Depression, Anxiety, and Eating Disorders: How about None of the Above?

Growing up, I was told not to let labels define me. Whether it was ethnicity, gender, age or any other aspect of my identity, I internalized the idea that I was capable of anything I put my mind to. This mentality, which served me well for many years, was also a perspective that left me in denial of my mental health challenges later in life.

A few months after moving to a new city and starting graduate school, during a time when everything seemed to be on the upswing, my mental health was reaching an all-time low. All the signs were there, but I was too scared of putting a label on my symptoms. I thought I was still in control.

In reality, every day became a battle and I was losing the fight. I didn’t want to be labelled as “depressed” or in a “relapse” of my eating disorder because I was worried about being judged. Failure, disappointment and waste of potential were all words that played on repeat in my mind. Did you learn nothing from the first time you hit rock bottom?

Rapid changes

I was dealing with many changes: living with a grandparent who was dying of cancer, watching my body change due to puberty and adjusting to life with a younger sibling.

These changes left me quite anxious and desperate for a sense of control. I found it by playing a dangerous game with food restriction. Eventually, I became consumed by my eating disorder voice. My eating disorder was in control, not me. I no longer cared whether I lived or died. Before my heart gave out, I was hospitalized.

When I was finally discharged from treatment, I felt free. I was freed from a label I hid from my peers at school, and I embraced a new label, “recovered.”

Uncertain recovery

Throughout the rest of high school and even during my undergraduate degree, I desperately clung to that new label and concealed myself beneath a façade of positivity. My eating disorder was still a friend sitting at every meal and snack, an invisible one only I could see.

I did open up about my struggles with one professor after a week-long cycle of binging and restricting that interfered with an assignment. On their recommendation, I attended a one-time counselling appointment on campus, but that was all.

It was my transition to graduate school that created a perfect storm and narrowed my window of tolerance (Corrigan et al., 2011). This window is like a balance beam you walk on that widens and narrows depending on stressors in your life. In my case, the stressors piled on until the beam became so narrow it was impassable. My cheerful mindset started doing harm, rather than good. I saw myself as a failure for not being grateful for my new opportunities.

Moving to a new city? Don’t miss out on social events to make new friends. Starting school at a prestigious university your parents actually recognize? Don’t disappoint them. Planning to re-apply to professional schools? Don’t forget to do better in grad school than you did in undergrad. My response to these pressures was avoidance, specifically through binge eating.

An inner struggle

Each binge eating episode was followed by a period of restriction during which a wave of guilt, embarrassment and hopelessness would overwhelm me. My eating disorder even brought a new friend to the table: depression.

My façade came crumbling down. I was completely incapacitated by my symptoms. My graduate supervisor and peers began to notice. Their calls, texts and emails went unanswered as I retreated into isolation.

Eventually, I took a leave of absence from my studies. Another grandparent I was very close to passed away, and I relied on disordered eating to get through this sudden loss.

I also began to think more and more about ending my life. I typed up a letter letting out all my struggles with a list of ways I could end my suffering. My whole universe became my bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. I could not remember the last time I’d showered or stepped foot outside.

A new view of recovery

A turning point in this journey was reaching out to a close friend. I showed them the letter I’d written, and I will never forget what they said to me. “I am really sorry you have been feeling this way. I don’t know how to make things better, but just know I am here for you.” Part of me had still held onto a fantasy that opening up would magically make everything better, but I understood that the first step towards recovery was acceptance.

Now that my secret was out, I was ready to seek professional help. I found a safe and welcoming support system at Foundry BC. Foundry helped me transition back to school and connected me with on-campus resources. I registered with my university’s accessibility centre and gradually learned that I was not alone.

I noticed a poster at the accessibility centre stating that mental health conditions are the most common disability among students at my university (Naimer, 2023).

I’ve been back at school for just over one year now. Some days are harder than others. I see a therapist every other week and I still have relapses. I’m learning to practice self-compassion when I feel low and accept that relapses are part of recovery. Sometimes, to reach the next milestone, I end up walking around in a loop and that’s okay. Progress is not always forward facing.

A full circle moment

Recently, I was invited to join the EmbodyBC Advisory Committee as a youth with lived experience. Becoming a committee member held a very special meaning for me. It was a full circle moment to be reconnected with an advocacy group, one that I first encountered over a decade ago when I was hospitalized as a child. To this day, I still remember the warm and friendly outreach worker who introduced me to EmbodyBC (known as Jessie’s Legacy at the time), and offered me a purple wristband.

The message etched into the wristband, “Love Our Bodies, Love Ourselves”, has remained with me throughout my recovery journey. Over the years, I learned that loving my body can look different every day, and it’s not just about body image. Loving my body and myself shows up in the way I respond to my body’s needs, and the decisions I make around rest, nourishment, and movement.

My depression, anxiety, and eating disorder recovery journey does not have a fixed destination, and my journey towards self-love does not either. Participating in various forms of eating disorder research and outreach have helped me see my mental health challenges through a new lens. I don’t have to wait until I am “fully recovered” to share my journey. I can be a work in progress and have insights to share about supporting others, especially those who may be going through something similar. If you feel ready, consider exploring opportunities to have your voice heard. Together, we can build communities where we reclaim our labels and welcome all bodies.