Warning: Language is a poem written about and dedicated to my eating disorder. I’ve been told, by myself and others, to be small with my voice and small with my body: this is not that.
Fuck you for telling me that I’m worthless and useless
And promising me that I could be something great
Like I’m not that already
Telling me I need you
Like I don’t already know that I need you even if I don’t really need you
Fuck you for making me need you when I’m not supposed to need you
Your toxicity makes me worthless and useless
You make me worthless and useless
Just like you tell me I am
Fuck you for making me feel worthless and useless
Telling me I am nothing close to great without you
Like I could never be great, except for you
Like every sense of pride and joy I’ve ever felt were lies
Lies I tell myself to hide the worthless, useless, hurting
Toxic stop talking stop talking stop talking
Fuck you for making me the person who needs you
And telling me I need you
Promising me I want you
Making me feel that together we could be
Hiding any strength I have to fight back
I am not weak but I am weak with you
You are the one that I hate, and that I hate, and that I will never love but need
Because I am weak and any strength I have to fight back
So fuck you
Fuck you, you fucking asshole that is every voice that tells me not to swear
To be quiet and calm, to fit your idea of who I am
To be small with my voice and to be small with my body
I am six fucking feet tall and god knows how many pounds
Because I’m not allowed to weigh myself because I’m too weak
Fuck you for telling me I’m not loud when I am so fucking loud
My voice echoes down halls and my laugh turns corners and I stand in front of crowds and I am fucking loud
I am vibrant and big and can be confident when you’re not there
Because when you’re there I’m worthless, worthless, useless
Small for you.
But I am six fucking feet tall and god knows how many pounds
With limbs in all directions and a fucking voice that needs to scream sometimes
Not because you make me want to scream, and you make me want to scream
But because I have things to scream about that aren’t you
And I will scream
And fuck you for telling me this won’t work
I’ve read the words of anger from the people who aspire to write the words of anger that inspire people to be the people who write words of anger from a place of aspiration and inspiration and fuck you that can be me
I am authentic and imperative to my world and a force of nature that will destroy and create
Aspiring myself to be great, inspiring others to be great
I can change my world, the world, the world of others
Fuck you for telling me to be small
And not do any of this
Because I have limbs that go in all directions and fat that stretches my clothes
And fuck you for telling me to be small when I’m anything but
I’m going to scream and change the world
I’m going to scream and change you
I’m going to scream and change me
Fuck you. You will not win. We will not coexist, happily or otherwise.
I will fight. I will scream. I will lead the charge.
I will never stop fighting, screaming, leading the charge.
This year, I choose me. It’s not a new year’s resolution as much as a new outlook. It’s not something I can succeed or fail at and not something to grade. It is not something to fear or avoid. I am walking through the forest of life, tripping over roots and slipping on fallen leaves and I am simply choosing a new path: a path where I am the most important. I am leaning into self-care, building safe environments, choosing what I want and need. I choose me.
Last year, I chose paths that left me in tears. I chose to work late on a night when my father had asked for support in celebrating a small accomplishment – after years fighting against aphasia, he was the expert on the six o’clock news and I missed his segment. I chose to push my emotions aside to be the perfect organizer of an event – at a memorial for violence against women, I did not leave room for me to cry. I chose to work through lunches while struggling with an eating disorder and ignore the echoing voices of every professional on my health care team. I chose to suppress my enthusiasm and limit my intensity, not smile in meetings and not dance in the office, because this is what my performance review said to do. I chose to not walk my dog, more often than not, because I simply did not have the energy. These paths sometimes left me in exhausted, sobbing breakdowns. Sometimes, these paths left me numb. I’m not sure which hurt more.
I call these “choices” because I cannot escape the shame, the guilt, and the embarrassment from what I feel like I should be able to control. Every one of these situations hits on my greatest fears – failing my loved ones, failing my work, failing me. However, as my therapist reminds me, it is never too late for a breath of self-compassion. In the new year of “choosing me”, I choose to reframe. I choose to not accept the same, the guilt, or the embarrassment as is. These so-called choices stemmed from bigger situations and events outside of my control. I didn’t choose to work late, a project demanded it. I didn’t choose to not walk my dog, I truly lacked the energy and strength. In a new year of choosing me, I choose not to own this fault.
