The deadliest psychiatric disorder is not schizophrenia or depression or psychosis. It is a condition I have been battling for the past four years. It is anorexia nervosa. I was diagnosed in 2018 and was only thirteen years old. I began showing symptoms by constantly checking calories and keeping myself under a specific daily limit. As the days progressed, I was limiting myself to less and less food, causing physical and internal pain. As my emotions faded, my sleep worsened, and my body ached, I was slowly shutting down the organs that helped me live. My parents realized this danger, and I was forced into the office of an eating disorders specialist.
Although we knew a diagnosis was coming, I was still floored to think that my behavior was truly anorexia. Talking with my parents and doctors that day, I learned that my obsession with changing my body had become so unhealthy that I needed treatment. After leaving this intense and shaking appointment, I prepared myself for the next few days and weeks. Surely, I thought, this wouldn't take long. I just had to save myself through independence and will.
But weeks passed quickly. Then months. And I was still struggling. The therapy took so long, my expressions started to become more blank, more bleak, and my diaries collected less entries each day. I constantly met with my new doctor for weight check-ins and checkups but began to burn out from all the effort. Forcing myself to get sustenance was miserable. Throughout this treatment, I felt alone and frustrated. I was failing to save myself.
As time progressed, I grew exhausted from my lonely battle. I began to understand that I needed support if I wanted my treatment to be effective. Instead of weighing myself alone, keeping my intrusive thoughts to myself, and holding back in therapy, I slowly began inviting my family into my treatment, my mind, and my life. I started trusting my doctors more. I engaged in more in-depth conversations with my family and my therapists. I accumulated new ways of coping with anxiety by accepting the suggestions of loved ones and valuing their experiences and observations of me. I better understood what I needed to do for my body to be healthy and sustainable. With this newfound patience and trust in others, the results started to flow in; I began to put on weight, feel better, and have more energy when playing sports and doing the things I love. I eventually came to understand that I needed more than a personal drive to improve; I needed humility, open-mindedness, and confidence in others.
This new mindset has been critical to my life outside of my eating disorder. As my condition improved, my relationship with my stepmom, however, continued turbulent. When my father met her, I feared she would try to replace my biological mother. I did not believe my father when he assured me this was not the case, and I was eager to judge, label, and ignore her. However, as time passed, I saw how happy she made my father and how she got closer to the family. My perspective slowly shifted, and I began to trust my father’s promises and that she had kind intentions. I learned to be comfortable in the long process of bettering our relationship. I talked with her–and my family–about my struggles and used this vulnerability to fuel my trust in them.
Without my distinct change in mindset, with which I can now be more patient and trusting, I would not be the young man I am today. After getting treatment and applying this lesson, I now understand that real positive change requires us to lean on others and be patient in getting results. Time heals, and so does trust.
Even with all of these challenges Jake still maintains an optimistic and cheerful attitude. He continues to play baseball for the Northeast Eagles, and continue his baseball career by playing division 3 at Ana Maria College.