How an eating disorder affects your fashion choices

As important as eating disorder awareness is, it comes with preconceived notions of what a body will look like, depending on which mental illness is being suffered. Let me say this now and upfront: many, many people with eating disorders have an average or near-average body weight, the type that doesn’t set off the red flags. When I talk about fashion and eating disorders, the conversation inevitably starts at runways and emaciated women, but how about the people walking by you in the street?

I wasn’t aware of it until I became a victim myself. Imagine your favorite outfit — the way it makes you feel, the way it suits — what if that turned into a cage? It only takes an eating disorder for your favorite clothes to go from empowering to distressing. When my eating disorder began, I took shelter in my favorite outfit. The problem was, I was scared to change out of it.

Every single morning it was the same thing: some black jeans and the baggy, dark grey hoodie with thin white drawstrings. It hung the right way — shoulders accentuated and the rest of my torso indiscernible. I tried other shirts sometimes, but it never went well. I would usually feel horrible and probably cry a bit before changing back into the hoodie. Any other shirt I tried on was too tight (because I was too big) or made me look wider. There was no winning.

Those days were long, and my mood had just been ruined by an outfit. The worst part, though, was going to school. I was perpetually wearing the same clothes and I felt so embarrassed — it felt dirty, even if I washed the hoodie often. It would always feel dirty, because it was my body that was dirty, tainted by negative thoughts that could never be appeased.

The funny part was, when I saw people 20 pounds lighter or heavier than me, judgmental thoughts about their bodies never crossed my mind. On the contrary, most of the time I was envious of those who seemed confident and unbothered by whatever body they were in. I always wished to be able to wear whatever they wore, and to be able to do so just as well.

It took time to snap out of it, and I’m still trying on a daily basis. The self-loathing doesn’t die on impact: it fades like black hair dye. Part of getting rid of the disorder is to stop hating your body, because then you can begin to have normal eating habits. Plus, it gets hot in California, and that means unless I’m welcoming a heat stroke, the hoodie wouldn’t cut it for long.

I still spend a long time in front of my dresser, clothes strewn around the place — a sign of my attempt to find something “comfortable.” Slowly, I pushed myself to wear what I wanted to, even if I thought it looked bad. It was empowering to tell the disorder to go to hell and dress however I actually wanted to. I still hated the sight of myself when passing mirrors, but when I just felt the clothes on, and focused on the fashion, it was okay. Every time I dared to wear one of those pieces of clothing, it felt like a brick was being removed from a wall I’d built four years ago. Of course, though, each brick removed made me feel increasingly exposed — but I’m just realizing that’s not a bad thing.