This year, I will start a new job (this is a fact). I am turning my back on my dream job (this is hyperbole), abandoning projects I care about (this is guilt), and deserting my passions (this is anxiety). I label each of these (fact, hyperbole, guilt, anxiety) because, in a new year of choosing me, I choose to reframe. Reframing will be an ongoing exercise and I will offer self-compassion as I learn – forgiving myself when I don’t but trying again nonetheless. The details of my old job and my new job don’t matter. What matters is that when my father asks for support in celebrating a small accomplishment, when I want to cry at an emotional event, and at the end of the day when my dog wags her tail, I want to be there. This new job will let me be there, where my old job wouldn’t. This choice still makes me cry, still makes me feel guilt and anxiety. It may for a while. Self-compassion dictates that I make space for these feelings, so I will. I will cry and remind myself of the facts.
This is what is right for me right now. In an effort to address former hyperboles and anxieties, I have come face to face with the fact that there are no “dream jobs” or “perfect choices”. With every changing day and flap of a butterflies’ wings the world will change and you will change with it. There is only what is right for you right now. And if what I care about right now is watching my father on the six o’clock news and walking my dog, then I choose what will achieve this. My old job (not my dream job, just my old job) didn’t allow for this. My new job does.
So, yes, I have accepted a new job that emphasizes 4-day work weeks and flexible hours. And there is no shame in saying I need that right now. But, I am also excited for a boss with crazy coloured hair who laughs when my cat jumps on screen and asks how we make room for authentic emotions in social science research. I’m not forgetting the passion and drive I loved in my former vision of a dream job, I’m just choosing a new mix of these things.
In the swirl of emotions, I can’t help but realize that my choices may benefit my mental illness as well. That working from home means I can cook and meal prep (great for my eating disorder) and flexible hours means I can explore fitness and hobbies (great for my anxiety). Choosing me isn’t a disaster or a loss or an embarrassment, it actually works on so many different levels. Suddenly all of the self-help books make a bit more sense. Suddenly choosing me makes a bit more sense.
I can choose me in a million different ways. I can choose work-life balance and a new career direction. I can reevaluate my chronic ideas of perfection and focus on current desires and needs. I can do bubble baths when I want and therapy when I need. I can pick a new sewing project and finally explore cosplay, learn how to cook with cauliflower, and explore hiking trails near my home. These desires and needs may be fleeting, and that’s okay. In a year where I choose me, I will validate myself and constantly adjust my goals. There is no fixed perfection, no everlasting goals. Just me. So, I’m choosing to be selfish. Happily, confidently, and still anxiously, choosing to be selfish (my anxiety is always there, but we’re reframing that too). I’m choosing me.
Today I walked my dog. I felt the cool air on my neck, watched the happy swing of my dog’s tail, and decided to choose me.
I am more than the eating disorder that tries to define me. I am more than the stomach rolls that make me nauseous. I am more than the underarm fat magazines tell me they can help me lose.
I asked for these photos to challenge my anxious thoughts and intrusive self-hate. I talked to the photographer and makeup artist about wearing clothes I normally don’t wear, boasting makeup that accentuates my features, and posing to show off my body. Collaborating with positivity and talent instead of the deal I made with my eating disorder to hide my body, hide my curves, hide my fat, hide me.
The challenge was: there is no difference between me and the gorgeous models I see, accept a talented photographer and make-up artist. You can decide for yourself, but in my mind, we came through pretty damn well.
Because, I am also the stomach rolls that look so gorgeous in this photographer’s camera lens, the underarms that show off a classic style, and, whatever happens, I am the eating disorder I continue to battle. I am these things and the grief that consumes me today is the power that I can leverage to move towards acceptance tomorrow.
These photos were my way of taking charge of my own narrative and creating evidence that can debate the hate that consumes me. This is me, my body, who I am, and I can love it, accept it, and live with it.
This is also me. I can be both.
