When I was younger and I first became ill, went through treatment, and the whole shebang, I toyed with the idea of writing a book about my experiences one day. As a teenager I began reading memoirs about other people's experiences with eating disorders and I felt both comforted in knowing that I was not alone and challenged with the idea that suddenly the thing that had become a large part of my identity, was no longer just mine.
As I've gotten older, I've become much less attached to the idea of writing any kind of memoir solely based on my struggles. I do write about my experiences (as in the case of this blog), but I try to do so thoughtfully for the reason that there are ways in which detailing one's experiences can (although not necessarily,) add to unhelpful stereotypes about eating disorders. Of course, there is always more work for me to do - continued learning and reflection are ongoing practices, not one-and-done accomplishments.
On the one hand writing can be a helpful way to explore experiences and share them. Struggle is the backbone of many storylines because it provides the opportunity to explore some of the most basic aspects of being human that we all share: the hardships and lessons to be learned. Writing can serve as a means to make meaning out of (and cope with) the pain that life can sometimes bring. However, the other side of finding the beauty in pain, is the danger of making pain seem beautiful. That kind of framing of pain and struggle can lead to some dangerous places, namely romanticization.
ROMANTICIZATION
When I think of romanticization, I always go back to Leslie Jamison's essay on Female Pain and the idea of being a "wound dweller." In the essay, Jamison delves into the idea of pain as performance and how pain is still real pain, even if it is (in some sense) performed and based on "seeking attention." Jamison balances this perspective with critical commentary on the idea of pain as something “trendy” to try on - as if it makes one interesting. It's an excellent essay for anyone who has time to explore it (as is her whole book, "The Empathy Exams.")
There was a period of time when I was deeply absorbed in being ill; there have been other times in my life when my illness was all-absorbing. However, this latter experience is slightly, if importantly, different. This is not uncommon in those who struggle with eating disorders; it is often a sign of someone being deeply in need of some kind of support and connection to community, whether they have an eating disorder or not.
When I was obsessed with my own sickness, it was something I walked hand-in-hand with, although I wasn't always aware I was doing this. I was both proud and ashamed of being sick. I felt it made me special, though it also isolated me. As many individuals with eating disorders know, there are a number of paradoxes that exist side-by-side, within this struggle.
This was a stage in my life where I would read and re-read Kafka's "The Hunger Artist," imagining that I too was some kind of misunderstood artist. There was a sense of superiority there that was dangerous to flirt with, but I was desperate to feel some sense of control and self-efficacy. In truth, it is argued whether Kafka was celebrating the artist or making an ironic commentary on artistic pretensions. I tend to think the latter now, but when I first read the piece, it suited my biases to believe the former. (Interesting aside, some researchers have suggested Kafka may have suffered from an eating disorder himself.)
This idea of the tortured and misunderstood artist is not new and it has been applied to many artists, throughout history (Van Gogh, Kurt Cobain, Virginia Wolf, Amy Winehouse, Sylvia Plath, and so on.) These romanticized portrayals of the tortured artist are incredibly damaging and largely false. Comedian Jacqueline Novak tackles this idea in her book "How to Weep in Public: Feeble Offerings on Depression." It's not that these people didn't struggle with serious mental health issues, that they didn't contribute great works of art, or that those two things might have been connected to some degree, but there is a fine line between finding meaning in struggle and celebrating suffering to the point that it becomes trendy. Despite the stereotypes, it is well documented that Van Gogh painted Starry Night when he was receiving treatment and in a more stable place with his own demons.
Still, it has become commonplace to see people revel in the idea that suffering makes their lives significant. I understand this because I've done this, and perhaps some of it is related to the age and stage of life someone is in. I don‘t mean to imply that exploring personal pain is wrong; I think it is a very human thing to do. However, I do think there is a difference between noticing pain or expressing it, and setting up camp in the thick of it.
Essentially, I don't think one has to be tortured to be an artist and I think that idea is very dangerous. Suffering doesn't make you significant: sometimes you can find a lesson in life's pain, but other times it just hurts. Furthermore, pain does not make you important on this earth, you are already important and your best self is where you deserve to live your life.
