Editor’s note: This post is part of the Texas Lawyers’ Assistance Program’s Stories of Recovery series. TLAP offers confidential assistance for lawyers, law students, and judges with substance abuse or mental health issues. Call TLAP at 1-800-343-8527 (TLAP) and find more information at tlaphelps.org.
I remember the day I was accepted to law school. I was full of promise and excitement. That is, until I got to orientation.
I was used to being one of the smartest kids in the room. But now I felt outranked and overwhelmed at every turn. After my first year, I was embarrassed that I had a solid C average — not the straight A’s I was used to. My grades had always been what made me feel good about myself. If I wasn’t the “one who had it all together,” then who was I?
I was consumed with shame and my grades worsened. I wouldn’t seek out interviews because I was convinced no one would hire me. When time for graduation came, jobless, I moved home to live with my mother in another state and prepared to study for the bar exam.
Terrified that I’d fail the bar, I studied nonstop. And with every fresh wave of panic, I ate. My appetite seemed insatiable. By the time the bar exam was over, I’d gained more than 30 pounds in a couple of months. I again felt like a failure — for my lack of professional success and for not controlling my weight. I began to focus my anxious energy on addressing the weight I’d gained.
I severely restricted my food and spent hours at the gym, and the pounds began to shed.
Whenever I heard my stomach growl, I felt a rush of adrenaline. I was superhuman; I could ignore my hunger! Resisting food made me proud of myself, which I hadn’t felt in a long time. My weight continued to drop until I weighed about 75 pounds on my 5-foot-5-inch frame. My next twisted thought was: “I wonder if I can get lower than that?”
The days were consumed with avoiding and obsessing over food. It was the perfect excuse for everything I was trying to avoid. How could I look for a job when I could barely stand up? How could I deal with my emotions if all I could think about was how much I weighed? I was equally numb to pain and joy.
One night, several months into my weight loss, my mother pleaded with me to stand on her bathroom scale. I stood on the scale and instantly saw fear in her eyes. The gravity of what I was doing hit me and I could no longer pretend that I didn’t have a problem. I needed help.
My mother found me a nutritionist and a therapist, and I was checked out by medical specialists. I slowly started to gain the weight back. It was a fight with myself every step of the way. There was a daily battle being waged in my head between my addiction and my desire to get better.
I eventually regained the weight I had lost, but I had yet to change the way I dealt with life or how I viewed myself. Still, I managed to get a job at a firm and start some semblance of a life. Even though I looked normal, I was tortured by anorexic thoughts. I might be sitting in a firm meeting, but my mind was a million miles away counting calories or wondering how I could avoid eating at a client dinner.
I’ve heard that you can’t truly want change until you’ve experienced pain in all three time zones — the past, present, and future. When I started thinking about the possibility of staying in this anesthetized, grey twilight for the rest of my life, I knew more needed to change.
I’ve heard that you can’t truly want change until you’ve experienced pain in all three time zones — the past, present, and future. When I started thinking about the possibility of staying in this anesthetized, grey twilight for the rest of my life, I knew more needed to change.
My mother encouraged me to try a 12-step program for eating disorders. At first, I was vehemently opposed to it. My friends and colleagues couldn’t know my dirty secret (as if I was fooling them!). What if someone at my firm found out? And, 12-step programs are for addicts; I wasn’t an addict! (Boy, was I wrong!) But, desperate for a change, I decided to give it a try.
I started to attend meetings and my attitude slowly changed. Whenever I shared something about my struggles, I was always met with someone who’d say “I’ve been there” without judgment. There is something very powerful and healing about not feeling alone.
Through recovery, I realized that anorexia was my way of dealing with my sense of worthlessness, perfectionism, self-hatred, and fear that ruled my life. I finally started to learn to deal with my emotions without needing to numb or avoid them. Little by little, I saw glimpses of peace.
Because I continue to choose recovery every day (and sometimes every hour), I’ve been able to practice law at a firm I love and develop meaningful friendships. Today, I can feel joy. I can admit when I’ve screwed up and not get so bogged down in the shame of not being perfect that I have to numb out. I’m learning that I am good enough just by being me — not because of external trappings or my accomplishments or what others think.
That’s the hardest and most beautiful part of recovery. It’s been one day at a time and I’m so glad I took the first step.