I can be fabulous and awkward, fierce and anxious, beautiful and scared. I can choose some of the things that I am, battle against others, live with many.
This photo exudes the energy of someone who is sensual and confident and, honestly, loves their leg. Sometimes, it’s alright to stack the odds in your favour when you want to be something that you don’t feel. Book a photographer, organize the makeup artist, borrow that dress, and become everything you want to be.
And this, this is also me. I am more even than these photos. I asked for this photo, chose this proof, and love very breath of it.
An orthodontic surgeon once told me that I smile with too much gum and that, while fixing a scheduled dental issue, could fix this as well. My parents brushed off this request and moved on. I suffered for months with the first real opportunity to change my body. Eventually, I decided that although I didn’t love my smile, it was my smile. I see it in the mirror and use it to greet friends. It’s the first impression I offer and how I laugh. I may not love it, but I don’t hate it…it is simply, me.
I asked for this photo because I wanted to see me. In case these photos became something more and I lost sight of my every day me, I wanted one photo that I could connect to. In the end, this photo completed the set. It is perfect, just like me.
So, here they are. Three of the photos that I booked, posed for, selected, and now own. They are gorgeous and fierce and joyful and make me want to write, which is the ultimate sign for me that I can be passionate about myself. This was an adventure of self-indulgence, vanity, and decadence. I could not be more proud.
Growing up an aspiring fantasy author, I studied the many paths my characters could take. An adventure is a trip without a destination. A journey is where the trip itself matters most. A quest is a trip to accomplish a specific task. I dreamed of romantic journeys, wild adventures, and life changing quests. As a character in my own personal epic, mental illness was just another quest: something to overcome and move past. I did not just reject the idea that mental illness could be an ongoing journey, I completely ignored any consideration of it.
I have worn many labels in the form of my diagnoses: generalized anxiety, major depression, panic disorder, and, most recently, bulimia nervosa. Each label is a new quest, a new challenge to overcome. A series of quests to the “perfect mental health”. That was true, at least, until I sat down to an online mental health seminar titled The Imperfect Recovery.
My goal in attending this seminar was recovery: to beat bulimia and move past it once and for all. This workshop was aimed at” “imperfect recoveries”, and recovery was there in the title and thus essential to the plot. My quest was already laid out for me.
I closed my computer barely minutes in when the realization of the true title hit me. The Imperfect Recovery: they were talking about adventures, journeys…not quests. Accepting an imperfect recovery meant that the story might not end as nicely as I had hoped. A potentially never ending road of battles and…I closed my computer barely minutes in.
An imperfect recovery simply did not compute with my own, deeply held, need for perfection. Never properly analyzed, I still have no idea what this perfection meant. What is “perfect mental health”? The absence of mental illness? A never ending tirade of smiles and happy days?
As a health educator, I should have known that “perfect mental health” did not exist. As a health educator, I often describe mental health as being similar to physical health: there are good days and bad days, temporary injuries, chronic conditions, and sporadic pains. I held conversations with others in order to help them come to terms with mental health being an essential part of wellness, to overcome the burden of stigma, and to explore options for support before they were inevitably needed. I held the conversations, designed the posters, hosted the events, and yet still held on to my own internalized stigma. I would not accept good days and bad days, for I was on a quest for “perfect mental wellness”; mental illness would never be chronic, not for me.
As I battled with my latest diagnosis, bulimia nervosa, The Imperfect Recovery hit on deeply held beliefs that I had never fully acknowledged: my need for perfection and my consequently internalized mental health stigma. Although not all mental illness will be chronic, I had never properly considered that mine might be.
If perfection is defined as the complete lack of mental illness (which I would argue it’s not), we are setting ourselves up for inevitable failure. It was gently pointed out to me by my therapist that, like physical illness, the complete lack of illness is sometimes impossible. For someone with Type 1 Diabetes, this would require a new pancreas. For me, a new mind. Perfection is an impossible quest.
But, the loss of perfection does not mean the loss of joy. Similarly, accepting a life with mental illness is not giving up. It is accepting just one battle in your life, one opportunity to fight, one story where you strength will shine. It is the first chapter of an epic saga.
