I was hospitalized as a teen in a psychiatric facility, on the eating disorder unit. At the time my diagnosis was non-purging bulimia (not for lack of trying, I just couldn’t make myself throw up no matter what I did). I’d binge, restrict, binge, restrict.
I basically didn’t eat except to binge.
I was 330ish pounds when I was checked in, just a month after my 15th birthday — and very much against my will, though I’d come to find sanctuary in the facility over the seven weeks I was there. I’d already been hearing constantly about how I’d “drop dead” before I hit 30 (spoiler alert, I’m still alive, now almost 43 and have never, not once, been below 300 lbs since). Yet my friends who had anorexia, they were praised by so many for their thinness, their willpower, their beauty…
And sadly so many of them are no longer alive. Several didn’t make it out of their 20s. Another died at 36, having never been able to even stabilize long enough to have a career, to get married, to have the babies she dreamed of… hell, even long enough to move out of her parents’ home.
She was under 90 pounds when she died, and while she was short (about 5'2") the many years of being well below 90 pounds finally took a toll on her heart and it gave out.
One of the saddest parts of her story, at least to me, is that her mom was fat. At least part of the source of her anorexia was her being terrified of growing up to be like her mom, and at least part of that fear was fueled by her mom’s hatred of her own body. :(
Her mom, last I knew, was in her 60s. Still fat. But also still alive.