Into The Mirror, Into The Dark
Author's Note
This story was very personal to me. I spent nine years battling an eating disorder, and it could have (and almost did, for that matter) killed me. If I hadn't sought help, I likely would not be here today.
All of the behaviors mentioned in here are not to be imitated. DO NOT try them, ever. They will kill you eventually. But I have written some of them in hopes that somebody may recognize something in a loved one. Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness. This story was written to give voice to an issue not many talk about, as well as to speak on my own experiences and those of girls I was in treatment with.
My personal thanks to Rosewood Center For Eating Disorders for helping treat me and getting me to a better place with my body and myself. Special thanks to Rhea, Susan, Kiyana, Heidi, Matt, Shannon, Amanda, Sarah, Jordan, and Kayla. Thanks for helping me see outside the mirror, guys.
If you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, visit https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org to find resources and help near you.
Into The Mirror, Into The Dark
I was three the first time I seeped into the mirror.
I had gone into Mother’s room, playing with her make up. She’d impressed upon me from a young age that appearance was critical to one’s social standing. I’d stood atop the stool at her vanity, painting my face with too much mascara, blush too deep a pink to look good on me, and garish orange eyeshadow that did not at all compliment me. I’d looked into the mirror, satisfied that I had made myself beautiful. But then, I looked down at my body.
This pudgy little body, still stubbornly clinging to it’s foal fat, was not at all beautiful. Mother was thin and therefore beautiful, and I simply was not. The word entered my lexicon that day- fat. It would stay there for over two decades. I did not know that in learning that word, I would begin a war within myself that nopony could win. I recalled trying to tell my mother this horrific revelation, and her scooping me up into her lap and telling me I was not fat, and that any baby weight I may have been carrying would go as I grew older. And so I kept vigil, every day. I stared into the mirror at least an hour every day, as if I could force myself to drop that weight just by staring at myself. I believed in the power of willingness, and that if I was willing enough, I could make whatever I wanted happen, including dropping that weight.
I began to become obsessed with the number on the scale. Even as a child, I knew what numbers were higher and lower. The first time I stepped onto it, my weight read seventy eight pounds. That number is firmly imprinted on my brain. The number that began a lifelong battle with my self-image. I thought that controlling what food I put into my body would control the number on the scale. I began to refuse certain foods. My parents thought it was because I didn’t like them. They weren’t entirely wrong- I refused to eat some foods because I didn’t like them. But others because I thought they would make the number on the scale go up. My parents, used to my sudden transitions into phases like these, did not question it further. They simply thought it another quirk of my childhood, a milestone of youth. In retrospect, I cannot blame them.
I began to have a particular order in which I needed to eat foods as well. Anything that had juices or liquids went first. Then greens, and finally solid vegetables. I got it in my head that more liquid foods wouldn’t make my weight go up, and greens of course would be good and slimming. I struggled with solid vegetables the most because I knew they were actual weighty things that could potentially cause me to gain weight. But I ate them. I felt I didn’t have a choice in the matter.
I also had strange habits regarding foods touching. Foods could not, under any circumstances, touch one another. If I was eating cottage cheese, for example, and it touched a blade of grass from a daisy and daffodil salad, I could not eat the blade. It was contaminated. And if something that had juices leaked into something else, whatever the something else was had to be thrown away. It would be contaminated, the flavor would be off, the number on the scale could go up. I simply couldn’t risk it.
I began to go with my mother to the market whenever she went. I’d tell her what foods I wanted, what I would eat, what I wanted to try (never telling her, of course, that I wanted to try it because I thought it would make me thinner). She, used to my pickiness and perfectionistic ways, never batted an eye and did as I asked. She knew, in her wisdom, that I would not eat at all were she not to get these things. Better to do as I asked then let me starve. Many years later, I would begin to starve anyways. But neither she nor I knew that at the time.
When I was in the market with Mother, I took notice of mares. More specifically, I took note of how thin they were compared to others nearby. I arranged the order of thinness in my mind and paid specific attention to what they bought, thinking that if I were to eat like them, I could somehow become that thin. I asked Mother to buy me what they bought. Even though some of it tasted awful, I ate it anyways. The desire to be thin like them was more pressing than my tastebuds.
It was around this time that mother first took me to Canterlot. I fell in love the city, the glamor and sophistication. Mother and I would have tea together and as we sat outside of cafe’s I took notice of the thin mares, again, and the clothes they wore. I wanted to wear clothes like that, I wanted to be thin enough to where clothing had to be taken in to fit me better. I wanted to wear the most beautiful creations. It was a few days after returning from Canterlot that made me decide that I wanted to be a fashion designer.