I can try to find joy in progress. I can celebrate every small accomplishment and search for room for innovation in every setback. My imperfect recovery with mental illness will include trials and tribulations, good days and bad, and I can continue to grow through each and every one. I can accept this journey that stands in front of me. This is not a quest that I am failing at because I have not reached the end – this is a journey where the trip matters most and a set of adventures to explore. Perhaps I will never reach my destination, but I can find joy in the constant innovation and creativity that it takes to move forward each day. Acceptance is not done – I will have to practice it every day. But, I am on the journey and that brings me joy.
I’ll say this to you, but can’t say this to me: you are strong, you are fierce, you are capable.
I’ll say this to you, but never to me: I believe in you, I love you, you can do this.
The words we say to others go far beyond hypocrisy. They are ingrained in the very being of who we are and what we are not: it’s ok to love others and wrong to love yourself. It is not hypocritical, but instead two distinct beasts. Love is not equal, not deserved, not worthy. Love is a gift that can only be given, never taken or accepted. We are alone in this battle where we hold up the world and tear down ourselves. This is what I’ll say to me, but will never say to you.
Because you deserve the love that is the greatest of all, which is that which you’ve given to me. Your love that supports me and holds me in my most painful moments is something that I want for you. Every tear, heartbreak, and empty scream that stands before you is worthy of your own love. The love you give to me is the greatest, most powerful gift. It embodies me to continue and persevere into the darkness. It is both the lantern in my hand and the hope at the end. I want you to feel this. I want you to see this. I want you to have this. Your love is the greatest, so please, accept it yourself.
I know who I’m saying this to as I write these words. I can see you and I know I want to say it.
You are the one who spent the day crying but won’t tell me you spent the day crying because a moment of peace is worth the denial. We talk about our personal battles as if we are standing back to back in broken chain mail armor, our shields shaking as two very distinct armies approach us, one from either direction. They won’t touch the other; no, these armies want just one: you or me. These are two very different wars waging violently, but we have chosen to fight them, back to back, in broken chain mail armour, our shields shaking.
I know who I’m saying this to as I write these words. I can’t see you, but I know I want you to hear it.
You are a whisper on a computer screen, not yet brave enough or ready to turn on your camera. But when my voice warbles and whimpers as I ask for help, your words pour through the chat to hold me together. You are not one, but many people with your own plots, antagonists, and chapters left to tell. But in my story you are one: the one that shares their hardships and advice and love. The greatest love.
I know who I’m saying this to as I write these words. I can feel you in who I am and in who I want to be.
You are the one running through the trees beside me, a fairy, a wizard, a princess, tripping over roots and calling out so our fantasies can be shared together. We walked together for the beginning and as I watch you take your own path, I worry. I worry that you don’t realize you were my guardian on the playground, and that you won’t protect yourself. I worry that that you won’t hear your pride in me, and not feel it in your own bones. I worry that you won’t see the light in the fantasies that you built that built me, as these fantasies that let me thrive could do the same for you.
Yes, I will say these things to you, but can’t say them to me. I will never say them to me.
Unless, of course, you tell me to. Because as I write these words, I know you write them too. Our love is for each other, but never for ourselves. This letter is the love that I can give you, but not me. The question of why is not the point. I write this letter so that you can read it and love, but maybe I can read it and do the same. I can love you, and you can love me, and you should love you, and…
This letter is the love that I can show you, but not me.
But, maybe, with your love…maybe even with my love…tomorrow.
Bitmojis, although currently used more often by mothers, aunts, and teachers, used to be hip, cool, and a fun way of signing off emails or replying to messages. Bitmojis are small cartoon versions of yourself that act as personalized emojis. Apparently, the app is still on my phone. In a moment of boredom, I opened said app and flipped through the fun designs, ultimately fixating on, as I often do, body shape. As it turns out, my Bitmoji is thin. My Bitmoji is skinny. I, on the other hand, am not. I knowingly designed my Bitmoji to not only not be fat, but to distinctly not look like me or my body.
