Coming back to college after nine weeks of residential treatment for anorexia nervosa, followed by a full summer of outpatient therapy, I wasn’t quite sure how I would fare. Part of me was really nervous that being back in the same environment where my eating disorder took over—seeing the same buildings, the same classrooms, and the same street corners where I once stood thirty pounds sicker—would be really upsetting. Over the summer, I was so worried that my struggles last year would ruin this special place for me.

Upon arriving back in August, I was so pleased to find that this was not the case at all. I set up a totally new college environment for myself, moving back and creating a new routine that does not involve 6 a.m. workouts or food restriction. I am so, so happy in my recovered life here, and it brings me such joy that my eating disorder couldn’t take away my love for this place.

That being said, universities are also filled with people. People you know and people you don’t, people who may be familiar with your struggles, and those who know nothing of them. Those people—the ones who I will never know closely, who are totally unaware of the battle I’ve fought—are really the ones I am having to stay strong against this semester.

In treatment and even at home over the summer, I was able to create a very safe space for myself. I was surrounded only by people who knew what had happened in my life. These people were respectful and very sensitive towards me, and they took special care not to say things that may trigger or upset me, and for that I am so grateful. I know that I needed that safe space to continue recovering before coming back to college.

That being said, there is no way for me to control the people I am surrounded by in college. I probably see thousands of faces over the course of a day, many of which I will never see again, but it is absolutely remarkable how much these strangers can throw me for a loop. I’ll give you an example.

Each fall for more than thirty years now, the University of South Carolina has hosted a blood donation drive through the American Red Cross. We actually compete against Clemson, our rival college, to see who can get the most donations within the time frame of the drive. I had always been way too nervous to donate before this year, but I decided that this year, as I’m now healthy (and had blood drawn too many times during treatment to be afraid of needles anymore), this would be the year I finally made my contribution. It seems like such a small sacrifice to make in order to save a life!

As I began to think about donating earlier this week, I realized the nurses might ask me for my weight before allowing me to donate. I have no idea how much I weigh. I knew I wouldn’t be able to give them an accurate answer.

At this point in recovery, I’m not interested in knowing what I weigh. Since so much of my disorder was wrapped up in numbers, weight included, I have stayed off of scales since I was blind-weighed in treatment over the summer. I’m happy and comfortable in this body most days, and I was really worried that giving blood would require me to face a number that could throw me into a funk.

Today, I decided to attempt donation. I decided that if the nurses asked me to step on a scale, I could simply tell them that I was not comfortable doing that, and then I could leave. Simple as that. Among the string of pre-donation questions I was asked, the nurse did ask me how much I weighed. I told her I didn’t know, and that I didn’t really care to. I gave her a little summary of what had happened last spring, after which, she asked:

“So, did you have an eating disorder because you used to be really overweight?”

“No,” I told her. “I was at a perfectly healthy weight when I developed anorexia, and was hospitalized because I was at a critically low weight.”

“So you mean you weren’t just naturally underweight, then? It was by choice?”

It took several slow breaths, a lot of blinking back sharp tear pricks, and a quick word of prayer for me to formulate a response.

“No, ma’am. It was not by choice. I was very sick with a mental disorder, and it took a lot of therapy and treatment for me to fight for my life back. Mental disorders are not a choice. They are never a choice.”

She had the most dumbfounded look on her face, a mixture of embarrassment, surprise, and a touch of sadness. She fumbled over her response: “Of course, sugar. I understand. I’m glad you seem to be doing better now.”

I wish I could say I just brushed off her words, but they rang cruelly in my head for quite a while. The entire rest of the donation process, I had to block her words out of my head in order to avoid tearing up. She was a stranger to me—someone I will probably never encounter again—but her quick little question was nearly enough to throw me off for the rest of the day.

This isn’t the only time something like this has happened since I’ve been at college. Recently, I came across this photo on my Facebook news feed:

The fact that someone would post this photo as a joke, and caption it “LOL!,” simply makes my heart ache. There is so much ignorance in this world.

I unfriended the girl who posted this, but really felt no better about anything afterward. Unfriending her didn’t make her less ignorant. Unfriending her didn’t show her the nightmarish realities of what life is really like with an eating disorder. Unfriending her didn’t cause her to live a day in my life during the darkest times I’ve ever had. Not to say that I would ever wish her to experience these things, because I absolutely wouldn’t, but it is so upsetting to me that there is such a great lack of understanding surrounding eating disorders.

I have seen Halloween costumes mocking anorexia. I have heard some of my residents do it. The ignorance is everywhere, and sometimes, it feels suffocating. I have spent nights crying over it, and have woken up the next morning feeling puffy-eyed and absolutely no better.

While I wish everyone could be informed about how serious eating disorders are, I know that this isn’t feasible. It won’t be effective for me to stand on the roof of campus’s tallest parking garage and scream statistics at the top of my lungs, hoping that the little ant-sized passers-by below might suddenly be enlightened. It doesn’t work this way. It just can’t.

So…what do I do instead?

• Keep being honest. I am absolutely and entirely unashamed of my eating disorder. It stole so much from me that I feel empowered whenever I expose it to the world. I know that it wasn’t my fault, and for that reason, I will gladly inform ignorant nurses (or even my residents) who make insensitive and hurtful comments.
• Try to be at peace with the fact that not everyone knows. If I am being honest, I didn’t even know about eating disorders myself until I realized that I was living in the middle of one. I, like many others, kind of pictured anorexia as some sort of extreme diet that I would “never be committed enough to try.” I didn’t realize how helpless and constricting anorexia was until it had a hold on me. I can’t realistically expect everyone around me to realize this, as much as I wish things were otherwise.
• Rely on my support system. Unlike most random strangers walking down the street, the people I hold closest to my heart really do understand how serious eating disorders are. They don’t comment on calories or talk about how “anorexic people should just eat a cheeseburger.” When I am feeling tired and defeated, I run to these people. I am so grateful that they know how to protect me and comfort me when I feel beaten down in this ignorant world.
• Slowly, diligently, begin to grow a thicker skin. This goes hand-in-hand with accepting the widespread ignorance surrounding eating disorders. I can’t live in my safe little bubble forever; in fact, in just a short time, I could be moving to an entirely new place where no one knows what I’ve been through. People say dumb, insensitive things sometimes, and I’ll bet that sometimes they don’t even realize that what they’re saying is so hurtful. Breathe, acknowledge the ignorance, and let it go. Ignorant statements do not have to be taken personally. They can be recognized as just that—misinformed or uninformed comments—and disregarded.

These things are, quite obviously, more easily said than done. I think people’s ignorant comments will hurt me quite badly for a while yet. In fact, I don’t know if it will ever not hurt me. The difference lies in how I will choose to respond.

I will acknowledge the ignorance, educate people when possible, and let it go. I will lean on my support system. Little by little, and after countless hurts, I hope to respond to these comments with pity. How very, very sad that people don’t know. I’m sorry that they will never be able to recognize the strength it takes to fight this battle.