I have a really clear memory of kindergarten, of standing in line at the door to the school, waiting to go back inside after recess. I was trying to talk to the girl in front of me when she stopped me cold. “I can’t be your friend because I don’t like fat people. And you’re fat.”

Even then I knew she was verbalizing something I’d already felt from other people. That didn’t make it any easier. But that feeling is something I’ve carried with me through life, even during the times when I got closer to or even achieved a “normal” weight.

I often felt like the adults in my life tried to push me in opposing directions simultaneously over my weight. I endured lectures about self-control and the simple, rational solution of eating less food. But when I tried to eat differently, perhaps trying out a diet book, I was told, “you’ll eat the same food the rest of us eat.” Or, if I managed to lose weight, special “treats” were presented…low-fat versions of ice cream or other goodies, that in reality only set binges off for me. In retrospect, it’s easy to see how food wasn’t just food. Food was an symbol of control, power, and, of course, love. No one was consciously trying to make things difficult for me; they were trying to help. But my problem wasn’t food. My problems were about things like control, power, and love.

In high school, I figured something out. I realized that the adults really weren’t watching as carefully as I thought. The chaos of everybody trying to get ahead, trying to keep up, the din of the constant radio and TV—all of these things created an atmosphere where I could retreat into myself. Not being noticed had always been a strategy, and I was getting good at it. Books especially were a solace; a good story could create a bubble of relief around me.

Running was a big craze at the time, and I had a crush on a boy on the cross country team. It seemed like a good way to lose weight. So I took up running. But, because of the crazy way my own brain works, just running wasn’t enough. So I quit eating. In the morning, it was pretty easy to get out the door without breakfast. And at school, it was easy enough to skip lunch. In the afternoon, the school bus dropped us off and I’d go straight into the house, change clothes, and go for a jog.

After that, I’d make tea. For a teapot, I’d use a 4-cup pyrex glass measuring cup. I’d put three teabags in it and then prop myself up on the couch with my homework or a book. Mom usually left instructions for getting dinner started, so I’d do that, too. At the dinner table, I’d take the smallest portions I dared, and skipped dessert. Everyone was happy.

I felt good during this time. Very light and airy. It made me feel very pure, in a spiritual sense. It was like becoming an angel.

It takes a while for weight loss to show, especially if you’re wearing the same clothing. One day, as we were getting ready for church, I found a skirt and blouse I hadn’t been able to wear before, but could wear now. I looked at myself in the mirror and knew I had changed.

When I went downstairs, I wasn’t able to escape notice any more. My brothers and sister even noticed. “Teresa got thin!” My mom and dad beamed. Everyone was happy.

During the next week, it was open house at school. I looked forward to wearing the same outfit, but worried that I’d already gained weight back. I’d started to slip on my eating. But of course, in reality I was still the same size; it had only been a couple of days!

I got lots of compliments and attention. My teachers were happy for me. And the boy I had a crush on talked to me a lot that night.

But something about all that attention worked against me. I couldn’t sustain the dieting anymore. I retreated back into my food underworld.

I would go through more phases of this as a teenager and young adult. And I would go on “sensible” diets created by giant corporations, or eating plans outlined by breathless authors who always seemed to hold the key to slenderness. My path in life has taken me through all of the big three eating disorders: anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa, and binge eating disorder. I always felt unlucky that anorexia was the least of these three for me…those were the lucky ones, I used to think…at least they get thin. But I know better now. I wouldn’t enter that hell again for anything in the world.

I’m not cured of eating disorders by any means. It may be like alcoholism: that I’ll never be “cured”, but can walk a path of recovery instead of being at their mercy. I can say that life is better than it’s ever been for me, particularly with eating. I don’t weigh myself anymore. I eat what I want, when I want it. I think more about the choices I make and what the food is going to do for me as fuel for my physical body. There are “good” days and “bad” days with respect to eating, but the good days are outnumbering the bad days. And when it’s a bad day or stretch of bad days, I’m more likely to remember to journal, to write, to do art, to get out in nature…and those things all help. I’ve lost some weight over the past few months; it both delights me and terrifies me. I try not to look at it too closely, because that’s fuel for the eating disorders. The size of my body really isn’t the important thing. That may not make sense to most people, and that’s ok. It’s taken me nearly five years of therapy and a lot of work to understand it myself.

The paintings that I’ve been posting here recently, those in the red thread series, are very much about my disordered eating, addictions, and a path to recovery and healing. Like many other addictive behaviors, eating disorders are a rejection of life, either by starvation or by dulling the senses into torpor. They seek to cut us off from our body and hearts; by giving us a sense of control, they separate us from our life force and our passions, especially those that might be frightening to others. They try to separate us from our true nature and destroy our feelings and ability to connect with the outer world.

It’s not about the food.