Being an Athlete With an Eating Disorder

DISCLAIMER:  If talking about exercise triggers you, I would refrain from reading this blog post. Even though I speak truthfully of the negative results of some choices I made, I know I've been in places where just hearing what other people have done has put me on a negative path. So please use your honest judgment and wise mind if you think this might be triggering. 

Having an eating disorder, unfortunately, is extremely common among female athletes. The only unique thing in what you're about to read is that it's my story. I'm sharing thoughts with you here that humble me and I don't tend to share with people. They are vulnerable, confusing, and make me want to hide under a rock. At this point in my life, I figured since the ugliest parts of me that make me want to hide have circulated with the last people in the world I would ever want to have hearing them, I don't mind sharing this part of my heart with my own community, who I trust and might even be able to relate to parts of it. So here goes. 

Having an eating disorder with "athlete" being part of my identity is one of the most complicated issues I've dealt with. I love to run. From the very first cross country practice I went to when the coach knew my name, I fell in love with running… I think. I loved being on a team. The camaraderie was everything - I still have pre-meet notes from teammates hanging on my walls at home. I loved praise from coaches. I loved accomplishment, I loved being in the woods, playing games on easy day runs with teammates, pushing each other on harder days… and most of all I loved learning that I could do things I never realized before were possible. From the first time I did the warm up, realized that wasn't practice, and then did a whole practice after; to running in storms, to the first time I broke 12 minutes in the 2 mile, to the first time I ran more than 13 miles. Then 14, at the same pace I had been running 6. Then 16.. 18... And so on. Each feat did wonders for my self esteem, which in turn complicated where my self worth was coming from. 

Every milestone taught me I was capable of more than I ever imagined, which gave me the confidence and mental stamina to fight through and champion over other challenges.

Mind you, while some of these things were wonderful like writing a book, fighting my eating disorder out of hospitals and treatment centers, fighting through classes I wasn't doing well in, sticking it out to study and get good grades despite doing poorly my first semester, managing working 30 hours while taking 5 hard classes… some of the things were not so great. Things like severely restricting my food for months on end and still running, waking up at 3:15 in the morning to go on runs in windy hail and 11 degree weather around a reservoir hidden by trees without having been eating, running through pain and hunger, etc. Things I should not have known I was capable of. 

I chose not to run in college partially because I did not think I could stay in recovery from my eating disorder while running for my school's team. By doing that, although it was the best decision… it felt like a defining moment of taking on my identity as an eating disorder. 

I want to share with you what's been hidden behind my obsession with the sport, that on the outside may have looked like a natural relationship with running. 

I ran all through high school, but I used to hope and pray I would get injured often before races. Sometimes I still do that. To have a "legitimate" reason to drop out.

I've run 5 marathons and a handful of other big races, yet sometimes I get too paralyzed from fear to go outside for a very short easy run, that I don't even keep track of my pace on. Sometimes I don't think I am capable of finishing them. And I know I'll hate myself if I don't.

Before workouts I can spend the whole day before in panic, and at times before long runs I have to have long internal conversations with myself, talking myself down from anxiety and into a headspace that convinces me to go out. After getting my mom to convince me I don't have to if I don't want to.  

I often wonder… how much of this is just "normal runner feelings," and how much of this is driven by fear and compulsion? 

Because what's my real internal dialogue?

"If you don't do this run, you can't eat. If you don't hit your times, you will be the biggest loser to everyone you know. This is all you have. This is all people believe you are and that you're good at. You have nothing to say for yourself. This is the only reason people talk to you. If you do not hit a strong marathon time, you are a failure, and everyone you know will look down on you. Everyone you care about and love will be so disappointed in you and who you are. This is a test of character. You are a weak, dramatic, sick human being." 

I don't exactly know for sure that this is the internal dialogue of a runner who has a little bit of nerves before a run. Or, what one might call, a "healthy relationship with running." 