Getting my cutie mark in fashion design really was the cherry on top of the fat free frozen yogurt sundae. It reaffirmed that my love of beauty and design was truly my calling. However, there was a downside to working in that industry. I just could not see it yet.
Working and dreaming of working in an industry so focused on outer beauty, on appearance, on fitness, was fuel to my need to be thin at any cost. The more I grew and learned to understand the numbers on the scale, the more panicked I became. As I grew so did the number, and I had to make the number go down. It became an obsession. I hated my body for getting bigger without my permission, for defecting on me without my consent. I wanted to be thin enough to wear the clothes I designed, which I made for mares that thin. I made myself an outfit- a beautiful purple gown that matched my mane with a diamond hook and eye piece at the collar that was simply divine- and told myself that it would be my goal. I would fit into this outfit if it killed me.
I really should have phrased that better, since it nearly did.
I began exercising, and eating what was by all accounts- healthy foods. This was not some “crash diet” I went on like one might have thought. It started off as just that- a diet. But slowly, I found myself cutting out certain foods because I did not feel they were helping me. I skipped eating for a day occasionally and spent more time exercising. I hated being sweaty- certainly that was nothing for a lady to be doing- but I wanted to be thin even more. I kept an elliptical in my bedroom, and taped sticky notes to my walls with reminders of what I had to gain from this, and I made sure to tape a picture of the outfit to my fridge, to remind me just what I was working toward.
I began to drop weight, my body slowly shrinking down from where it was before. My glee was almost bawdy in nature. I knew I had to keep going. It was so satisfying to see that number on the scale drop a bit lower. I wondered, morbidly, how low I could make it go. In addition to the elliptical, I began to run. I’d wait until night when Ponyville was asleep, and I’d run five, ten, twenty miles in the dark, where nopony would see me sweating. There were a few times I’d become dizzy at that, and I’d pulled back each time. I wasn’t ready to push my limits like that.
At least, not then.
I’d grown stranger as fall turned to winter that year. My shopping list grew shorter, more strange. I’d begun eating odd combinations of food. Carrots and mustard. Cottage cheese with greens and a mini muffin. I hadn’t realized it at the time. Trips to the market were spent obsessively looking at food I could not have. And when I got to foods I allowed myself to have, I had to find the right one. They all looked the same, but they simply couldn’t be the same. One had to be better, less fattening than the rest. Finding it took time. If somepony else came up behind me, I’d feel the hairs on the nape of my neck stand up. The pressure to choose would become overwhelming and I’d feel as though the walls were closing in. When it became too much, I’d simply leave the stand and go without. It wasn’t too different from what I was already doing, honestly.
I’d begun eating alone, diving headfirst into my work, eating nibbles of bites between my sewing. I’d dropped more weight. Maybe another ten pounds. I hadn’t noticed, perhaps, because in my frenzy of work and sleep and nibbling bites I hadn’t been eating enough. I made time every evening to run, but it was the only time I didn’t work. I made time for my friends of course. They’d told me in spring how slim I was looking. But by winter it was becoming more of a worried gaze. They had a right to be worried, of course. I was destroying myself, and not even seeing it. I’d dropped thirty pounds in a matter of months. That was a feat no magic could perform, and only a few ways to achieve it otherwise. One was malnutrition. I believe my friends suspected it, but because they were not absolutely certain, they didn’t say anything. Not then.
Malnutrition has many effects on the body. I’ve looked it up in Twilight’s books. For one, there is a chemical change in the brain. Aside from being grouchy from the lack of food, ponies begin hiding food, and finding it impossible not to talk about it. That mirrored my own experience. I’d gotten some Tupperware at the market and began to stash it in odd places- In a drawer in my inspiration room, in my closet in my bedroom, in a vanity in the bathroom. Rubbery carrots, pretzels (I craved salt desperately at the time), an occasional apple or orange. I did not venture to retrieve them much of the time, though I did on occasion. When whatever it was began to stale or rot, I threw it out and put something else in.
I grew obsessed with calories. I kept a diary- a food journal- between my mattress. I notated the calories of everything I ate, I even (as my descent into madness progressed) learned how to tell the weight of what I expelled. It is vulgar to me now, to think about that. But to my malnourished brain, it made perfect sense.
I learned another thing about malnutrition in that time- eventually, despite all your efforts, your body will make you eat. And that is what happened to me.
