If you’re reading this, slow progress is still progress.
My mental health journey started before I can remember– I was only 3 years old when my ongoing fight with food began. My mother says as soon as I could say the word “no”, it was the only word I’d use at the table. I refused to eat, and I would fall asleep at the dinner table because I couldn’t leave my seat until I finished. As I grew older, I immediately regurgitated most foods I ate in protest. I separated each meal on numerous plates, refused to use the same utensil for different foods, had difficulty swallowing foods with varying textures, and didn’t try foods based on appearance. During this time, my father was deployed and my mother was exhausted from taking care of my brother and me. Around age 10, Mum gave up forcing meals on me and it became my responsibility to make my own dinners. Mum still packed me a PB&J for lunch, which I had for 13 years straight (because that’s the only thing I could eat).
At age 17, my condition was misdiagnosed as General Anxiety Disorder. I was prescribed medications that not only worsened my symptoms but introduced additional side effects including insomnia, night sweats, migraines, fainting, and panic attacks. This was a pivotal time in my life; medication side effects and my anxiety, coupled with struggling in school and the pressure of making decisions about college added further stress. Additionally, my parents were monitoring my weight at home – you can imagine what this did to a teenage girl’s confidence. When the fainting spells started, I saw every doctor possible, but diagnoses were inconclusive. Finally, at 18, a new therapist diagnosed me with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). She explained to me that not only does this explain my endless cycle of intrusive thoughts and urges, but it also explains much of my disordered eating. Most of my OCD is not blatantly visible; I have intrusive thoughts, specific schedules, the inability to touch door handles, etc. However, most people notice how I eat, which can be traced back to OCD. With a diagnosis, I was finally able to understand that my behavior and thoughts are not crazy, and others have been in my shoes.
I am now 22 years old and have lived on my own for 4 years at a college over 1,500 miles away from home. I have seen numerous therapists and dietitians but never seemed to make much progress with my eating. I always neglected my small victories because those close to me did. I have never been able to eat a fruit or vegetable, but when I was 19, I began exposure therapy with strawberries. Each week I progressed closer to trying them, and when I finally took my first bite, I swallowed it. You may be thinking, “Now you can do what everyone else has always been able to do,” and that’s how almost everyone in my life treated my success. For example, my family mentioned it was “about time” and told me I should move on to salad. My best friends would ask, “How could you not like strawberries, they’re like candy?
The biggest successes in combating my OCD weren’t seen as significant accomplishments to anyone else, and it hurt me. One day, I was supposed to eat three strawberries as part of my therapy plan and after eating one, I struggled to keep it down. While I was sitting on the floor of my dorm room crying, my roommate suddenly walked in and grabbed my hand. She held a strawberry in her opposite hand, and said, “Let’s do it together.” We finished 2 more strawberries and she shared how proud she was, reminding me of how far I’ve come. I burst into tears; I had never searched for someone else’s approval, but after hearing her supportive words I realized I’m allowed to be proud of myself. I know most people are never going to fully understand what I go through, but I will never be on this journey alone. I celebrate every victory, small or large, and I recently celebrated 1 year without counting calories or weighing myself. I couldn’t be prouder, and I’m celebrating with an extra cookie.
Zoë Voettiner, Colorado College ‘22
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