I used to not understand how someone could struggle to go out for a run. When I am overcome with exercise addiction, runs are part of my schedule and non-negotiable. At one point going to church was more negotiable than runs - which is saying a lot for me.  I have almost no in between from my addiction to complete anxiety and paralyzation; and no matter what, the dialogue inside of me is generally abusive.  

This past Monday would have been my 4th Boston Marathon, and my 6th marathon. I have a lot of feelings about that. Do you want to know the truth? I didn't really want to run another marathon. I've taken a year off due to doctor's orders, and they didn't want me running Boston either. But it's part of my identity. My identity? Or my eating disorder's identity?

After high school I didn't want people to know I was marathon training, or even a runner really.

I had an extreme amount of guilt. I was seriously medically compromised and I chose to train for my first marathon. People who didn't know the truth were building me up and were so excited for me, and I carried loads of guilt everywhere I went. I was scaring my mom, my family, and my doctors. I was congratulated when I would run strong race times, and I never knew how to take it. I certainly didn't want to be congratulated for doing the wrong thing. I did not want running to be my identity... at the time it was just keeping me to eat. It was just what I did. 

But "athlete" was what people knew me as. It was what made me feel worthy and seen.

I was forced into an appointment with a sports doctor while I was serving with CityYear - I worked with inner city kids in their schools and I was only in a night program for my eating disorder as I had left day treatment against recommendations in order to go back to work.

I left work early that Wednesday night to go to the appointment that I was mad about. After I explained to the doctor that I was forced to have this appointment and didn't exactly know why I was there but I'm a runner and was told I need a doctor, she looked at me with horror all over her face and exclaimed "you aren't an athlete, you're just running with an eating disorder!" 

I was very put off by that. I didn't understand what she meant, and she took away my identity with those words, giving me the other identity that was taking over me. The eating disorder.

She was completely right. 

She asked me "How are you getting home? You DROVE here? Oh my gosh. I'm not comfortable with you taking yourself home. I'm not even comfortable with you leaving." She was frantic, afraid. I was confused. Annoyed. Had no idea what she was so upset about. 

Despite my blatant disregard for my own health, people tried to meet me where I was at. My case manager in treatment tried to treat me like an athlete. She tried to separate my 2 identities. I said my body didn't feel good and she was holding her tongue not to say "It's because you're overtraining and undereating, dummy," but asked questions instead. Said she was trying to see if it was the general "I just don't feel like it today" which is how normal runners handle those days, or if my body couldn't take it. I secretly wanted someone, somehow, to force me to stop. Yet, no one could stop me. My eating disorder was too great. It was not satisfied with anyone's pleas or concerns.

I remember sitting on my mom's bed trying to find any way to make myself comfortable with postponing a run. Not even canceling it and reducing mileage, just postponing it to the next day. I looked up "reasons not to run" and found a video of 2 women giving me reasons why I shouldn't go on a run that day.

After that summer I was finally eating to run, until I got another stress fracture and bit my tongue wondering how I was going to live through that one. I was training for another marathon, and had to drop out. I didn't relapse, because I biked my heart out and swam the equivalent of what my runs would have been.  

The most depressed I've ever been was the winter I hardly ran. I had finished the NYC marathon in early November by the skin of my teeth, and it was my worst race up to that point amidst my life circumstances. I went through the darkest, most difficult trial I hope I will ever need to go through, and then the Boston Marathon was coming along in April. I took a couple months of not running between New York and Boston. That was the least I'd run since middle school. I was cripplingly depressed. 

This wasn't the depressed I had been when I was obsessive and couldn't go a day without running without extreme anxiety. It wasn't the exercise addiction. It was severe depression. My dietitian single handedly got me through this time of my life.  I really would just cry through appointments, which at the time were monthly. Besides her, God was the only one I could trust and who I could talk to without fear. I was doing poorly in school and dropped some classes. I worked some. I was having nightmares and wasn't sleeping but somehow I couldn't make it to work on time even though I was officially up by 5:00 AM after giving up trying to sleep.  I used to be so afraid of tardiness I would show up places an hour early. I wasn't myself. (Not gonna lie, ever since then that fear never returned. For better, or for worse? I may never know...).

