I sit down with my morning coffee to enjoy a few moments of quiet and check my notifications on Facebook. Today is going to be hectic, so I want to take some time to be alone, update my page, take a few deep breaths, and ground myself. I already feel the anxiety starting to surface. Could it be because I know my husband is mad at me for spending an hour of our anniversary night on the phone with a friend? Or maybe that another good friend and her beautiful children are moving to Florida as I type this? Or maybe it’s the upcoming phone call I have scheduled for this afternoon that’s making me anxious or the fact that I have no income right now. I guess it’s all of it and I’m sure some other issues I’m not even fully aware of right now.
I finish with Facebook and move onto Instagram. Just as last night, my feed is not updating. Something went wrong. I try to refresh. Couldn’t refresh feed. Did they cancel my account? I think to myself. Temporarily suspend me? I can’t deal with this right now. I just want some time to myself to mindlessly scroll. And that’s when it pops up again.
We’re reaching out to offer help. Someone thinks you might need some extra support right now and asked us to help.
Again. Someone flagged one of my posts because he or she thinks I can use the emotional/mental support…from Instagram. Instead of reaching out to me personally, instead of checking in via text, this person flags my post so Instagram could help me. Thanks, friend. Your good deed for the day is done!
As I write this, I am 88 days free from binge eating. I guess I’m in what some people might call “recovery” from the eating disorder. I struggle with that concept because I question whether or not I am truly recovering or if I ever will truly be recovered. I doubt myself. I doubt whether or not I will have the strength to not use food as a coping mechanism. What I do know is that I am healing. I am actively working on recovering from Binge Eating Disorder and on addressing the source(s) of my anxiety so that I can learn to fully live life. I am talking about mental health in public, detailing my journey on social media in an attempt to not only heal myself through sharing with others, but also in an attempt to potentially help others. To let them know they are not alone in their struggles with anxiety and eating disorders. To let them know life can get better. To communicate that these things, these disorders, can be temporary. That there is light. Even at times when I can’t see it and doubt the light is there, there is a deep, instinctual knowing that it is, and so I carry on.
Yet, despite the progress and the healthy decisions and choices I am making, despite the therapeutic actions I am taking to overcome my trauma and years of disordered thinking and behaviors, I feel like I am being shamed into silence. I am healing. I am sharing. I am being brutally honest and raw with myself and others in an attempt to find peace and love and accept myself for who I am. Yet, someone must feel threatened because my posts are repeatedly being flagged on Instagram. Do you really want to help me? Are you really trying to support me? Do you really think that Instagram is going to provide me with the services I need to heal?
Do you really think I believe you are trying to help me?
Someone is triggered.
Obviously, my posts about overcoming BED, losing weight, and confronting my anxiety are too much for that person to handle. For whatever reason, my posts are affecting this person, so he or she flags my posts. My healing is this person’s trigger.
So instead of this person blocking me or simply just ignoring me by scrolling past my posts, this person flags me repeatedly. Why? It’s an attempt to silence me. It’s an attempt to check me, to put me in my place. It’s a way to tell me to stop talking about mental health, to stop creating awareness. It’s a way to tell me I am crazy and that we, as a society, don’t, or shouldn’t, talk about these things. It’s an attempt to shame me into silence. But I won’t stuff down my feelings anymore. I won’t allow my voice to be stifled, silenced just so others don’t feel uncomfortable.
So I end with the last verse of an untitled poem I wrote a couple of months ago:
“But here I am, // fat, loud, and in your face. // Move over because I’m coming to invade your space. // See that empty seat right next to you? // Well, clear the way // because I’m coming through.”
I will not be silenced because of their discomfort.
Overweight, Anxious, and Done 