Not-So-Good Mo(u)rnings: Depression & Eating Disorders
“I dread going to sleep because I dread waking up.”
In this post, I share some reflections on my experience navigating depressive episodes while in the midst of recovering from an eating disorder and living with severe chronic pain.
Disclaimer: My negative relationship with food and my body is also deeply entangled with exercise; as such, this newsletter does contain discussions about movement and how shifting my workout habits played a major role in the development of my depression. I understand that this topic might be triggering for you and where you’re currently at in your journey, so I completely understand if you need to sit this post out. Do what is best for you (without guilt!). 🖤
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My (lack of) experience with depression before committing to ED recovery:
I’ll be completely honest with you - prior to the past year or so, I was privately a tad judgemental about depression. I had plenty of experience with anxiety and panic attacks; I knew firsthand how exhausting an OCD-related spiral could be. I, of course, had immense empathy for those battling EDs, as any sort of body- or food-related issues are profoundly difficult and I desperately wish no one experienced them. However, when it came to depression… I had a tougher time accessing that same level of deep empathy, since I didn’t have personal experience with it. I tried to be as compassionate and understanding as possible when someone I knew shared that they were having a depressive episode, but I didn’t really “get” what was going on.
My thoughts and feelings about depression radically shifted about a year ago, after I fully committed to my ED recovery. Part of my recovery journey included letting go of the coping mechanisms that were actively causing me harm. Meaning, I had used restricting caloric intake and over-exercising as ways to manage my anxiety and OCD for years - even though these coping mechanisms were objectively harmful for my body and my overall health, they nonetheless felt safe and familiar to me, given that I had relied on them for such a long time. So, when those coping mechanisms were no longer accessible to me (i.e. I made the conscious decision to stop under-eating and over-exercising), things rapidly went downhill (at least from a mental/emotional wellbeing perspective). I started doing the opposite of what my brain was telling me to do (i.e. When the ED shouted “Stop eating! You’ve eaten too much,” I kept eating until I was full and satiated. When it said, “You need to get outside and go for a long walk to burn off those calories,” I rested). Resisting those compulsive responses to my ED was (and truthfully still is!) tremendously hard. It felt impossible to simultaneously resist engaging in the behaviors and routines that had previously given me a (false) sense of control and comfort while also managing debilitating chronic pain; I wanted to give up so many times.1 Needless to say, about a year or so ago, the confluence of all these factors led me to feeling profoundly depressed.
ED recovery + severe chronic pain = depression (in my experience):
My days used to revolve around moving my body as much as possible. A few years ago, it would have been unimaginable for me to begin my day without a workout. My class and work schedules, appointments, meetings, etc. all revolved around running, riding the peloton, and going to yoga/pilates classes; additionally, taking a long walk was an essential part of my day - if I didn’t workout and get in X amount of steps, it was going to be a very, very bad day. I share all of this only to give some context about why choosing recovery felt like such a significant sacrifice. After I did some honest self-reflecting and I acknowledged that my relationship with food was likely not going to improve unless I also addressed my relationship with exercise, I knew that taking an open-ended break from working out was the best decision for me.2 (I still very much was thinking about food as something that needed to be “earned” or “burned” off). Thus, this decision meant that I went from always obeying the commands of the ED voice (which was telling me to physically move my body as much as possible) to forcing myself to rest as much as possible. Yet, I think it’s important for me to emphasize that the ED voice didn’t change its directions; rather, I was still incessantly thinking about working out, but now I was fighting hard to do the exact opposite.3 The amount of inner turmoil and dissonance that this created was overwhelming, as you can imagine (or perhaps you unfortunately know firsthand).
Given this stark shift in my activity levels, combined with the fact that I was actively eating more, I started to feel as though I had nothing to “look forward to” during the day. Consequently, I began dreading going to sleep every night - I knew that, after I woke up the following morning, the entire day ahead of me would be a battle. For a long time, I felt as though I was stuck in a never-ending “lose-lose” situation: each morning after I woke up, I immediately remembered that I wasn’t going to over-exercise and restrict (which is what I wanted to do). Instead, I had to nourish my body and rest (which is what I did not want to do, even though I knew rationally that these things were best for my health). It’s relevant to note that my severe chronic pain added another complicated layer to this mess; I was tremendously frustrated with my brain (meaning, my inability to think about food and movement in a balanced, non-disordered way) and I was also angry at my body for not responding to the numerous pain treatments I had received. This convergence of such extreme mental and physical distress was rough, to say the least.
