A Life Regained:: Breaking Free from Anorexia Nervosa

By Sage Carper

At nineteen years old, and one month into marriage I found myself in the ER. I was so emaciated my heart was at risk of giving out at any moment. How had this happened to me? I knew my loved ones would see this as the last straw, and force me into recovery. This just couldn’t happen! Not while I was still the fattest anorexic in existence! I was humiliated, confused, and terrified as I slowly began to accept the fact that I couldn’t live like this anymore without dying. If I wanted to live to see twenty, I would have to leave behind the eating disorder that had become my identity, and plunge headlong into the horrifying uncertainty of recovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664237452

Sage Carper

Having overcome the grip anorexia had on me I’m living my life as every human being deserves to live: happy, free, and to the fullest. My aspiration now consists of being the best wife, daughter, sibling and friend to all the amazing people in my life, as opposed to decreasing the number on the scale. I have found true peace and will continue to follow my passion for helping others with similar struggles do the same. It is my hope and prayer that my story will encourage those on the path to recovery, and remind them that they are not alone in the the things they feel. They’re not insane, and no one is trying to brainwash them or ruin their lives, and someone does understand! I also hope this book acts as a small window into the anorexic mind, and provides some form of outline for the support system of the recovering anorexic to follow. No one should have to feel they’re approaching such an important role blind. But my greatest desire of all for this book is that it would be a beacon of hope for all who read it. Not everyone will face anorexia, but everyone will face hardship. There will come a point in everyone’s life when they’re not sure if they’ll be able to survive what they’re up against. When those moments come, when they feel there’s no where for them to turn because their situation is far too dire, my hope is that they’ll remember my story and know that no one is too far gone to be saved.

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Copyright © 2021 Sage Carper.

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This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author

and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of

the information contained in this book and in some cases, names

of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

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ISBN: 978-1-6642-3746-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-3745-2 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 07/23/2021

Contents

Author’s Note

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

I’ve heard the saying, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny

feels." But I’ve known skinny, and the feeling it elicits when it

becomes your identity. It’s a hopeless and miserable feeling.

I prefer to feel good, because freedom says I’m allowed to.

Author’s Note

To look back on your life and not be able to recognize yourself is a curious thing. As I wrote this book I found myself as a child recounting my confused and disordered notions of what gave a person value. Although this was saddening, as I continued to recount my experience with anorexia nervosa, I couldn’t help but feel that the story I was telling was not my own. It was the story of the shell of a broken girl whose every move was dictated by her eating disorder. She had no mind of her own, no hope, and no joy. The miserable skeleton that she had become bore no resemblance to the person I was before the eating disorder took hold and I’m overwhelmed with joy and gratitude toward all of the wonderful people who stood by my side until I made it back to the beautiful place of full recovery, health, peace, and true joy. Knowing that the shell of a person I had become bears no resemblance to the person I am today will never cease to fill my heart with thankfulness.

My hope is that through the telling of my story those struggling with eating disorders, directly or indirectly, will find hope and encouragement. I am living proof that even when it seems you’ve taken it too far, recovery is possible.

Prologue

My eyes snap open with a jolt. I’m instantly aware of the overwhelming anxiety that crushes me in its grasp. This anxiety and I have such a perplexing relationship. It never leaves me. There are times it quiets, when I’m able to appease it for however fleeting a moment, but it’s never silent. In a sense it’s a part of me, acting as so much more than an intrusive thought or two. It is the relentless dictator in my head that serves to ensure that I never, for one second, forget how worthless I am. The perplexing thing is that this dictator has my own voice. I’ve found that I long ago lost the ability to distinguish between this dictator and my own thoughts. Maybe they’re one and the same. I can’t help but find nothing suspicious or out of place with the dictator, and would even go as far as to say that I believe everybody has one. It’s the voice in your head that pushes you to be better. It drills you with tough love until you’re a person that can be worthy of love.

Despite what my family seems to think, I haven’t lost my mind. I don’t have a problem. I just did something none of them have had the strength to do. I’ve embraced this dictator. Instead of writing it off as anxiety, or self doubt, I’ve taken its never ending stream of criticisms and decided to do something about them. I’ve decided to make myself better; to avoid remaining a failure; to relieve my family of the burden that is me, and make them proud. It’s a curious thing... all my parents seem to do is wonder when I first started to behave this way, and here I am, unable to remember a time when I didn’t behave this way. This is who I am. I repeat those words to myself over and over to remind myself that the way I live my life is not unreasonable or disordered. I am the walking, living, breathing embodiment of order. I am in complete control of my body, my actions, and subsequently the impact I have on those around me.

