Eating Disorders: My Dirty Little Secret

Content warning: This post discusses eating disorders. While there are no specific numbers or behaviours detailed, I know firsthand how eating disorders can weaponise even well meaning, informational posts such as these. Please reach out to someone you trust if you need support or to safely process anything that may be brought up when reading this.

Having an eating disorder feels like my dirty little secret. I am proud to be able to say I am in full, active recovery; yet shame stubbornly continues to weave itself into the narrative of my journey.  

I could proof-text my shame until the cows come home. How could I be a faithful Christian who knows that my body is the temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Cor 6:19), yet engage in behaviours that are anything but reverent? How could I declare that God had given me a spirit of self-discipline (2 Tim 1:7) when every aspect of my life felt like it was spinning out of control? And oh, the irony of the call to “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8) is almost painful on days when breakfast tastes like failure and you are blinded by an illness that demands every aspect of your life. 

The problem with cherry picking Scripture is that out of context, and badly interpreted, verses can be twisted to say whatever someone wants them to. This is not to say that Bible verses are irrelevant—not at all. Using a single verse to make a point is risky business and usually theologically inane, and unfortunately extremely common. Case in point: my (supposed) proof-texting using scriptures such as these was inaccurate, unhelpful and ultimately just gave my merciless self critic extra ammunition. 

Self-critique is a common trait for people struggling with EDs. One of the tactics of an eating disorder is that it has an uncanny ability to warp anything into a weapon. Someone tells me that I’m looking “healthy/better/well?” In response, I feel like screaming. I can assure you, no matter how well intentioned a comment like that is, my mind will probably be able to twist it into a reason I should engage in eating disorder behaviours. (Top tip? Don’t comment on anyone’s body, even if you think it is a compliment.) In a similar way, my eating disorder used bad theology (as seen above) as fuel for the proverbial fire. So how then, in recovery and with my developed theological understanding, do I use good theology to address the ever persistent shame regarding my eating disorder? 

I wonder if I was reluctant to invite God into my struggle, because I wasn’t fully convinced my disorder wasn’t my fault. While some people experience an “ED voice” that prompts their behaviour, it was only ever my voice that I heard. While now I have the tools and experience to differentiate my “healthy thoughts” and “disordered thoughts,” they are both decidedly me. Every choice I made I could only attribute to myself. Much eating order stigma can be attributed to assumptions of personal responsibility, as seen in my own experience. I find it helpful to remind myself that an eating disorder is as valid an illness as any physical illness, with both environmental and biological triggers. In fact, studies have found that around 60% (and up to 85%) of the risk for developing anorexia can be attributed to genetics. While I was struggling, however, I felt like a failure—as a Christian, as a friend, as a human. Despite theoretically knowing the characteristics of God as accepting, forgiving and endlessly loving, I couldn’t connect the dots and apply this scriptural truth (truth evidenced by multiple well interpreted texts) to my reality. Instead, the eating disorder took the wheel, bypassing God’s love and weaponizing the sacred words of my faith. I realise now that it wasn’t scriptural illiteracy that led to this, but simply the nature of the eating disorder. After all, theology students and church leaders aren’t exempt from mental illness, and in the same way I certainly don’t believe anyone can just bible bash their way into recovery. Faith was my anchor, and still is, but I needed professionals and psychology—both of which I believe to be gracious gifts from God—in order to get to where I am today.

“I wonder if I was reluctant to invite God into my struggle, because I wasn’t fully convinced my disorder wasn’t my fault.”

The normalisation of diet culture in everyday life is alarming. Flippant talk such as that of “clean eating” and “working off the calories” is excruciatingly present in almost all the spaces I find myself in. The church is not exempt from this. One of the most common eating disorder misconceptions is the stereotype of an emaciated young female. The truth is, most ED sufferers cannot be distinguished by their appearance; after all, it is a mental illness, not a weight disorder. This stereotype can make many reluctant to seek help, deeming themselves “not sick enough.” The language we use for food is incredibly polarising and, quite frankly, it is far more harmful to obsess over what you are eating than to just eat it. I am so sick of people saying they are “bad” or “naughty” when enjoying particular snacks. Unless you stole that piece of food or burnt down a building in the process of obtaining it, food does not have moral value. Now, I am at the point where unwitting but ignorant comments are less triggering, and more often make me sad about the lies that we have internalised about food, weight, and health. Blythe Baird sums this up perfectly in her poem “When the Fat Girl gets Skinny”:

“If you develop an eating disorder when you are already thin to begin with, you go to the hospital. If you develop an eating disorder when you are not thin to begin with, you are a success story.”

Diet culture—which Christy Harrison describes as a “system of beliefs that equates thinness with moral health and virtue”—manipulates all of us, using our shame as a marketing technique to fill the pockets of corporations. The moralisation of food has become insidiously ingrained in our society’s psyche. Categorisation of foods as good and bad can be traced back to the days of early modern colonialism. As Christopher Colombus and his fellow colonisers set about “civilising” the lands they came upon, they feared that the food of indigenous people would make them sick or even—heaven forbid—magically transform their bodies to look like those they were colonising. This was unthinkable, given that they supposedly had been divinely sanctioned to assimilate the “savages'' to look and act European. These racist overtones continued into the development of ethnic hierarchies, as 19th century scientific writers began cataloguing fatness as a trait of “savagery”. Of course, the white men formulating this hierarchy also deemed women as more at risk of fatness, which was “proof” of their inherent inferiority. If you want to know more about the inherently ableist, racist and classist history of diet culture, I highly recommend resources such as Christy Harrison’s book Anti Diet and Linda Bacon’s Body Respect.

So, if good theology alone can’t heal eating disorders, and diet culture is so deeply ingrained in our society, what does this have to do with the church? I strongly believe that we can all do our part to reject diet culture, a realm in which disordered eating thrives. The thing about recovering from an eating disorder that differs from other addictions is that abstinence is not an option. Every single day, we are forced to choose recovery or relapse, multiple times a day. I don't want to see change merely to support those who have eating disorders, but to foster an environment that acknowledges that all bodies are good bodies. Respect, awareness, and compassion are three key aspects of the “Health at Every Size” framework developed by Linda Bacon. Are these not inherently Christian values? 

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Rebecca Hooper is currently editor at Metanoia.