This isn’t a new phenomenon. If I still owned a Wii, the question would instead state: “why isn’t my Mii fat?” I have designed all personas of myself to hide this particular aspect of my body. I have lived in denial and hate to the point that I actively change the way I portray myself.
Am I fat?
I am not in a healthy enough mental state to google what qualifies as fat; seeing any numbers or ranges would simply send me into a self-hate, anxiety spiral. I, of course, think that I am fat. I compare myself to bodies and see myself as fat. When I ignore my therapist’s advice and weigh myself, the number screams “fat”. While this doesn’t necessarily mean that I am fat by all standards, why do I care? This is the real question, “why do I care?”, not “am I fat?”. This is one word, one descriptor: why have I given it such immense power?
“Don’t talk to my friend like that”, I scream.
I wrote the title before realizing this statement could go two ways. When I was younger and more naïve, I would scream this at people who called my friends “fat”. How dare they insult my friends. Now, older and slightly less naïve to the world of fatphobia and diet culture, I might yell the very same thing at a friend who said they hated their own “fat body” (still used as an insult, instead at themselves). Because how dare they use a simple physical descriptor like “fat” as an insult when it isn’t. Fat is your body type, nothing more. Fat is beautiful. Fat is sexy. Fat is healthy. Fat is strong, passionate, and fierce. None of these terms are mutually exclusive with being “fat”. I see other people who may define themselves as fat or plus size, and I have no trouble seeing their beauty.
And, yet, I can’t hear my own words.
Hypocrisy is really not fun.
Let’s name it: internalized fatphobia
Welcome to my journey of battling against internalized fatphobia. The world has taught me that fat is wrong, and if I am fat, I am wrong. I have bought into the message of my oppressors that my body weight defines my self-worth.
Do I truly believe that hating myself will allow me to be accepted into a world I don’t want and don’t believe in?
Why isn’t my Bitmoji fat? Why can’t I design something that is supposed to look like me, to actually look like me?
I want to not hate myself. I want to not hate my fat self. I am trying to not hate my fat self.
So, here’s to trying. Here’s to faking it ‘till you make it. Here’s to hearing my own words that fat is beautiful, because it is, and actually listening. Here’s to my fat bitmoji.
Something about pink hair, tattoos, and red lipstick that screams freedom. Freedom in the same way it feels to have wind in your hair and to laugh into the future. In a life often weighed down by anxiety, depression and bulimia, this freedom is compelling. But, I don’t dye my hair pink as a form of escape to a better world. Nor are my tattoos a desperate grab for control over the final pieces of my life. When you see me wearing red lipstick, think not of my illness. Think instead of the freedom you feel when the wind blows through your hair.
Why do I dye my hair? I dye my hair to experiment with who I am and what I see in the mirror. A changing appearance can make me feel like a different person: one with spunk, sass, and confidence. At the same time, my hair reminds me of who I am. That I can be the vixen beckoning to me in my dreams. Because of my pink hair, for the first time in months, I took selfies today. Yes, this practice is mocked by many as self-obsession and vanity. As someone obsessed with self-hate and tearing apart her body, I could really use a little bit of that vanity. And, for the first time in months, I liked the photos I took. I liked my wild hair. I saw my smile lines and laughed. I chose outfits that complemented how I felt, powerful and coy. Liking your body is hard with an eating disorder. These photos showed not my body, but instead me. Hello, me. You look great.
Why did I get my tattoos? This is a question I am sure my mother asks herself every time they flash under my shirt sleeve. My tattoos have many explanations. One is owning my body, marking myself with who I am and want to be. Another is a grounding mechanism, to remind me of the choices I can make to shape my world. The final reason: I like them. Don’t let anyone tell you that a better reason is needed. My tattoos are simple and small…for now. They are perfect.
