Eating disorders are believed to be on the rise among college students, and in 2010, after my first semester, I unwillingly became part of that trend. I was officially diagnosed with anorexia nervosa at that time, but I had suffered unknowingly much longer. In the past six years I have spent nearly as much time in treatment as I have in class. My world can spin out of control in seconds, and my body can physically shut down within a month or two of food restriction. In the blink of an eye I am back in treatment.
I transferred to my current institution, Oakland University, in Michigan, to be closer to my treatment team. My most recent relapse, last fall, followed reports of two sexual-abuse incidents involving students at Oakland. Those incidents led to flashbacks of a traumatic personal experience I had suffered earlier. As a resident assistant (I managed to obtain that position at a time when I was better managing my eating disorder), I got so caught up in responding to other students’ worries about the two cases that I neglected to take care of myself. I started slipping downhill and needed help.
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Sugar-free Jell-O and sugar-free, fat-free hot cocoa were all the calories I felt I deserved to eat. I was running 10 to 12 miles a day. My wrists were sliced from razor blades, or, if I was desperate, from my fingernails. My eyes were red and swollen from crying. I was no longer spending time with friends. I could barely stay awake through class and had no energy by the end of the day. I was wearing sweatshirts and winter clothes in 70-degree weather. I had bouts of extreme anxiety when I would break down into a panic attack and couldn’t breathe. It was difficult to concentrate, and my memory was poor because of malnutrition. This made class assignments and exams nearly impossible. Yet I was still a full-time student, held two jobs, served as an officer in two clubs, and went to my therapy and dietitian appointments religiously.
I had to make everything look as if it were perfect. It seemed to work. I was congratulated on being so vigilant with my food. Others praised the exercise I compulsively acted on. People asked if I could teach them how to lose weight and told me how good I looked. I knew I was dying inside, but I kept going and pushing until I no longer could. My family and treatment team (consisting of a dietitian, a therapist, a medical doctor, and a psychiatrist) intervened and immediately sent me to the Eating Recovery Center, in Denver, where I took part in an inpatient treatment program.
As far as I can remember, nobody on the campus ever took me aside to see if I needed help, to express concern, or to refer me to the campus counseling center or health center. In fact, I knew about the counseling center, and was already seeing an outside therapist. But since no one I encountered acted as though there was a problem, in my mind things weren’t that bad. It was the same scenario I had faced before my previous relapses, and now I understand it is a common one for people with my illness. Educating people about the symptoms of diseases like anorexia and depression would help others who suffer get the help they need.
By the time I got to Denver, I could barely function. I did not realize it at the time, but I was on my deathbed and my body was shutting down. I felt undeserving of receiving more support on my own. I was also too tired to fight on my own. I had given up.
No one acted as though there was a problem.
It would take seven months of bed rest, wheelchairs, feeding tubes, and therapy before I was ready to return home. During that time, I missed birthdays, holidays, a wedding, and my own graduation. I missed out on my life. I will never get that time back. I still carry the scars on my wrists from cutting and a mark on my chin from passing out on the floor. But I also hold scars on my heart from the pain of my disease. Therapy and doctors’ appointments consume a lot of my time now. I am by no means “fixed.” The past still haunts me, and I still struggle — a lot. I have come a long way, but I have a long way yet to go, and the probability of relapse is high.
Looking back, I wish someone would have reached out, told me they cared, and helped me get the support I needed. I may not have listened, but I would have known that I was not alone in my fight.
Students with mental illnesses need support. The best thing college employees can do for someone with a mental illness is to learn about the symptoms and reach out and express concern.
And to the students who suffer: Don’t keep your problems secret, and don’t allow the stigma of mental illness to continue. You don’t have to handle your problems alone.
Louise M. Harder is a senior at Oakland University, majoring in wellness, health promotion, and injury prevention and minoring in psychology.
