#i also have some pretty bad fatphobic and abelist thoughts

[tos-and-her-musings]

thoracic outlet syndrome and my disordered eating

The very first word I learned in my family's native, immigrant tongue was "fat." ‘Fei’. My mother would point to a lady walking down the grocery store aisle as she muttered the word under her breath, ‘fei’, eyeing the layers of fat hidden beneath the cloak of her dress. This was later followed with, "If you ever look like her one day, I will lock you in a cupboard and starve you for a week."

I know that my mom was bullied for her weight, and she was trying to save me from the same torturous fate.

I learned that the greatest act of kindness I could receive was to be starved into being thin. That was how she loved me.

At age 12, I began my first year of high school. I stood in the changing rooms, my nervous, skinny knees shaking as I tried on my school uniform. My extra-small polo shirt drowned me, and my sports shorts were dangerously close to slipping off. The canteen worker huffed out a sigh as she examined me. “I’m afraid we won’t have anything that fits her; she’s just so petite.”

My mother smiled, looking almost proud. “No, i'll just have to take it in.”

I learned that the greatest compliment I could receive was to be so small that anything I wear can engulf me, to be so small that I’m invisible.

At age 14, my body changed. I developed breasts. I grew up a dress size. My mother would jokingly call me “solid.” Compliments about my petite frame began to fade. When I laid on my back and my tummy went flat, I could no longer see my bones. I didn’t know why that made me so anxious. I lost the special “thigh gap” I was told others were so envious of, that I got to have. I watched my mother bounce from fad milkshakes to diets, to gym classes and workout videos. I watched her break down and cry.

I kept growing. One night, my father took away my dinner as I was halfway eating. He said with a chuckle, “That’s enough for you.”

I learned that there was nothing more shameful than gaining weight.

At age 15, I failed mathematics. It was tragic really, considering that I came from a family of doctors and university graduates; intelligence was in our DNA. What was my excuse? However, my brain was filled to the brim with song lyrics and the injustices of human trafficking and caged chickens, and too busy analysing Sylvia Plath’s poetry. So as hard as I studied, when asked to ‘find x’ in this equation, I could do no more than simply point to the letter and say “there!”

That was not good enough for my family. They removed me from my public education, convinced that if I was given more structure, resources, and discipline, away from my friends and the teachers who supported me, I would get better. When that proved fleeting, they suggested I move out entirely and live with my sister, to finish school away from them. They couldn’t handle my teenage emotions anymore.

It did not cross their minds to tell me that it was not personal, that it didn’t mean they loved me any less as they sought to abandon me.

I learned that the complex, colourful array of angsty emotions following loss, is just too difficult and messy for others. Nice, neat, black-and-white numbers are much more desirable.

At age 17, I lost my friends.

As formal grew closer, I set my eyes on the one thing that could make things feel right: looking good in my formal dress. I began to count calories. It was kind of like a game. I couldn’t solve equations, but adding and subtracting I could do. 300-calorie chicken salad + 100-calorie muesli bar. Subtract 300 calories from my run this morning to make you feel good.

I tried to make the game more challenging. 1000 calories turned to 900, 800, then 700. By the time I got to 500, I was going to bed with a chasm the size of the Grand Canyon in my belly and waking up seeing stars.

By the time formal came, I weighed 35 kgs.

I learned that when life gets out of control, I can always, ALWAYS control my weight. I can always rely on calorie counting. And nothing feels as satisfying as being hungry.

It is no wonder that I spent the next five years of my life yo-yoing between diets. Riding that eating disorder rollercoaster, the highs with Mia and the plummeting lows with Anna. I learned that a combination of saltwater and ice cream can make you throw anything up. That downloading pictures of cakes and staring at them can be just as good as eating the real thing. I worked hard to excel in every aspect of my studies and my job. To make my parents proud. And when life got hard, I simply stopped eating.

It took years to break out of that habit. To learn that the greatest value I have in my body is the strength she has to run and take me to places. To value my health more than a number on a scale. I learned that my body was more than a vehicle for weight loss and self-destruction.

With my arms and hands, I learned how to play the violin and reach the most magical state of flow, where I not only stopped time but controlled time with every note I played. I could achieve the greatest highs by running and jumping and twirling in the air. With my body, I learned how to express love and joy. I learned how to make others laugh and cry from a stage in a packed theatre. I learned that my body was meant for more than to simply be skinny. It was meant for love.

I learned to nourish and fuel this body to sustain the health and strength she needed. I learned to eat intuitively. I stopped playing the numbers game and got rid of my scales. I exercised for fun and not for punishment. Most importantly, I found a career that could help me help others value the health and strength that their body has and to nurture it too.

Since being diagnosed with thoracic outlet syndrome and this disability, I have lost everything. My arms no longer have the strength to play music or create magic or communicate love or propel me to fly or make others laugh. If my body was a temple, it has been ravaged and desecrated in the most heinous way.

No punishment could ever fit the crime of what was done to me. And the worst part is, I did this to myself.

I used to channel all the focus, drive, ambition, and discipline I had with every calorie I counted, towards my goals and dreams, my ambitions, my talents, and my hobbies. The things that made me amazing. The things that made me belong. The things that made me real. There is nothing more painful than being forced to watch your temple crumble around you, bringing down with it everything you loved and worked so hard to build. It should come as no surprise that without these things to work towards, I started counting again.

I’ve lost weight again. I rediscovered old numbers again. Never mind the fact that I’m 2 kg away from being clinically underweight, my doctor seemed pleased when she saw my numbers. There is something about the ED diagnosis that stands out from every other clinical disorder we have in the DSM. It’s ego-syntonic for a reason. It’s really one of the only mental health disorders you can be praised (implicitly so) for having. My life is falling apart. But no matter, because according to everyone else, “I still look so good.”

I am diagnosed with a diagnosis that has no cure and a very poor prognosis and a treatment that might kill me, physically, psychologically, and spiritually, only to get a recurrence of this diagnosis again and again and again. Losing all control cannot begin to describe this feeling.

Somehow, I have convinced myself that everything will be okay, as long as I. Don’t. Gain. Weight. After all, I may be in a great deal of pain and unable to do anything that meant anything to me, but at least I have a hot body. That is what I am told. “You certainly don’t look like you’re unwell. You don’t look like you haven’t been able to work out. You look great.”

I want to scream.

I know I need to eat again to gain the strength to face the challenges ahead. But I can’t stop thinking… it’s bad enough that you have a disability, do you need to be fat too?

Nothing forces you to challenge every core belief you have and learn how to love yourself unconditionally more than gaining a disability can.