Memories of my Body
Eating disorders come with memory biases, memory loss, and a weird superhuman ability to never let anything go.
I remember everything you’ve ever said about my body.
By “you,” I mean everyone. The teachers, the doctors, my parents, my friends. But also the Tumblr blogs, the diet books, Tyra Banks.
I remember everything everyone has ever said about my body.
By “my body,” I also mean your body, and all bodies, plus all the things you put in them and put them through.
I remember everything everyone has ever said about all bodies, and I want to forget.
Second grade, Natalie Erbe, indoor recess: I can pick anyone up if they weigh less than 60 pounds. It wasn’t cruel or even directed at me, but weighing almost 90, I knew then that I was too heavy for Natalie Erbe to pick up, and it meant I mattered less somehow.
Sixth grade, Colin Scheele, art class: you know we call you big Becca, right? A friend’s mother, tragically out of context: you wouldn’t be fat if you lost ten pounds. And after I lost all that weight, my gym teacher, in front of the entire locker room: you got taller this summer! I swore off eating the rest of the year.
“The teachers, the doctors, my parents, my friends. But also the Tumblr blogs, the diet books, Tyra Banks. I remember everything everyone has ever said about my body.”
To keep pointing fingers would be a waste of time, or worse, lazy writing. The crux of it is, for as long as I’ve known what it means to remember, I’ve prioritized all the things worth forgetting.
This is a key difference between disordered eating and eating disorders, as I understand it. Normal brains may pick up disordered habits or information, but disordered brains are wired to retain that information, to prioritize it above all else, to build an identity around the habits that keep the disease alive. Calorie counts. Friends’ jeans sizes. How to pose so your arms look thin. It’s exhausting just to know these things, but the only way I’ve ever not remembered is by not eating at all. My memory from the Hungry Years is blank apart from the caloric addition problems in notebook margins. I didn’t even retain the names of anyone who kept me alive—the dietitians, therapists, doctors, not even anyone in my support group, although I remember when the second girl died, no one cried like they did with the first. There but by the grace of recovery go I.
I sometimes worry about my memory and how much longer I’ll have it. My grandma developed Alzheimer’s in her 60s, which is young, but not compared to 25, when the doctors gave me an uncomfortable diagnosis: the Hungry Years did damage to my memory that cannot be undone. A scar from the worst of the war. Maybe that’s why I write: to preserve something for my future, forgetful self. My childhood bedroom is stacked high with journals documenting the years after I graduated outpatient—the first time I could order a latte* or finish a doughnut**. Daily occurrences for some, landmarks for me, with occasional addition problems in the margins, although fewer with time.
“When the second girl died, no one cried like they did with the first. There but by the grace of recovery go I.”
My disorder is like a memory—sometimes vivid, sometimes distant. It never completely goes away, but it does get quieter if I can steer myself in the right direction, remembering kinder words that have been spoken about my body. A lover, after she saw me naked for the first time: you’re like a woman in a renaissance painting. A doctor, letting me forgo the scale: you don’t have to do anything with your body that you don’t want to. Shelby, my bodybuilding coach, regarding my deadlift: Your form looks great. Quit doubting yourself, lock your lats, and go.
If remembering is the thing I’m best at, doubting myself is a close second. I have a career I adore and a family who supports me. I have love and friends and health and travel. I have colorful memories spilling out of me—when I write, when I speak, when I sing, when I laugh. And, as of today, I am at the highest weight I’ve seen since I first started shrinking, and because of it, I doubt if I’m really successful at all.
“My disorder is like a memory—sometimes vivid, sometimes distant. It never completely goes away, but it does get quieter if I can steer myself in the right direction”
On the days when I cry while getting dressed, I remind myself how I’m rearranging my priorities, giving my body a backseat to the pursuit of better memories. I am deliberately crafting my life in a way I know I’ll look back on fondly. I am doing things worth remembering and going places worth talking about. There are mountains to climb, and my knees will never work better than they do right now. And still, I doubt. I wonder if I’d have more fun if my favorite jeans still fit. I wonder if people would like me more. I wonder if I’d be more memorable. I miss my thinnest self the way I miss the two girls from my support group who died. How much does grief weigh when you don’t remember what you lost?
The body I live in now is not my body forever, but I refuse to sacrifice any more of my memory to a body that I will eventually forget I ever had. Maybe I’ll lose some weight again, or I could gain back twice as much. I just need to know how I became that way. I just need to remember.
*Redacted college professor, in re: my coffee order: People complain that lattes are a lot of calories, but not if you don’t eat! Sage advice I lived by for years.
**Ed Hutter, fifth grade, when someone brought in doughnuts for their birthday treat: My mom says these have enough fat for an entire week!
Thank you for sharing your story, Becca. In ways you’ll never know, it helped me with my own story. You are one of the best people I have the privilege of knowing.