What I have seen with the romanticization of eating disorders is the tendency to frame the experience in a particular aesthetic and the perpetuation of stereotypes (often unintentionally.) There have been changes over time to the eating disorder stereotype - for example, it has a less religious focus nowadays (versus the days of “anorexia mirabilis,”) but some of those nuances remain. If you look in "pro" eating disorder spaces (which are rampant online and I don’t recommend doing,) a lot of the content focuses on thin, young, white, middle-class, and cisgender women.
While eating disorders do impact this population, this imagery ignores other populations and builds up the stereotype that eating disorders only look like this. Most people do not realize that the majority of those who struggle with eating disorders are not underweight. The most well known eating disorder, anorexia nervosa (often romanticized in the media) is actually the least common. Furthermore, anorexia nervosa (AN) doesn’t only occur in those who are "underweight" - although the most current DSM (V) still does not recognize this, and classes these presentations as atypical AN (a prime example of fatphobia and weight stigma in medicine.)
In actual fact, Binge Eating Disorder and Otherwise Specified Feeding and Eating Disorders are far more common than AN, but receive far less focus and many individuals struggle to access treatment (or may not even be aware they have an eating disorder.) I highly recommend exploring the work of Sam Dylan Finch and other content creators on this topic.
I remember seeing a TED talk by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie ("The Danger of a Single Story") in which she described growing up in Nigeria and writing stories with white protagonists and snowy landscapes. She did so because these were the stories she had read and thus, the stories she thought she had to write. I think a similar thing can happen when people write about their eating disorder or express the experience in artistic forms (though on a smaller scale). People are more willing to write about what is socially acceptable and is the dominant storyline that is portrayed, than to write about other aspects of eating disorders. For example, people are more willing to talk about restrictive behaviours and/or over-exercise because our society celebrates those. This is something that adds to people's sense that they aren't "sick enough" to deserve help - it's because they have an image of what an eating disorder looks like and they don't believe they "qualify." The medical model often reinforces this incredibly damaging and false belief.
If you look at the titles of most memoirs on eating disorders, the phrasing is important. "Unbearable Lightness," "Wasted," "To The Bone," "Paperweight," "A Trick of the Light" "Empty," "Slim to None," and the list goes on. It's much less romantic to talk about the behaviours that fill those who are struggling with a deep sense of shame. The majority of the devastating impacts of an eating disorder are not visible. Similarly, the most important work in recovery is often not visible (which is why before-and-after photos are so harmful.)
I think it's important that we do talk about, write about, and express experiences (especially challenging experiences), but it's important to reflect on how we are expressing these experiences and who our audience is. That kind of self-reflection takes practice and it certainly won't be a perfect process. It starts with simply asking ourselves how we might also be contributing to unhelpful stereotypes when we speak, write, or create art around our experiences.
PRIVILEGE
Going back to Chimamanda Adichie's TED talk on the dangers of a single story, I am forced to face my own privilege and the fact that my story doesn't really need to be told any more than it already has. That's not to say my experiences aren't important, they obviously are to me and the people in my life, but there is very little that would be useful for me to detail, at least in typical ways. There are other things I can write about and share that might be more useful in breaking down stereotypes and so I aim to express those things as best I can (while also needing to continue to reflect on and acknowledge the ways in which I’m privileged.)
There is power in telling our stories if that is something that is safe to do and of our own volition. As a dear friend once told me, "your story deserves to be told, but not everyone deserves to hear it." What is important to remember is how we tell our stories, who we share them with, and why we are sharing (is it for ourselves, a way of seeking validation for our eating disorders, for others benefit, both?) Could we be causing harm in the way in which we share? Could we be offering a light to others? How can we help uplift the diversity of voices that help to broaden the world's understanding of eating disorders? If we are privileged and talking to a broader audience in the hopes of raising awareness, often it is best to listen and share the voices of those who are marginalized, rather than inserting our own voices.
Reflection is a skill and it has to be practiced regularly to develop. It is not a place we generally arrive at, but an ongoing process of learning and unlearning, practicing humility, receiving feedback, listening and sharing, and knowing when to do so.
- S.
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