Looking through my childhood photo albums usually raises two emotions: sadness and longing.
There is sadness for the little girl whose father made her run laps on hot New Mexico summer afternoons. When she threw up, he said she was lazy.
I long to explain it’s not her fault he’s so angry and that her body is beautiful.
Throughout my marriage, I, for the most part, didn’t binge and restrict—my go-to eating disorder behavior. In college, I used to be bulimic, but after seeing blood and bloodshot eyes, I scared myself into stopping.
I also didn’t want my boyfriend/future husband to think something was wrong with me. Weight gain of any kind was torture. Because my ex made it clear he liked a specific type, I used strict diet and exercise programs throughout our relationship.
I hid my insecurities around food and my body image for years.
When a psychologist diagnosed me with anorexia nervosa, autism, and bipolar II just before the pandemic, I dismissed the eating disorder.
Bipolar II turned out to be masked autism and unresolved cPTSD from childhood and marital trauma.
I went on a mission to understand how my autistic brain worked and began recovery with a trauma therapist.