not a substitute for the work.

And no amount of Instagram memes and photos of belly fat could touch on the old, painful wounds that had positioned food as my enemy, and my body as the site of a war.

Which is all to say, I am not recovered. The work hadn’t even begun. In fact, I used my proximity to body positive spaces to disregard the very idea that I needed help — and I’m paying the price physically, mentally, and emotionally now.

I wore body positivity like an accessory, to project the image of myself that I wanted to be, and my eating disorder reveled in the idea that I could suspend the reality of my illness simply by curating my social media accordingly.

My understanding of body positivity — and by extension, its roots in fat acceptance and liberation — was shallow at best, but only because my eating disorder thrived so long as I sustained the illusion that I knew better. This was yet another way of convincing myself that I was in control, that I was smarter than my ED.

My disorder had a vested interest in lulling me into a false sense of security. I couldn’t have an eating disorder, I thought — disordered eating, maybe, but who doesn’t? I couldn’t because I was evolved. As if mental illness ever gives a fuck about the books you’ve read.

Eating disorders have a way of sneaking up on you. That realization is a new one for me — not because I didn’t logically understand that, but because I’ve only come to accept it in the context of my own lived experience in the last few days.

And I wish I could say that this epiphany came to me on my own, inspiring me to reclaim my life, but there’s no such heroism here. It came to the surface only because my doctor asked the right questions during a routine checkup, and my bloodwork revealed what I feared to be true — my body was coming undone in the absence of adequate, much less nutritious, food.

“I don’t understand how people decide when to eat,” I confessed to my therapist. His eyes widened with deep concern.

“They eat when they’re hungry, Sam,” he said gently.

At some point or another, I had utterly forgotten that simple, basic fact. There is a mechanism in the body, intended to guide me, and I’d cut all ties to it completely.

I don’t share this as a criticism of myself, but rather, as a very simple truth: Many of us who are lauded as faces of recovery are still, in many ways, right in the thick of it along with you.

Sometimes what you’re seeing is not a portrait of success, but rather, a small piece of a more elaborate, messy puzzle that we’re frantically trying to assemble behind the scenes, so that no one notices that we’re in pieces.

My eating disorder recovery is, in truth, in its very infancy. I’ve only recently stopped using “disordered eating” to obscure the reality, and this morning, finally spoke to a dietician that specializes in EDs.

This morning.

Today is, in actuality, the first real day of recovery. That’s three years after, by the way, I wrote these words: “No more justifications. No more excuses. Not another day . . . this is not control.”

I know there are readers who might have looked at my work in body positivity, and absorbed the misguided notion that eating disorders (or any kind of body negativity or food aversion) are simply mazes that we think (or in my case, write) ourselves out of.

If that were true, I wouldn’t be sitting here, sharing with you a very uncomfortable truth about recovery: There are no shortcuts, no mantras, and no quick fixes.

And as we glamorize the idea of an easily attainable self-love — as though it’s just one perfect crop top away — we miss the deeper work that must be done within ourselves, that no amount of sparkly, inspirational quotes we retweet can replace.

Trauma is not on the surface, and to strike the heart of it, we have to go deeper.

This is an awful and uncomfortable truth that I am coming to grips with — mainstream, watered-down body positivity can open the door and invite us in, but it’s up to us to do the real work of recovery.

And that begins not externally, but within us. Recovery is an ongoing commitment that we must choose every single day, deliberately and courageously, with as much rigorous honesty with ourselves and our support systems as humanly possible.

No matter how we curate our social media to remind us of where we’d like to be, the aspirational vision we create is never a substitute for the reality that we’re living in.

As is so often the case with eating disorders, I’m realizing, the aspiration — that “what could be” — so often becomes a compulsive, maddening drive, where we live in a future that we never arrive at.

And unless we commit ourselves to being grounded firmly in the present, even (and especially) when it’s uncomfortable to be here, we relinquish our power and fall under its spell.

My ED loved the naïveté of Insta-friendly body positivity, leveraging that illusion of safety to delude me into thinking I was in control, that I was better than all this.

And I can’t say I’m surprised by it — EDs seem to take many of the things we love (ice cream, yoga, fashion) and turn them against us in some way or another.

I don’t have all the answers, except to say this: We are works in progress, all of us, even those that you look up to. A pedestal is a lonely place to be, and loneliness, I think, is where eating disorders (and many mental illnesses) often thrive. I’ve been up here for too long, silently waiting to fall or for it to crumble underneath me — whichever came first.

As I make my descent, slowly climbing down from the pedestal and stepping into the light of my recovery, I’m going to embrace the truth that every one of us needs to remember: It is okay not to be okay.

It’s okay to not have all the answers, even if the rest of the world expects you to, even if you expect yourself to.

I am not, as some people have described me, “the face of transgender body positivity.” If I am, I don’t want to be — I don’t want any of us to be if that means we’re not allowed to be human.

I want you to scrub that image from your mind and, instead, know where I really was yesterday: Clinging onto a nutritional shake for dear life (literally — it’s kept me alive these last few months), having not showered for three days, while texting the words “I think I need help.”

So many of the advocates you look up to have had equally unromantic but profoundly brave moments just like that.

We do every single day, whether we have a selfie to prove it happened or not. (Some of us have group texts, and trust me, we are all on the Hot Mess Express together. Promise.)

If you’ve felt like you’re not allowed to “fail” (or rather, have an imperfect, messy, even fucked up recovery), I want to give you permission to live that truth, with every bit of honesty and vulnerability that you need.

It’s okay to let go of performing recovery. And trust me, I know how big of an ask that is, because that performance has been my security blanket (and the source of my denial) for so, so long.

You can surrender to the doubt, the fear, and the discomfort that comes with doing the work, and give yourself permission to be human. You can let go of that control and — I’m told, anyway — it will all be okay.

And this amazing community of recovery warriors that we’ve created with our memes, our inspirational quotes, and our crop tops? We will be right here, waiting to support you.

I can’t say that I know this for certain (hello, Day One), but I have a strong suspicion that this kind of honesty is where the real growth happens. And wherever there’s growth, I’ve found, that’s where the healing truly begins.

And that’s what we deserve, every one of us. Not the aspirational kind of healing, but the deeper stuff.

I want that for me. I want that for all of us.

Before you go…

This blog is not sponsored by any fancy pants investors that are trying to sell you stuff.

It’s funded by readers like you via Patreon!

Every donation counts. Help keep resources like these accessible to everyone that needs them! And help buy me a cup of coffee, because I write a lot of these blogs after work, late at night, so I could definitely use the caffeine.

Photo by Laurenz Kleinheider on Unsplash

Let's Queer Things Up!

Queer/trans identity. mental health. cats.

Tag: ARFID

Dear Body: A peace treaty with my queer, trans, and recovering body.

I preached body positivity — and sunk deeper into my eating disorder at the same time.