The fear of being misunderstood

Feeling "other" because of mental illness and the fear of constantly having to explain myself or forever be misunderstood. Spoiler: it's not that black & white.

Last week I had a panic attack at dinner during ED treatment.

For those just joining, I started eating disorder treatment back in February. You can read more about that in my last newsletter here.

In the midst of hyperventilating over an egg sandwich (it wasn’t about the sandwich, but I have had food-related panic attacks) offered me extra support and put me in a breakout room. (We do all of our sessions on zoom.) She asked me what was coming up for me during the meal.

We love when therapists ask, “what’s coming up for you right now?” Idk. My insides? A ball of fire? My vagina trying to throw itself up my esophagus? What’s COMING UP?

“I have this looming fear,” I said, deciding to let “it” come up.

“This fear of being other. This fear of being different. This fear that if I really commit to recovery, I will constantly have to explain myself to people. And I know I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, nor do I have the desire or energy to. And—”

—a big laugh bellowed between spurts of tears.

“I know myself so well. What I desire is connection. So if I want people to meet me here on the outside, on the outskirts, I'm going to explain myself. I'm going to reach out for connection. I'm going to ask to build that bridge so that people will visit me on the outside.”

“That's interesting,” she said, “tell me more.” Another therapist-jargon fave: “tell me more.”

“I have this fear that if I choose a life of recovery, I'll constantly be misunderstood. That recovery means life on the peripheral: isolated from the norm of society, ostracized in a small little box labeled don't touch, don't talk, don’t open.”

I told her I think that as humans on planet earth in 2023, we all live on a spectrum of eating disorder pathology.

How could we not when we live in a society that prioritizes whiteness, thinness, success privilege, money, and materialism? When diet culture is so rampant that it has somehow slithered its way into the mental health conversation, telling us what to eat or not eat for our depression?

Even fucking normal-ass water has been deemed not good enough. Use trace minerals! Drink less water! Your water bottles are too big! To think that nobody else—hell to think that everybody else doesn't have some level of an unhealthy or a disordered relationship with food and body is naive.

But there's a spectrum of it. Like a slow moving conveyer belt that people hop on and off of. A spectrum where there is a level of disorder, but not chaos.

Then there's me up here at the very top with a clinical diagnosis of an eating disorder, where it is chaos. And in order to stay out of the chaos, I have to get off the conveyer belt. Completely. I have to stay off the conveyer belt, because if I step on—even if the place I land is somewhere at the bottom of the belt where it's not chaotic, my eating disorder takes me on a fast track ride straight back to the top.

And so it feels like by stepping off the conveyer belt—by choosing a life of recovery—I’m choosing constant separateness. Constant otherness. Constant disconnection from the majority, when what I longed for, is connection. Constant misunderstanding when the reason I developed an eating disorder in the first place was because I felt so misunderstood. Because I already felt other and I wanted to belong. I jumped on the conveyer belt thinking this is how I'll make it happen. This is how I'll connect. This is how I'll become part of something bigger than myself. This is how I'll belong.

“My eating disorder is fighting hard,” I said after letting it “come up.”

“She's loud because I'm asking her to step off the conveyer belt and not get back on. I'm asking her to remove herself from the place she continues to go in order to belong. I'm asking her to challenge every belief she has around what it means to connect. Around what it means to be different. And what around what it means to be the same.”

I rejoined the group feeling a little bit more grounded after processing with my therapist.

We started talking about belonging. About the power of community and collective wellness, and the fear of being separate, other—different.

One girl said, 

“I get so scared I’m going to say the wrong thing in group and everyone will hate me. Or that I’ll take up too much space, or that nobody will care what I have to say. But I want to be vulnerable and show up. Am I the only one who worries about this?”

Several group members echoed her fears. I was reminded of the first time I went to treatment in 2016 (you can read more about that in my memoir, where the river flows) I was silent in group for about three weeks. I was shocked at how freely other people spoke. It took weeks for me to find my voice. To let go of people pleasing/walking on eggshells for fear of hurting others or saying the wrong thing. Longer still to ask for help. Even more time to accept it. And it’s still hard. 

“If what you want is to be more vocal,” I told her, “know that it’s possible, and that I want to hear you. Even if I don’t agree. Especially if it challenges me. Differences create opportunities for learning and growth, and I believe we are all here for that just as much as we are here for solidarity.”

Another group member chimed in with,

“The idea that there is any such thing as different is ludicrous in the first place. The norm we are comparing ourselves to doesn't exist because we're all different. There is no central point from which to compare ourselves. Being different is what makes us beautiful. So you could not be more different or less different. With any choice you make. You already are and you always will be.”

I softened a little hearing this.

And I realized I’d pinned myself between tow fixed places: being understood or being alone. And life simply doesn’t work like that. A life of recovery doesn’t mean a life alone. In fact some of the most meaningful connections have been formed because I’m choosing recovery, and I feel a sense of belonging more true and real than when I’m deep in the throws of my ED.

I recognized how tightly feeling different, fearing being misunderstood, shame, and simply being myself had wrapped themselves around my eating disorder. Or maybe, how tightly my eating disorder had wrapped herself around those feelings.

Accepting parts of self is scary, because sometimes we find out we are different, which puts us in uncharted waters around navigating those differences. Difference is not necessarily what isolates us: what's isolating is the shame we feel about that difference.

I want to feel less shame about who I am about the things that make me.

I want to feel okay in my body and trust that no matter what size or shape I am, I belong somewhere. Right now it's very difficult to believe that and I would be lying if I said I do. I'm really struggling right now to believe a lot of what my treatment team says is true. The war being waged in my head is very, very violent and turbulent. And I'm scared every day that I might not make it out on the recovery side.

So I've been spending a lot of time alone. Because for the first time in a while I'm not using food or alcohol or making myself smaller to make it safe for me to connect. And I don't feel safe to connect without those things just yet. And until I figure out what that means or what that looks like, I'm spending some time alone.

And perhaps, in this season of nakedness, where nothing is the same and everything is different—including me—it’s time to do what Kate from Probably Anxious says and simply step outside the house.

Still afraid, naked, and unsafe.

Because the reality is I'm not unsafe. My eating disorder wants me to believe I am so that she can swoop in to protect me, but I am not unsafe. It is not unsafe for me to be in this body. It is not unsafe for me to express myself openly. It is not unsafe. It is not unsafe for me to enjoy the things I enjoy. It is not unsafe.

I'm safe. I'm safe. I'm safe.

All my love, from my mess to yours,
Rachel.

Thank you so much for reading.

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