A year into eating disorder recovery and I’m healthier than I’ve been in nearly two decades, but there are moments I desperately miss the numbing sensation of full-blown bulimia. Last week, I found myself wanting to escape the sharp, prickly world. I’ve always been a sensitive human, I feel everything intensely—joy, rage, grief, fear. To feel everything so deeply is akin to hiking bare-legged through cacti-lined trails while everyone else forges on unfazed because they are wearing pants.
As a child, I was often described as too sensitive, so I learned to adapt by dulling the intensity with food. My mom used to hide boxes of cookies because I would eat an entire package in one sitting. For years food served as a sedative, but like many coping mechanisms, it became maladaptive, detrimental to my long-term survival.
When I entered my outpatient program, I dreamt of who I would be on the other side. I imagined a life of freedom. Most representations of recovery from eating disorders discuss the grueling process of their initial recovery but rarely showcase the lifelong struggle of sensitive humans have to feel rather than escape through numbing. Before beginning treatment, I thought it would be three months of intensive deconstruction, and then I would be “healed.” I was unprepared for having to find alternative, adaptive coping skills to replace what I’d spent a lifetime repressing.
My therapist warned me of this. She told me while we could find new coping strategies, they would not offer the same sensations of numbing and control as my eating disorder. I found this news terrifying. Over the last sixteen months, I’ve worked to develop strategies to remain present and grounded while mitigating the sharpness of feeling so intensely, but I find myself at times wanting to find other forms of anesthesia.
Social media scrolling, a cocktail or two, binge watching episodes of The Office or Parks and Recreation can become slippery slopes if I’m not mindful. In a society where we’re encouraged to suppress our pain for the sake of productivity and appearance, it feels counterintuitive not to do it. Lately, I’ve felt more of an inclination than usual. I’m mindful of how much I consume of the news, but even in bite-size chunks, it feels particularly bleak. When I find myself tempted by that old eating disorder voice, I remind myself of a quote a friend shared with me a few years ago when I was bemoaning how it seemed being human felt so much harder for me than for others:
It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.
-Jiddu Krishnamurti
Those of us who struggle with eating disorders, addiction, mental illness, chronic illness, burnout, etc. are often made to feel like we are less resilient. The onus of recovery is put on the individual rather than on a derelict society founded on inequity, corporate consumption, individualism, and exploitation. It’s a reality I’m still learning how to accept.
The world is a brutal, beautiful place to navigate, particularly for a highly sensitive, neurodivergent human. I want to remain aware, to advocate for social justice and human rights while maintaining my own well-being. It’s something I still haven’t figured out how to balance. For now I’m learning to walk along cacti-lined paths bare-legged and sensing when I need scenic breaks along the way.
How do you balance feeling/existing in a world where we bear witness to pain and suffering outside our own on a daily basis? Do you struggle, do you numb? I look forward to kind, gentle conversation in the comments.
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Hey Danielle,
Thank you for sharing such a raw and courageous account of your journey. Your words echo in a way that resonates deeply with me. I recognize the sharp contrast between society's expectations and the intricate realities of navigating recovery. For years, I also relied on various numbing strategies—my version of 'pants' against the metaphorical cacti of feeling too much. The path to recovery is so much more than just a deconstruction of maladaptive habits; it's about learning how to coexist with sensitivity and finding that precarious balance of feeling without succumbing to overwhelming pain.
One note from my own journey: there was a time I struggled to understand how I would exist in a world that seemed to reward self-erasure, mistaking it for strength. It took years of unlearning to redefine what being resilient meant for me—learning that resilience is not just about endurance but about being present with one’s vulnerability. You beautifully articulated that duality. Your words remind me of how crucial it is to keep walking, even when it feels like I'm barefoot on those cacti trails, pausing when necessary, but never abandoning myself again.
With deep appreciation and a shared commitment to the struggle and growth,
Jay
Such a beautiful and revealing essay, Danielle, and thank you. I'm in a particularly weird space right now, struggling a bit with my feelings and my eating disordered behaviors. Through my recovery work, I've been able to find tools and a certain amount of freedom from my ED, but I feel like I may need to take a break from the program I'm currently in. Through it, I've learned so much about myself, about my negative core beliefs and how to love myself more than I ever had previously. What I've uncovered is that the root of all of my maladaptive coping mechanisms is from childhood and continued trauma. Because I'm doing a 12 Step program and I believe in their efficacy, I think that the next right thing for me might be to pursue a program that addresses adult children of dysfunctional parents. That's where my ED came from. It feels more specific to my issues. I've always been hypersensitive to life situations and people, but didn't know what to do with my feelings of helplessness other than to bury discomfort with food and other distractions.