During the first several months of my (indefinite) exercise break, I felt hopeless. I didn’t want to get out of bed and have to exist in such extreme discomfort all day; however, I also didn’t really feel better if I stayed in bed all day. I’ve had many instances over the course of my recovery journey where I’ve felt as though recovery isn’t actually going to be worth what it’s costing me. In some of my lowest moments, I’ve claimed that I don’t actually want to recover (and I’ve sincerely meant it!).
Everyone’s experience with depression obviously looks different. I find it fairly difficult to adequately put into words the intensity of the despair and dread that I’ve felt during my worst bouts of depression. An additional source of frustration for me stems from “rationally” knowing that I have so much to be grateful for; I know that others out there are dealing with even more challenging circumstances and haven’t been afforded as many privileges as me. Despite this awareness, however, I still experience depressive episodes and I sometimes have a miserable attitude (which then makes me feel even more frustrated - a relentless cycle). I know that wishing away my days is no way to live; but, especially during the first part of this year, I’ve felt as though my daily quality of life was too low.
This all sounds pretty gloomy. Is there any hope?:
I wish fiercely (!!!) that there was something someone could say or do when you feel like this that would make things better. As much as you can remind yourself that these feelings are going to subside and it will get easier, I recognize that this doesn’t ultimately change how you’re feeling in the moment. I do think that - sometimes - the only way out is through (and, I know it can be infuriating to be told this). I still have a lot of days where I feel trapped in the “lose-lose” situation I describe above. I often really don’t want to do the opposite of what my ED is telling me to do, and it’s still difficult to do the things that I recognize are fundamentally best for my health. But, I’ll admit that the intensity of my dread, despair, misery, etc. has decreased. I do feel like things are shifting (albeit much more slowly than I’d like). I also do know that the present discomfort that accompanies changing your habits is ultimately temporary; furthermore, consistent, small steps do add up to considerable change over time.
I don’t share any of this because I’m trying to complain or to promote being pessimistic; I also don’t want to imply that recovery is holistically negative. Rather, I’m only sharing my experience in an effort to help normalize feeling this way. Everyone’s recovery journey is obviously unique, and I’m tremendously happy for those who haven’t felt like this. BUT, for those out there who are currently feeling this way - you are NOT alone. You aren’t abnormal. You aren’t doing something “wrong.” If you’re feeling as though everyone else has it figured out, please know that this simply isn’t the case (I don’t! I’m still really struggling!). Let this be your reminder that, if you’re trying to improve your relationship with food and your body, it’s actually a sign of progress that things feel hard and uncomfortable - this means that you ARE changing (because change is intrinsically different)!
If you’ve made it this far, thank you so so so much for spending some of your valuable time reading this - I’m honored you’re here. Also, you ARE brave and resilient. Cheering you on in your journey to overcome mental and/or physical hurdles!
If you’re interested in reading more about my specific experience with chronic pain, I have two blog posts that you can check out here and here.
Please know that I’m not sharing this to suggest that you need to do the same things that I’m doing or that your recovery journey should follow a similar trajectory. There is NOT one right way to recover and every individual’s relationship with food and exercise is unique; as such, please know that I absolutely believe you should do what feels best for you! This was simply the right decision for me, which I came to on my own after lots of critical reflection. I do know that there are many people who can and do recover from EDs while incorporating a balanced and reasonable amount of movement into their routines - if this is the case for you, that’s wonderful! It just wasn’t my personal experience.
Do you have any preferences when it comes to referring to an “ED voice?” I’m very conflicted about the best way to describe this. I’ve sometimes used the “rational” versus “irrational” dichotomy, which I like. I do think it’s important to use language that emphasizes how the disordered or irrational voice isn’t my authentic voice. If you have any suggestions or thoughts about this, I’d love to hear them!