I Didn’t Want Recovery—Until I Needed It
By Kelly Delaney (she/her)
“But how could you still want something that is killing you?” This is a question I’ve not only been asked time and time again by loved ones (rightfully so), but a question that has echoed and lingered in my own mind for years. How could I hold onto a disease that was going to end my life if I let it? The thing is, it wasn’t a want – it was a need. I needed my eating disorder.
Living with an eating disorder – and I say “living” ever so lightly – is living in a different world – the eating disorder world. A place where the rituals and rules are sacred and make sense to those who abide by them. These rules are not made to be bent, even in the slightest; they are made to be followed exactly as they are, to a T, no exceptions. Be good. Be perfect. Be disciplined. Be obedient. Be compliant. Do not step out of line. Take up as little space as possible. Stay small – literally and figuratively.
The World That Kept Me Safe (Until It Didn’t)
I’ve lived in this world for a long time – too long if we’re being honest. For nearly two decades, the eating disorder world was the only place where I felt safe. The only place where I felt seen. It was a place that provided me with certainty, safety, predictability, comfort, control – a perfect bubble where I didn’t have to worry about anything else. A place where I didn’t have to feel anything other than numbness. A place where I felt protected against the chaos in the world.
I didn’t always know this though. Before I learned about what the eating disorder’s purpose was, I looked at it as a monster – hell on earth. I thought of it as an exorcist or the devil. This foreign object that took over my body and mind. Something that gave me a false sense of control, when in reality it was the one calling all the shots. It wasn’t until I did the real work of recovery that I learned my eating disorder was used to fulfill my unmet needs. It was functional, helpful, protective. It was doing what it needed to do in order to keep me alive. It was serving a purpose – until it wasn’t.
When Survival Became a Cage
I caught anorexia in my mid teens. I say caught because like any other disease, it is not within your control, it is not a choice. Something that seemed to start off innocent, quickly spiraled and took off. Within a few months of restricting my food intake, a full blown eating disorder had developed – something I had not recognized at the time.
It wasn’t until my mid-twenties, about twelve years deep into my battle with anorexia, that I realized my relationship with food, body and myself was far from normal. “What do you mean not everyone thinks about food ALL day long?” “What do you mean not everyone calculates and writes down every single calorie they’ve ingested from the time they wake up until the time they fall asleep?” “What do you mean not everyone weighs themselves ten times a day?”
I was utterly blinded by the disease to realize and understand that my life had completely been stripped away from me and taken over by my eating disorder. I couldn’t get off the ride – and truthfully, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to know a life without the one thing that was constant and ever-present. I didn’t want to change. I was terrified of what might be – what might happen if I did. I was afraid of the unknown, the uncertainty, the uncomfortable, the unpredictable. I had been living in this world for more years than not. To pull myself out of something that was the norm to me, felt like my life would fall apart. How twisted to say such a thing when the disorder you have is quite literally the deadliest mental illness. My life wouldn’t just fall apart – it would end, indefinitely.
I had made dozens of attempts at recovery over the past five to six years. The kind of attempts that make you think and feel like you’re doing the right thing, but in actuality you’re half-assing it because you still need this disease like you need air. I was in and out of therapy, in and out of programs, on and off with meal plans, on and off with medications – but nothing stuck.
To no fault of the providers I was working with – they were all doing their jobs, I just wasn’t doing mine. I wasn’t committing to anything or anyone besides the eating disorder – the most loyal companion of all. It tells you, “You’re safe with me,” “You don’t need anyone else,” “Don’t listen to them.” That’s its protective voice. But when you try to better yourself, that voice switches on a dime. It gets loud. Angry. Defensive. Offended.
The noise is insufferable – unbearable. It’s an incessant berating, chastising, abusive, voice running through your head all day long. When you appease it, it softens, but when you combat it, it amplifies. I call it a brain bully, and I lived with it for years.