I can recall the night it happened with perfect clarity. I’d been trying to sew a dress for a client, but my hooves hadn’t stopped shaking. Another effect of my malnutrition. I decided my body wanted me to eat something, and I would acquiesce. A celery stalk- fifteen calories in total- would hopefully take care of the problem. It was one of the foods I’d always had on hoof. I’d gone to the fridge, pulled out a stalk, and taken a bite. It tasted bitter to me, and certainly wasn’t salty. I decided to dip it in mustard. Normally my ritual with eating celery (because by that point most of my foods had to be eaten a certain way) was this- Cut off the top and the white portion, and eat the middle. Then throw a way the bottom portion (for it was clearly contaminated) and save the top for last. I enjoyed the roughage the most because it felt as though my mouth was full- if only momentarily- and it wouldn’t make me fat. But this night, the ritual went to the wayside. I’d dunked the bottom portion in mustard and started eating. It felt so good, and I kept going. The stalk was soon devoured, and I moved onto more. It was as though a sign had been turned on in my mind that screamed: EAT!
So I did. I ate all the celery in the fridge, then the carrots, then blueberry mini muffins, then a carton of cottage cheese. I dimly recall going to Sugarcube Corner a few minutes before closing and ordering a dozen cupcakes and some bread. I’d ran back home with them and began stuffing them into my mouth, barely chewing as the absolute need to have something in my mouth and stomach took control. I ate two apples, and an orange, and lastly a half loaf of bread. After that, I’d waited a few moments, before the autopilot of my body eating without my permission was switched off and I was back in control.
I remember that feeling of absolute mortification of having eaten so much. Never in my life had I felt so awful. The picture of the dress taped to my fridge seemed to mock me, and I knew I had to do something right then. I’d raced to the bathroom, flipped the toilet seat up, and forced myself to vomit by drinking a foul mixture of warm water and salt. It worked, and I’d gotten sick immediately. But to be sure I got everything out, I went to my medicine cabinet and took a little pink pill- a laxative which I deigned to use occasionally when I hadn’t gone to the bathroom in a while, and chased it down with water. I’d spent the evening in the bathroom, dizzy from my bout of what I would later learn was called purging, and swaying precariously on the toilet.
The next day, I’d weighed myself and been furious to see that despite all my efforts, I’d gained a half a pound. I was infuriated with myself. I swore never again to make such an egregious error in judgement. I looked at the dress, still patiently waiting for me in my closet, and vowed to one day be worthy of it.
Had I been in my right mind, I might have thought to try it on. I would have been surprised to find that it would have been loose on me, because now it fits me quite nicely. But in my crazed frenzy to be thin, to be beautiful, I had lost sight of why I had that dress in my closet. Dabbling in a fatal disease will do that to a pony.
I did not realize in that time that I was becoming ugly. My bones were beginning to poke out from my coat, and fur was beginning to fall out in patches from my coat. I noticed that, but didn’t think much about it other than wearing a white bodysuit to cover it up. They call it alopecia- the medical term for loss of hair. I learned that later on. Wearing the bodysuit lessened the emaciation, and covered up the alopecia.
I’d become a skilled liar in the time my disease took hold of me, saying no thank you, I already ate, I don’t feel well, I ate before I came, when dealing with other ponies. My friends, especially Applejack, did not believe me in the slightest.
There was a breaking point between myself and them, not long after Twilight came to Ponyville. We’d all been in the library when Spike came and offered us all cauliflower bites. The mental abacus in my head ticked away. The calories in a cauliflower bite were 129 per bite. That was nearly half the allowance of calories I allowed myself per day. Plus, he’d spiced them with buffalo sauce. I could only imagine the fat content in that, and it made my stomach roil.
“None for me, thank you.” I’d said.
The simple sentence caused a virulent explosion, the likes of which I am sure I have not seen since.
Applejack had taken her hat off and thrown it down in a fit of temper. “For Pete’s sake, Rarity, can’t you just eat?! You ain’t touched a scrap of food since you got here! Probably longer than that!”
I was taken aback. “Applejack, what on earth are you saying? I eat.” I’d replied calmly.
“You’re lyin’ right to my face, Rarity! You don’t eat enough to keep a mouse alive! You’re wastin’ away to skin and bone! You’re killin’ yourself and you’re makin’ all of us watch!” She’d yelled.
I’d given a cursory glance at the girls. They’d all looked saddened, and yet somehow relieved, as if Applejack was saying what was on everypony’s mind. I’d straightened myself up, a haughty version of myself.
“You all feel this way, do you?” I’d asked, sounding so superior, when in truth I was simply being grandiose to cover up my hurt.
A few nods from Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Twilight. Rainbow Dash was the only one to say something, which was completely like her.
