I Battled With Anorexia For 25 Years — Here's How I Finally Found Recovery

I was a happy little girl. I loved to dance, sing, and be the center of attention. I devoted hours perfecting Irish step routines and performing annual variety shows for my family. My favorite days were jumping in the ocean during the summer, building sand castles, and eating sandy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I never wanted an eating disorder. I never woke up and thought I'll start restricting food or I'll excessively exercise today, but as a child I felt my emotions strongly. I had the ability to feel joy and laugh out loud and then rapidly, seemingly out of nowhere, a surge of panic ran through my body.

I was a super-sensitive child, and any perceived judgment or criticism sparked my fight-or-flight into overdrive. Most things scared me. I was indecisive, impulsive, and a people-pleaser.

At the age of 13, I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa, but no one could tell. Since I was not emaciated, no one suspected a thing. It was my secret. It was my "invisible illness."

All through middle and high school, I wore my smile as a mask. My huge toothy grin hid my sadness, loneliness, and unworthiness. I held on to roles like the straight-A student, exercise fanatic, and the girl who always cracked a joke when there was tension at home. My eating disorder became my protector, and my priority was hiding it so no one could take it away from me.

At the age of 35, after my family experienced successive sad events, my eating disorder escalated. My weight got dangerously low. I stopped eating. I was too depressed to get out of bed. I stopped working. My life was crumbling before my eyes until my parents finally intervened. My disappearing body got their attention.

"Mer, we will not sit back and watch you die. You have had this eating disorder for 25 years. You need help." 

So, even as I kicked and screamed, I entered a Partial Hospitalization Program (PHP) at the Columbia Day Program in New York City. It was a program specifically for those with eating disorders. Even though I desperately wanted to be the perfect anorexic, I had a sliver of hope that I would find a more fulfilling purpose in my life.

My two nephews were also born—I called them my guardian angels. I wanted to be a wonderful aunt. I wanted to see them grow up. I needed to stay alive to do so. My eating disorder had competition.

For six months, I sat through endless psychotherapy groups and attended lunch and dinner support groups. Simply put, meal exposure saved my life.

After I left the PHP bubble, I still had years of recovery ahead of me. Recovery is an action. It is a verb. It is not stagnant. It is alive. I had lapses and relapses. I thrived in recovery and made huge strides. Then I stumbled and fell, but I always got back up. From deep in my soul, I thought that my life had to be more than my eating disorder.