Rock Bottom, Quiet Surrender
It wasn’t until I finally (and thankfully) came to a point last year, a rock bottom moment, where I simply could not take it anymore. I had no fight left in me to keep this battle going. I’ve had my visits to this place before. That’s the thing too with eating disorders – even when you do hit this point, the goal post will always keep moving. It is impossible to feel satisfied or that you’ve had enough with where you’re at. Its convincing nature will tell you you’re not sick enough, that you can keep going if you try harder- that’s how strong the grip is.
I pictured my future self, in my 40’s, 50’s, still living with this (if I would even make it that far) and thought “Is this what my life is going to be?” To be honest, I had accepted my sick life long before that point. In the depths of my illness and after countless attempts at recovery, I truly believed I had two options – either live as long as I can with anorexia until it kills me, or take my own life because I cannot imagine living like this for the rest of my days.
Actual recovery – the real work that everyone talks about – wasn’t an option…until it needed to be. This terrifying, eye-opening and sometimes necessary place to land, was surprisingly not drastic this time. Instead, I felt relief. I felt like someone – a professional – could finally help take this out of my hands. It was a quiet surrender – my body’s way of saying “We cannot do this anymore, please help us.”
Choosing the Harder Life: Recovery
It was the bravest and scariest decision I have ever made, and truly one I never thought I would say yes to. It was also not a decision I can take much credit for. Much of my reasoning to say yes to treatment was due to the overwhelming love and support I have for – and from – my incredible family and friends. They deserve a life too and I knew my suffering and illness impacted them in ways I hadn’t realized before. Having your people in times like these is a key element to success in recovery.
But just when you think the battle is over, you realize it is just the beginning. I had to find the strength within me to pick myself up, reload, and fight like hell to combat this disease with everything I had. I would soon learn just how much strength I truly had in me to keep going.
I spent eight weeks in a residential home, followed by another eight weeks in a PHP and IOP. Residential was hands down the scariest, most challenging thing I have ever done. It is also the thing I believe in my soul that saved my life. My proudest achievement in life. I never thought in a million years I would say yes to this level of treatment. It was the most terrifying option, but also the one I needed all along.
I met some of the most amazing people in treatment that I will remember for the rest of my life. I learned more about myself as a person outside of my eating disorder than I ever thought possible – my values, boundaries, self-trust, authenticity, just to name a few. I learned to look at my eating disorder from a lens of compassion, curiosity, confidence (if you’re familiar with IFS, you know where I’m going with this), rather than shame, embarrassment, and guilt. I learned how to be kind to my younger self, who was only doing what she knew how to in order to survive. I learned that my sensitive, empathetic nature is not a flaw or weakness; it is a gift and strength. It wasn’t until I went through this process where I realized the true fortitude I have in me.
After I completed my treatment programs, I stepped down to outpatient and have been receiving services ever since then with my amazing team whom I adore—people who have walked alongside me with patience, care, and deep understanding, and whose unwavering support has played a huge role in keeping me grounded in recovery. Am I fully recovered? No, but I’m also okay with that right now. The place where I am at allows for imperfection AND progress – both can exist and be true. While I still have a long road ahead of me, I make a conscious effort each and every day to do the next right thing; even when it’s scary, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when that voice is still echoing in my head. As one of my favorites, Glennon Doyle, once said, “Be messy and complicated and afraid and show up anyway.”
While this is only a small part of my story, my biggest hope is that it reaches someone who can relate and feel seen. Accepting help and saying yes to recovery was the greatest decision I have ever made; the greatest gift I have ever given myself and loved ones. And to anyone who thinks recovery is not possible or not for them: I am living proof that it is. Coming from someone who believed they were a chronic case, the exception, the outlier, the broken one, the “unicorn” – I am none of those things, and neither are you. You are someone who is already doing an incredibly hard thing living with an eating disorder. So use that strength to do a different hard thing, one that has a beautiful outcome filled with freedom and peace. The bravest step is the first one. You don’t wait to drown to admit you’re tired of swimming. Ask for help. Take that leap of faith – I promise you won’t regret it.
