This Is Not A Story Of Hope
Before I talk about any of my experiences, I want acknowledge the pleasure I’ve had growing up on Whadjuk Noongar boodjar, Boorloo (Perth, Western Australia).
I have always deeply appreciated the nature around us. At many times in my life, this has felt like one of the only true, unequivocal things. I have vivid memories of taking my few hours of hospital leave at Kings Park in all its beauty, when everything else in my life felt so ugly, treacherous and vile. In fact, I remember specifically being entranced by Western Australian Golden Wattle – Acacia saligna. Not only is it one of the first plants to rejuvenate after a bushfire, it is also a symbol of growth, energy, nourishment and survival that is central to this Country’s identity, and a perfect symbol of what ‘hope’ means to me.
Image Credit: Drawn by Rachael Burns
I also want to acknowledge the Lived Experience that you hold (yes, you reading… I am assuming you are not reading an eating disorder blog if you have not been in some way touched by an eating disorder). I acknowledge those who spoke and fought before any of today’s great activists, from whom we draw. I acknowledge those still languishing, both seen and silent. I acknowledge the psychiatric survivors who know what it is like to be carved into molds than were never meant to fit them.
When I was first admitted into eating disorder services at 15, I was naive. I believed I’d be ‘fixed’ if I did all the things and complied in all the ways. But I soon realised that wasn’t the case.
Instead, I felt like a failure when traditional therapies didn’t cure me.
Part of that came from my blind trust in the process of ‘recovery’ and passive ‘hope’.
The passive version of hope told me to wait, to believe, and that my experiences had a greater purpose. But I don’t believe they did. What I’ve experienced and what I never got to experience were not fair or justified. The things I lived through were ugly and cold and cruel. They did not make me ‘better’ or ‘stronger’. In fact, they made me feel broken.
Unfortunately, passive hope was a central theme throughout the majority of the systems that tried to support me. I was praised for ‘compliance’ and shamed for behaviours that others deemed ‘disordered’, even when they weren’t. I was fed not just in the literal sense, but also metaphorically with the idea that things would work out, that I needed to hold on and be positive.
The reasons I developed an eating disorder were hidden, and the parts of myself I didn’t like were never seen or discussed.
Don’t get me wrong, positive quotes provide comfort for many. No shame, no judgement intended. But that certainly wasn’t my experience, nor was it that of many people I work with.
I have never related to the narrative that eating disorders are related to body image. I sought approval, validation and acceptance as someone ‘good’, ‘respectable’ and ‘moral’ through food.
That was, until I entered a world that assumed ‘vanity’ to be my problem. That in effect taught me how to hate my body and seek to shrink it, and simultaneously never addressed the root cause. I coped in the only way I knew – a cycle of restriction.
Resultantly, I have never found it useful to separate myself from ‘my eating disorder’. Anorexia wasn’t another ‘demon’ taking control of me, nor was it an illness or a defect. It was a part of myself, hurting and seeking a semblance of comfort. Even in the darkest pits, the days that are now just a blur to me, I was always still me. Even when I behaved and spoke in a way that I didn’t recognise, I was still me. I was a very scared, very hurt version of me that was doing everything she could to cope.
I fell into a narrative that was written about me and simultaneously told to ‘hold hope’. But hope is the last thing on your mind when you don’t feel human.
For those who’ve experienced it, I needn’t explain. But for those who haven’t, imagine losing your ability to go outside. The right to choose what you eat. Who you speak to. Your privacy. The right to be believed at your word. The ability to say no. And so much more. All at once.
Image Credit: Drawn by Rachael Burns
Healing came only when I was handed back (slowly, to begin with) responsibility, accountability and autonomy that I’d been stripped of for so long… and yes, sometimes that meant learning through making a decision that backfired. But even when I fell, I could choose to stand back up.
When I was allowed to take ownership of those choices, I started choosing differently, with the help of people who understood because they’d been there too.
I’ve talked about the importance of Lived Experience at length, so instead of re-stating what that space has done for me, I will share what it hasn’t.
It hasn’t told me to hold hope in a system that hadn’t done the same for me.
It hasn’t tried to inspire me or tell me how to do recovery the right way.
It hasn’t punished me, policed me or judged me when I was already ashamed of my behaviour.
It hasn’t lectured me or educated me without me actively seeking it out.
It hasn’t thrown glitter at something that is dark, ugly and painful.
And so, my meaning of hope is not passive, but active. It is building a world where you, dear reader, can define what wellbeing looks like for you. Where hope exists in an active form as resistance, as discomfort and as hard work… and also as joy, reward, adventure and curiosity.
Get Support
If you’re struggling with an eating disorder, disordered eating or body image concerns, please know that help is available. For confidential and free counselling, call the Butterfly National Helpline on 1800 ED HOPE (1800 33 4673) or chat online or email, 7 days a week, 8am-midnight (AEST/AEDT).