People want to respect people; it’s just a fact. People want to be able to look up to those with whom they spend their time. They want to be able to glean positivity and wisdom from these people and better their lives through their examples. Therefore, knowing this, doesn’t that make it my responsibility to make sure I can be someone that betters the lives of others around me? I’ve been told all my life that there are people who are going to be looking up to me and that I needed to do my best to always be sure to be someone that behaves as such. How can anyone be expected to respect someone and turn to them for a role model when their life is a complete wreck? I refuse to be that person. I will not be weak. I will not be useless, worthless, burdensome, or a failure. I will be the person who has life under control. I will see my parents wishes for me and raise the stakes a million times over, and they will be proud.

Every morning, the moment I wake, I go through the same methodical routine that became second nature to me before I even realized I had the compulsion to repeat the routine over and over. My eyes snap open and I assess the damage… What position did I fall asleep in? If I wasn’t flat on my stomach and accidentally switched to my side in my sleep, not only would I have a massive tender bruise on my hip bone, but I would have allowed my stomach to bulge as far as it desired without the restraint of the mattress keeping it at bay.

How long did I sleep? Not only had I not been sucking my gut in all this time but I had also been motionless for several hours. Sucking in my gut was a trick I’d discovered could not only help me to appear presentable, but also work on core strength whenever I couldn’t exercise because someone might see me. While I slept there had been no exercise to burn those evil calories that were no doubt floating around in my body just waiting for me to be a motionless, lazy slob long enough for them to attach themselves to my thighs, stomach, arms, and face, adding the layers of fat as an outward manifestation of my inner failures and shortcomings.

There was no way I had made it through the night without gaining weight, I just knew it. It was all my fault for being so lazy as to allow myself to lie down without extending my nightly workout longer. I was nothing more than a disgusting failure, and I knew it. I had a lot of work to do if I were to cancel out the atrocities that were my few hours of sleep.

Time to assess the damage. I turn to lie on my back as my hands tentatively venture to my hip bones. This is a very stressful time for me as I am not allowed to suck my gut in at all or contort my body in any way to make the body part I’m examining more prominent. This is the moment of complete, unbridled truth, and it petrifies me. But it must be done. My fingers ache and burn as they bend to grasp the bones of my hips. My hands are so cold they’re white and numb, and burn when I bend them, but I ignore it. This is so much more important. Satisfied with my protruding hip bones, I focus my attention on my thighs as I bring my legs closer and closer together until my feet are touching. Still resting on the bed, I don’t sense the cushion of much disgusting fat being sprawled out on the mattress in all it’s revolting glory. My thighs don’t touch, not even close. I measure the distance between them with my hand as I lay there and switch to my side, knees and feet together, making sure my thighs still remain a safe distance apart. They do. With that, I feel a little better, but the slight relief is short lived as I remember that I’m only halfway done with my body checking ritual. The rest is to be carried out standing up in the locked bathroom in front of the mirror from three different angles. Measurements of my arms, thighs, and waist are still pending. The results of these measurements will determine what I’ll wear and how I’ll feel about myself for the rest of the day. I cross my fingers for good luck as I head to the bathroom, but luck has nothing to do with it. I either failed, or I squeaked by. It all depends on me.

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One

There I sat in the backseat with my older sister and my younger sister. My mom was days away from delivering my youngest sister, but until she came, I sat directly in the middle in every sense of the word. I had always been the shy one, and often felt like background noise in the shadows of my sisters. The way I saw it, they were both much more spirited and interesting than I. I felt dull by comparison, and found it easier to sit back and watch as they reveled in the lime light they so effortlessly commanded.

Hiding in the background never bothered me though. I liked it there. I had always felt comfortable there. Like I belonged. It was quiet and unremarkable; as was I. We understood each other, the background and I. No one had said or done anything to me to make me feel this way. In my mind this was simply how it was, and I was content in that fact. I never felt that I was the least favorite, or that I was loved any less than my sisters. I felt that we were all equally everything to my parents, and I was right. I just also believed that out of the three, soon to be four girls my parents had brought into this world, I was the one that lacked the magnetic personality. It would take more of an effort for people to like me. In a world of vibrant color I was basically the equivalent of a black and white photograph. I had a soft, meek presence about me. People could appreciate, some even prefer my style, but it would never be the first thing their eyes were attracted to.

