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THIS YEAR, THE very worst thing I could do with my resolutions would be to succeed at them.
This pursuit of failure would seem contradictory at the best of times, but it is particularly out of place at the beginning of a New Year. After all, January is practically synonymous with goal setting.
From the deluge of gymgoers embarking on “new year, new me” to the weary livers and even wearier wallets embarking on Dry January, the new year is laden with optimistic targets.
This collective ambition makes my own pursuit of failure appear to have missed the point. But experience has taught me the opposite. It’s not that I have missed the point, it’s that in the past I have excelled at hitting the point a little too well. Nor is it that I am anticipating a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure, it’s that I am afraid of the consequences of success.
In the past, my New Year enthusiasm has been reminiscent of my enthusiasm for a new notebook. I approach both like blank slates perfectly primed for fresh and positive starts, and I have a series of new year’s notebooks to prove it.
Before I started my 2018 resolution, I knew what an eating disorder was. I knew that some of my behaviours risked being misinterpreted on a slippery slope. But I also knew that I was too clever to let it get that far.
I wouldn’t be like one of those stereotypical diet-gone-wrong stories. I would never let it slip out of my control. It was just some healthy goals and motivation. After all, as a society aren’t we obsessed with fitness and wellbeing? Don’t we praise people who are dedicated to their healthy choices?
I wasn’t sick. I was “committed”, “disciplined” and “healthy”. Most importantly, I could stop whenever I wanted. Except it was becoming increasingly apparent that I couldn’t.
In 2023, I attended a therapist for the first time, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder, and I was beginning to reveal snippets of information to those around me. Despite the time and effort spent convincing myself and others that everything was under control, even I could no longer deny that things were spiralling.
My relationship with food was consuming my life. Over time, without realising it, every one of my actions had become imbued by disordered thought patterns. I woke up exhausted, and I went to sleep drained.
My fluency in deceit was also taking its toll on my brain and my relationships. Social interactions became battlegrounds and chess games. I was constantly pre-empting and deliberating my opponents’ next move in order to plan my counter-move appropriately. I perceived the people who cared about me as threats. But while I was protecting my eating disorder, they were protecting me.
I didn’t appreciate this protection at first, but it did become one of my grounding anchors. My other anchor was therapy. Given how guarded I was around my closest family and friends, the notion that I would share the messiness of my mind with a stranger seemed far-fetched. My reluctance was reflected in my initial reticent approach.
But gradually I discovered that therapy provided a space where I could vent without a self-imposed filter. I was not constrained by the fear that I was overburdening my friends or worrying them unfairly. Over time, I found myself simultaneously dreading and looking forward to the allotted hour when I didn’t have to hold back. Were there still occasions where I found myself withholding? Absolutely, old habits run deep. But the sessions offered a key outlet.
Despite these progressive steps, I still composed a list of 2024 resolutions. Except this time it was a dual list. One half of the list was a set of targets that I intended to achieve. The other half was a list of how I intended to achieve them without anyone catching on. For clarity, I am not asserting that my New Year’s resolutions gave me an eating disorder. But they didn’t help.
What did help, were the people around me. The people who, despite my 2024 resolution to conceal and hide, refused to be fobbed off. While I was scared of adding salt to food, they took everything I said with a pinch of salt.
Living with an eating disorder can feel like shouting for help at the top of your lungs only to realise that your voice never made it out of your throat and what you verbalised instead was “No I’m fine, no need to worry, thanks”. But this isolating experience can be made less lonely by the efforts of friends and family, who tune in to every conversation or interaction with equal attention to what is subdued as to what is spoken.
Throughout my illness, I was cautious and guarded with the knowledge I shared. A sprinkle of insight here, a breadcrumb of information there. And yet, not only did my friends and therapist collect every one of those breadcrumbs of information, they used them to pave a path to recovery. And then they walked it with me. It is this continuous, enduring support combined with the guidance of therapy that means for the first time in seven years, I do not have a weight-loss-related resolution.
I won’t pretend that I am not tempted. After all, it is the first few weeks of January and my social media feed is laden with suggestions of detoxes and diets, cleanses and calorie counts. The urging eating disorder voice is strong… “Sure, just one little resolution wouldn’t hurt. I will have it under control this time. It will be sustainable and realistic. It will be different to 2018. And 2019, and 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024…”
No. It wouldn’t be different. I could repackage it in a multitude of ways, align it with health goals instead of weight ones, or call it a lifestyle change instead of a diet. But the outcome would be the same: the resurgence of my eating disorder. Not that long ago, a resurgence of my eating disorder felt like something to aspire towards. In early 2024, while I was composing a dual list of resolutions, my focus was on concealing my illness to allow it to persevere undetected. These days, those efforts to restrict have been replaced with efforts to recover.
I now recognise the temptation to lie or “loophole” a question about my eating habits as an indicator to reach out instead of retreat in. The tools that I have learned in therapy are works in progress, but I am working at them every day. I am taking small steps to let go of perfectionism and control. Through it all, I endeavour to stand tall and recognise those small steps for the direction they are going in.
Since the composing of my 2024 resolutions, I have had glimpses of what a recovered life will look like. And it’s not a life I am willing to give up. So this year, I will create memories instead of diet plans. I will count opportunities instead of calories. And most importantly, I will continue to put one foot in front of the other along every step of the path to a fully recovered life.
I am not qualified, if we’re frank I’m not even fully recovered. So as I write this, I do not claim to be an expert. But I am composing this article instead of composing a 2025 diet plan. And I truly believe that counts for something.
Louise* has withheld her real name to maintain her privacy. If you are living with an eating disorder, you can get help at Bodywhys, Samaritans and via the HSE.
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