With the marathon approaching there were weeks I only ran once.  Weeks I only ran twice. 3-4 times was the most I ever ran. 3 days a week was maybe the average, but often 1-2 short runs.  I did not do any speed, maybe went on 2 long runs. This is in comparison to strictly training 6 high mileage days a week with specific workouts I could not psychologically stray from. 

Want to know what's funny? My relationship with food was the healthiest it had ever been, even though I was hardly running. I was just too exhausted to care. 

My Physician Assistant attributed the sluggishness and difficulty running to overtraining syndrome. I thought she made it up, but eventually realized It was an honest diagnosis. I shouldn't have run race after race without an off training season, it was too much. I was not physically taking care of myself. This was a necessary, although disheartening low. 

Isn't it a coincidence how strong my relationship with food was when I wasn't running? But my running-to-eat problem was not solved, because I knew a race was coming. I never allow my races to be compromised by my food restriction, so I eat enough to perform well. What happens when I don't perform? When there's no race in sight? 

I relapse. That's what happened immediately following the Boston Marathon last year. I had a minor relapse. The eating disorder's reasoning is that If I have no race in sight, I have no reason to care for myself. Boston turned out to be the worst race I ever ran, which gave the eating disorder more fuel to put me down with and to force me back into a strict regimen.  

As aforementioned, choosing not to run in college had stripped me down to my identity as an eating disorder. I couldn't hide behind "athlete". I couldn't be a college athlete without compromising my mental health. But at the same time, I have had all this time to wonder: Do I enjoy running? 

My dietitian and I agree that it helps me. It keeps my head clear. It maintains my mental stability. Does it do that because of the endorphins, or because I can't not exercise and be okay? There aren't straightforward answers right now. I know there was a time I enjoyed running, and I still get glimpses here and there. Maybe it isn't so clear cut. I am working towards a healthy balance. Working towards the ability to not have a race and still eat when I run. To be able to take time off from running without relapsing. To be able to miss a run and not experience a downward spiral. Right now, my running is controlled. I'm given a limit and am being monitored. It's been this way since I relapsed last summer, and I am okay with that. I understand I need accountability. 

Ultimately, I have a hard time believing I would be running a set amount of miles per week just for fun. I think when I really love it again, I'll be off-season, no strings attached, and just go out when it feels right. 

 There's a thin line between discipline and obsession, and it takes strength and impressive mindfulness to avoid crossing it. But I want my love and passion back. At this moment now - I don't want discipline. I want joy, freedom, passion. I want the old wind beneath my wings. 

The last time I felt it was when I finally started fueling for my runs - and realized the ice cream and cookie I had consumed the night before gave me more energy and I had one of my best feeling runs. Even my times were better! Eating, and eating what my body was CRAVING and ASKING for, made me run with energy and life again. Not eating an allotted amount but eating when I was hungry until I was satiated. This was short lived...because I got injured shortly after, and eventually it became about my body again. But I have the memory and hope to hold onto. 

So, why do I run? The answer right now, is I don't know. But I'm trying to learn and figure it out. 

This is the truth, as ugly as it is. 

And I want you to know if you've had any of the feelings I've mentioned about running and you've been embarrassed or afraid to admit it, don't be. If you want to know if it's normal - I have no idea. I certainly don't think my story is normal. But you aren't alone. And I've accepted my story. I accept yours. I see you, and you are not alone. We will figure this out together. Clearly I don't have answers, as it is all so complicated, intertwined, and individual. If you relate to any of this, I would think more about your intentions so you can find freedom. If you want to share parts of your story, I would be honored to be your witness. As I carry on with my journey, you will be the first to know what I learn.