I was sure there had to be other so to speak black and white photo children like me, I just hadn’t met them. I could imagine them populating the back row of each classroom, and praying intensely that the teacher wouldn’t call on them to answer a question in front of the entire class. They would be the ones who would just assume blend into the walls during gym class, than have to go through the discomfort of hearing their name shouted as they were picked to join a team. They were there; I would just never see them. Being homeschooled my only classmates were my two very much color photo sisters. Even so, I was grateful that I was homeschooled. Interaction with teachers and other authority figures who may find me to be subpar was a horror I never wanted to endure. Not to mention all the other children! So much pressure to fit in. To be cool. Not to make a fool of myself, and find friends was overwhelming even in the hypothetical. I didn’t believe I would fair well in the public school system. I had friends at my church, and a wonderful family. I was content.

At eight years old, I have to admit, I was quite bored as we sat in the parking lot of the octagon shaped church with stained glass windows; and didn’t fully understand what all the fuss was about. Yes, the congregation had to vote my Dad in before he could become the Pastor, but the congregation loved us and there was no doubt in my young, naïve mind that everything would work out. I had the tendency to think that way. In my mind, the idea that a shuge disappointment could befall my parents, when it would have been so blatantly unwarranted, never crossed my mind. That’s just not the way the world worked. Yes, bad things happen to good people, but my parents weren’t just good people. They truly loved the people in the church and were honestly two of the nicest, most enjoyable people I had ever met. Who couldn’t like them? Dad was even a good preacher so they’d enjoy him on and off the platform. That’s saying something because at eight years old, there were a lot of things I’d rather be doing than sitting quietly listening to someone talk for half an hour. But I honestly enjoyed listening to Dad talk about Jesus.

After what seemed like hours of sitting silently in the backseat for fear of sending my parents over the proverbial edge due to the anxiety that they seemed to unwittingly inhale instead of oxygen, Dad’s phone finally rang. It was the deacons with the results. The relieved and excited expression on his face told the story before he ever opened his mouth. Dad was the new pastor and we were now the pastor’s family.

I was very happy and excited for Dad to be voted in as pastor. What I didn’t know, however, was that when he became the leader of the church we all became leaders of the church. It didn’t matter that I was just a little eight year old girl, the entire congregation would watch me to see if I behaved as a pastor’s kid should. Suddenly, I was no longer a child, I was a pastor’s kid who needed to get used to living her life under a microscope for all to see and scrutinize. If I didn’t measure up to these peoples’ standards it would reflect badly on Dad who, in that case, would appear to be unable to lead his own child in the right direction, let alone an entire congregation. Therefore, my shortcomings equaled Dad’s inadequacies as a pastor, leader, father, and man. It’s a curious thing to not only have to worry about your own life and reputation, and how it will be affected by your actions, but to know that not only are these things on the line for you personally, but also for your parents who have done nothing but love and care for you. At eight years old I learned that being anything less than perfect would have devastating repercussions for the people I loved most in the entire world.

For the first couple of weeks I foolishly thought that as long as I was away from the prying, judgmental eyes of the adults that I could be just like any other kid. I laughed and played with the other kids my age and had fun. I can’t remember exactly what the other kids were planning to do, it was some sort of harmless practical joke, and I made the comment that I would help pull the prank. It sounded like it would be really funny and I wanted to be included! I’ll never forget the look on my friend’s face as she looked at me in utter disbelief. You can’t do that, she exclaimed, You’re the pastor’s kid! At that moment I understood that even my status with my friends had changed drastically. There was a wedge driven between us in the shape of a pulpit, and it declared that I had just made a big mistake.

I never heard anything from the adults about how I wanted to play a joke on them with the other kids, and my friends never said another word about it, but that was a pivotal point for me. At that moment I learned there was no bubble I could enter and magically be like everyone else my age, and be held to the same standard for however fleeting a time. My friends knew that I was supposed to be above them, better than them. I was to be more than my average, childish, quirky, and sometimes foolish self. I was the pastor’s kid now and it was high time that I started behaving as such.