Why do I wear red lipstick? This is often my coping strategy with stress: exams, presentations, even late night studying. I adorn red lipstick or fancy earrings to remind me that as I wear them, I have my life together enough to succeed. I am not lost, I am wearing red lipstick. Red lips laugh as my earrings flash in the moonlight, and suddenly I am heading somewhere much bigger than my desk chair or couch. This is a strategy I picked up in high school that I carry forward to late nights writing grant proposals. It is a reminder that even when everything is falling apart, you can still pick up the pieces to put it back together. As I battle against bulimia, I now realize that I seem to have forgotten to try this coping strategy. Mirrors have instead become the bane of my existence. Perhaps, tomorrow I will put on that pair of giant hoop earrings and flirt with the reflection I claim to despise. There’s a chance that I won’t, but also a chance that I will.
There’s something about being wild that endears itself to me. Something about my goody-two-shoes, controlled persona that likes small acts of deviation. I’m not jumping out of planes or swimming with sharks, but my hair is pink. As a reminder, this is my wild, not yours. These acts may not even qualify to the rest of the world as wild. This is my door to wide open fields, distant mountains, and cool sea breezes. Even during the darkest of times, I can still imagine the wind in my pink hair and laugh into the future.
I have run booths about eating disorders, organized #MirrorlessMonday events, and hosted body positivity yoga sessions. Nonetheless, today will have been two days since I last ate.
As fresh as the hypocrisy is, I have to remind myself: teaching about eating disorders and battling an eating disorder are two very different things. I had the education, and now I get the experience. Reading blogs, studying articles, even having a degree in psychology, all seem like futile attempts at understanding what I now get a front-row seat to. However, as futile as they may currently seem, I have to reluctantly admit that some of this education stuck. I swear by the counselling process, I know to take my medication every day, and I did recognize the warning signs when my eating habits started hurting my day to day life. So, on that somewhat optimistic outlook, I will join in the “futile” efforts of blog writers everywhere to share what I learned from my eating disorder. These are the lessons I wish I had known about eating disorders when I was teaching about them, with the hope that it may somehow help the next overzealous health educator.
My background is relevant to this blog façade of a personal journal. I hold a Bachelors of Science in psychology, have volunteered in health education for five years, and coordinated a peer health education program. I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder in 2014 that began to present itself as bulimia in 2020. I also have a dog. Each of these is equally important to who I am today – hopefully, I’ll get to choose what is important tomorrow.
Definitions don’t define everything
Yes, I am looking at past-me and my activity board that sorted symptoms into their corresponding diagnosis. Little cards with “binging-compensating behaviours” were sorted into the bulimia category, “long-lasting sadness” into depression, and so on. At the end of the day, diagnoses are important for communicating symptoms between health professionals (and perhaps your insurance company). They can help a client understand what they’re experiencing. They can create a community between people with similar experiences. But, diagnoses are not perfect. You may be struggling but not meet the exact criteria or severity for a diagnosis. Your specific health professional may decide on multiple or singular diagnoses depending on their training. You may, like me, debate your psychologist on length of whether your fasting qualifies you for “bulimia” as opposed to “binge eating disorder”. This particular argument ended with wise words of advice: “call it what you want, the symptoms don’t change”.
I’m not saying not to talk directly about anorexia, bulimia, or binge eating disorder as official diagnoses (see the previously mentioned benefits of using official labels). Just don’t end the education with the symptom definitions. Talk about the experiences and what the struggle feels like, offering the diversity that these stories deserve. At the end of the day, call an eating disorder what you want, but it doesn’t change what it is: a mental illness that hurts you. It isn’t a rulebook to follow or a symptom threshold to be reached before you’re acknowledged. Don’t teach it like it is.
Health Education Tip #1: Don’t rely solely on diagnostic criteria for teaching what an eating disorder is. Instead, emphasize stories of struggle and success. Remind your audience that any struggle is legitimate and valid and should be discussed.
Recovery is ongoing and dynamic
Before receiving my diagnosis of bulimia, I was triumphant in having “recovered” from generalized anxiety – apparently, I was wrong. I quickly made great strides in battling bulimia and drastically improved my eating habits…before ultimately and frustratingly falling backwards after a few months. What I once called “recovery” was a binary success or failure – this is not the case. I do not say this statement lightly, as I am still learning its true importance myself. Recovery is an ongoing battle that takes strength and resilience. It requires acknowledging setbacks without letting them overcome you, and periods of working to maintain wellness.