“Rarity, you look like a skeleton walking! Your hair is falling out, you’re avoiding all of us, you’re acting crazy! You need to start eating or get some help! See a doctor or a therapist or somepony because you’re scaring the Tartarus out of us! And all of this is for what? To look better in your clothes? To feel beautiful? Well this is not beautiful. It’s the furthest thing from! You’re hurting your friends, you’re making yourself sick, and it’s turning you into something ugly. You’ve turned your back on your friends and you’re hurting the ponies who love you. If you want to kill yourself that way, you can’t expect us to sit here and watch and not try and stop you.”
Her words alongside Applejack’s iced my blood. I never let it show on my face though. I’d simply stood up. “I see. I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you all in this way. I’ll be taking my leave now.”
I’d walked out the door, and gone back to Carousel Boutique. The words of my friends danced around in my head like one of Pinkie’s bouncy balls. The concern of my friends had fed into my disease somewhat. If they’d looked concerned, I must have really lost some weight. But the anger of Applejack and Rainbow Dash frightened me, because it was a reminder I didn’t want. I was reminded that what I was doing was hurting other ponies, that this wasn’t some penance I was performing at the sacrificial altar of my bathroom vanity alone. There were others outside of myself and my own quest for thinness. This was not something I was doing solely on my own, where nopony could see. This was me showing off a fatal disease and saying “LOOK AT ME!” And instead of doing so and turning away politely, they’d looked and called me out on what I was doing. And I’d wanted no part of that.
Furious, and fuming, I’d consumed everything in my fridge. The thought in my mind kept racing around- I’ll prove to them I can eat. I’ll show them. I don’t have a problem.- circling over and over again as I devoured everything in sight. I’d gone into those hidden Tupperware containers and eaten the things in there too. Then, I realized what I’d done.
You have to get it out of your system.
I can’t if I want to prove them wrong.
If you don’t you’ll be fat and never fit in that dress.
I can’t back down.
If you don’t get it out, You’ll punish yourself for days after. Would your friends want that?
Well no, but-
Get. It. Out. Now.
And I had. I’d purged everything in my system. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to run, to feel as though I was escaping my thoughts and feelings. So I did. I ran and ran. I circled the town, avoiding all ponies as I pushed myself beyond my limits. I’d done this a few times, and become dizzy. But all the other times, I’d stopped. This time I did not. The burn in my legs told me I was alive, the frantic thumping of my heart told me I was alive, I wasn’t dead, I was fine, the shortness of breath left me with exhilaration.
Starvation eats at your body. First it consumes your fat, then it eats at your muscles, and finally it attacks your internal organs, including your brain. My smaller weaker heart could not get enough blood to my brain, and I’d blacked out without warning near the Everfree forest.
Rainbow Dash- by an ironic twist of fate- had found me while flying, and Immediately carried me to Ponyville hospital. My friends had all been at my bedside, faces contorted with worry and heartache, when I awoke and the doctor came in.
Anorexia Nervosa. That was the name of what I had been doing. Not starving, not constricting, not dieting. It was a disease. I had a disease. Me, in my starved and barely functional brain, smiled at that. I had a disease. How lovely. More sickness meant more concern which meant more fuel for my fire. I was still smiling until Doctor Horse told me I needed to go away for treatment. Then my smile dropped.
I threw without a doubt the most childish tantrum I could have possibly thrown. I kicked, I screamed, I wailed, I cried, and I tossed my pillow at my doctor. He wasn’t phased by it in the least.
“I WON’T GO.” I’d yelled. “You’re going to pump me full of food that will make me FAT! I’ll never be THIN if I go! How in Equestria will I make it to fashion week in the HOSPITAL?!”
“Would you rather get there in a coffin?” He’d asked. “Because at the rate you’re going, that’s the only way you’ll get there.”
Something about that startled me from my outburst. That, and the sound of soft sobbing. Fluttershy was crying, as was Twilight, Pinkie Pie, and even Rainbow Dash and Applejack. In a rare moment of clarity, the message got through. If I didn’t change now, I’d die and leave everypony behind that I loved. Mother, Father, Sweetie Belle, my friends… I couldn’t bear the thought. So I’d agreed to treatment. Twilight had been the one to pack my bags for me, color coating and organizing everything perfectly. It felt good to have a bit of her to hold onto. I wasn’t sure where I was going.