No child just comes to this conclusion. I know this because I never would have expected one of my friends to behave differently if her dad got a new job. I would sometimes overhear my parents talking about how they should be different, or have my parents tell me to my face that they should be different now. It was for this reason I was convinced, and still am, that they got these higher expectations for themselves and me from adults around them. Like children do, they’d report their findings to the hungry ears of adults, eager to please them.

The idea that these expectations of me were completely unfair and irrational never crossed my mind. Like most kids, I grew up being told that adults had been around longer, had learned more lessons from their lives, and therefore knew more. I was to listen to them. So to all of a sudden be threatened with the disapproval of not one, but virtually all of the adults in Dad’s new congregation, I had no doubt that I was in the wrong. I became extremely unsure of myself from that point on. Is this what people had thought about me all along? How could I have been subpar for so long and had no idea? Most importantly, had I always been such a negative, embarrassing representation of my family? This fear haunted me. They deserved so much more! They’re amazing people and I hated to disgrace them as I must have done for so long.

Although my parents were aware of some of the heightened expectations for me and my sisters, they were really far too busy with all the work and counseling that goes along with pastoring a church to pick up on how much we were impacted by our new roles as pastor’s children. They were always the first to tell my sisters and me how much they loved us, and were proud of us, and I did my best to keep them feeling this way. In all honesty, their feelings towards me were confusing. I assumed they must just be too busy to realize how devastatingly inferior I was and I was determined to fix that before they had the chance to notice. I didn’t want to disappoint or fail them any more than I already had.

I would keep all of these feelings and fears to myself, venting only to diaries which I kept daily, and refused to ever throw away. I poured my feelings of inferiority and shame into these pages, often smudging the pencil with a few stray tears. It felt good to get these feelings out. This was a luxury I never would have been able to afford if it meant confessing my overwhelming failure as a pastor’s kid to my parents, and burdening them with this horror.

However, as most siblings do, my older sister discovered an affinity for pestering me. One of her favorite ways of doing so was by barging into my room and taking my diary to read. After the first mortifying incident, I was lucky she had only read a few rants about how my sisters were annoying me, the boy I had a crush on, and nothing more. I started being much more careful with how I allowed my unfiltered feelings to be spewed into a tangible universe like a diary. I kept it inside now, calling these incidents a blessing. I was no longer sitting in my room crying and whining about my problems. I was going to fix them. I’m not good enough, so instead of pretending until I’m alone in my room exhausted from a day of hiding, I would become this perfect girl that everyone seemed to so reasonably expect me to be. After all, I was almost ten at this point. It was about time I grew up!

I started pouring myself into my school work even more than I normally did. Straight A’s were never a surprise, but I wasn’t as good as I should’ve been. So, that must have meant I had to get only one hundred percents. It was only logical.

I would also be much more mindful of what I said. My family likes to have fun, and possesses a sarcastic sense of humor. However, not everyone finds sarcasm funny and some can even mistake it for being disrespectful and immature. I could never behave like that again! Since I wasn’t sure what exactly was considered universally funny, yet respectful and acceptable for me to say, I decided to go the safe route, and not really joke in the presence of adults. In fact, I decided I just probably shouldn’t talk much at all in front of them, unless they spoke to me first. I’m introverted anyway so it wouldn’t be that hard.

The thing that really stumped me was how to behave in Sunday School. We always had a time in the lesson where the teacher would ask review questions about the lesson we had just been taught. Was I supposed to raise my hand? I knew the answer almost every time but I didn’t want to come off as a know it all, or a show off. I was also afraid I’d appear selfish because we got prizes for correctly answering questions. On the other hand, if I didn’t raise my hand, the teacher may think I didn’t know the answer. This could cause the teacher to believe I wasn’t paying attention! Or worse, the teacher might think I didn’t know the answer because I simply didn’t know.

Although the idea of Sunday School was a place where children learned new things about the Bible, that wasn’t true for me anymore. Now that I was the pastor’s kid my job was to already know all the stories and morals in advance. If I didn’t it would mean that Dad wasn’t Godly enough to teach his kids about the Bible. He was supposed to have all the answers now and that meant, by extension, that I was too. The whole thing felt confusing. Review time was my least favorite part of Sunday School.

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Two

Shortly after being voted in as the new pastor my parents decided it was time to hire a youth pastor. They reached out to a young couple they had known for several years and asked them if they would be interested in the position. Shortly thereafter, they became our youth pastors. Since I was only ten I was too young to participate in the youth group, but my older sister was part of it along with all of her close friends. I