Even treatment can be a dynamic process. I have the privilege of not only having access to therapy, but finding the right fit in a therapist on my first try. I know others who have struggled with therapists or explored different types of therapy, from group to one-on-one or mindfulness to CBT. My therapy was once enough to hold my anxiety at bay; it stopped being successful a few years back, and I reluctantly went on antidepressants. While struggling with the ongoing battle of recovery, the dynamic nature of the very treatment tools you are using can be unexpected and exhausting. As health educators, we can prepare people for this reality with the knowledge of diverse tools and resources.
Health Education Tip #2: Teach about the ongoing nature of recovery and that taking steps back is not failure. Promote diverse resources and tools so that your audience is the best equipped they can be.
Shame is real
I binge eat. I cannot control it. I hate myself for it. I do not talk about it.
No matter how many campaigns I coordinate to fight stigma: I binge eat, I cannot control it, I hate myself for it, I do not talk about it.
This thought process seems immensely counter intuitive. Somehow, I should connect the uncontrollable nature of my mental illness to self compassion and forgiveness. (I don’t.) Somehow, I should connect my experience on stages behind microphones to allowing myself to openly talk about my experiences. (I don’t.) The incoherence of these arguments hurts the logical side of my brain. It is this duality that health educators must remind themselves of: a duality between emotion and logic. I refer openly to both my logical side (the health educator) and my emotional side (a sad blanket burrito of self-hate). Some days one side is louder than the other.
I did not realize the extent that shame can affect you until I tried to explain to friends and family my latest diagnosis. I used the term “eating disorder” instead of “bulimia” in the hopes that we could leave the specifics out of the conversation. Me and my tray of mini-cupcakes would prefer to go unnoticed. It is this lesson that health educators must constantly remind themselves – shame is real, stigma is real, and the battle must go on.
Health Education Tip #3: Try to reduce stigma every chance that you can. No matter how many useful programs and resources you offer, stigma will stand in the way of someone asking for the help that they need. Include reducing stigma as one of your communication goals in every campaign.
Love yourself again, and again, and again
Not every lesson you teach as a health educator will stick. Not every post of “love yourself” on Instagram will change someone’s day. However, do not stop doing this. As a once idealistic health educator, I convinced myself that what I said would or would not have an impact. It’s far more complicated than that. Messages take time and repetition to have an impact. Your mind codes information each time it sees it. Seeing something multiple times and in different formats helps you learn and internalize the idea.
I struggle every day with thoughts of self-hate and body image issues. I repeat positive coping mechanisms and compassionate messages to myself. Many don’t stick – but some do. Just as I struggled one day, the same coping mechanism may work the next. I find these flip often throughout the recovery process, with the coping mechanism and compassionate thought sticking more and more each day.
Remind others to continue repeating these thoughts, to ride the waves of self-hate with just as relentless countering. One day you will listen, and you want to make sure that you are saying something productive when you do.
Health Education Tip #4: Don’t just say it once. Repeat successful campaigns and address the same topic multiple ways with different campaigns. You never know which time may work.
Good health education works
My last message to health educators is the importance of the work that I called futile at the beginning. I read the blogs, I studied the articles, I listened attentively to lectures about eating disorders. These did not stop me from getting an eating disorder, but they were never supposed to. My education was supposed to teach me to recognize the signs of mental illness, familiarize me with the resources to reach out to, and remind me the importance of caring for one’s mind and body. I always thought my education was there to just help others – as much as I hope that it also helped someone else, I know that it helped me.
Good health education includes talking about the difficult topics, letting experience drive education, reducing the stigma surrounding them, and repeating the message.
Keep teaching and keep learning, here are some resources to help:
NEDIC (Canada) provides information, resources, referrals and support to those affected by eating disorders. https://nedic.ca/
Kids Help Phone is free, anonymous and confidential professional phone counselling and online counselling, available 24/7 for kids and youth 20 years of age and younger. Kidshelpphone.ca OR 1-800-668-6868