I don’t remember the name of where I went. My mind has always been adept at picking up small details instead. I remember the clay colored walls, the hospital-like beds. The Gazebos which mares would gather under in the afternoon. I recalled the aura of unicorn’s horns. I recalled the beeping of the vital machines that checked my heartbeat and blood pressure. Most prominently, I recall that we were not allowed privacy in the bathrooms. When we went to the restrooms, the stall doors had to be kept open, and a member of the staff had to be watching us to be sure we weren’t throwing up. The bathrooms were locked thirty minutes after snacks and an hour after meals. There was no way to make yourself sick on their watch.
It was not for lack of trying.
Anorexics like myself were not the only ones there. There were binge eaters, who could not stop eating. There were night eaters, who often ate while asleep and were very overweight. There were bulimics- who did what I’d occasionally done and eaten everything in sight before throwing it up- who tried to find places to vomit. Some tried in the plants. Some tried to do it in the dirt and cover it up. Even those who could Purge on command didn’t get the chance. The staff patrolled the grounds like guard dogs, and would physically pull their heads up and hold their muzzles shut to keep the food in. I recall asking once if that was illegal. I believe the response I got was “It’s somewhat like when doctors hold down a seizing patient trying to save their life. They’re doing it for the greater good.” I wasn’t too sure how I felt about that. The ones who they’d actually done that to, I’d learned later on, were at great risk for cardiac arrest. Their electrolyte levels were so imbalanced that they were monitored constantly to be sure they didn’t have a heart attack.
In my time there, I’d seen girls with feeding tubes in their stomachs. I’d seen girls who tried to be sick in a “healthy” way- drinking flavored water with electrolytes to keep their levels balanced, drinking plenty of water not to get dehydrated, eating something right before they think they’re going to pass out so they never hit that point. But it didn’t change the fact that they were still sick.
I was suddenly, painfully aware that I was sick too.
The days in treatment are a blur, but I remember going to group therapy, and individual therapy. I remember speaking of coping strategies, I recall the daily visits with my assigned physician, psychiatrist, and dietician. They made a meal plan for me. It was strange to me to have something planned so carefully for me, to see the effort somepony else was putting into my body.
Something changed in me in treatment. For the life of me, I don’t know what it was. I suddenly was overcome with the realization that there was more to life than just being beautiful or thin. My quest for perfection was something that could only end in my death. It startled me, frightened me. I’d had nightmares about it, for which my psychiatrist gave me an oblong pink pill that I took each night. I opened up about myself in group therapy, to my therapist. I spoke of seeing the mares in the market when I was young and wanting to be like them. I spoke of the first time I seeped into the mirror, and I spoke of my love of fashion and how I’d designed dresses for mares smaller than myself and it bothered me. I spoke of wanting to be as thin as my mother, and how I felt as though my family was so uncivil and uncouth. I spoke of wanting the high-class lifestyle of Canterlot.
The more I’d talked, the easier it had become to do so. I’d begun tackling the issues of my need to be perfect, my need for beauty, my admitted histrionics, my inability to (in this respect) look outside of myself. In doing so, I’d found that food became less frightening. I began to eat again, and learn to enjoy food again. My friends and parents came to visit for friends and family, and I’d hugged them all crying, so happy that they hadn’t given up on me. It was Rainbow Dash, I believe, who assured me that they’d never give up on a friend. When she told me that, I knew I could beat this.
Three months later, I came out healthier than I had been in a long time. My friends had been there to welcome me with open hooves. I’d suddenly found meaning in my life again, a renewed commitment to health and myself, and the knowledge that no matter what my friends would be beside me.
I did not want to keep what I had learned private. I thought that somewhere, somepony else may be struggling with this very issue. And so, I did something about it. I formed a support group that met once per week where any pony could come and talk about these kinds of issues. I let out clothes for those in recovery from Anorexia or bulimia, and took them in for those who binge ate or were night eaters that were losing weight. And I hosted a charity fashion show every year, with models of all shapes and sizes, whose bits would go to help those who needed treatment get it. I can only hope it will save somepony as it saved me.
Life went on for me, as it often does for us all. I opened up one, and then two other boutiques aside from the Carousel Boutique. I went on adventures with my friends, and I learned to laugh and smile again- something I never thought I would be able to do.
I first seeped into the mirror at age three, and I am still not completely out. I still have bad days when I think I am fat and I don’t deserve to eat. I still have moments where I have to ask my friends if it is alright to eat, because I feel as though I need permission. I still have days where the voice in my mind telling me I need to be thinner is so loud I begin to cry. I have learned that I will never be completely out of the mirror, and that it will always try to take me back into it. I spent too many years in it to simply just step out unscathed. But I have accepted this, and made my peace with it, because it’s really all I can do.
There is no magic cure, no clapping your hooves and making it all disappear into thin air. But there is still life out there, if only you are willing to take it.
