Running As a Tool For Eating Disorder Recovery
Eating disorders and exercise addiction are closely related diseases that are common to long distance runners. I am one of these runners, and have spent years trying to fully overcome bulimia nervosa and an exercise addiction. I initially took an “abstinence” all-or-nothing approach to recovery, thinking that in order to be fully recovered, the obsessive thoughts were required to disappear permanently from my mind. I now realize this is not the case. Full recovery is possible, and looks very different than I could have imagined: running can be a tool for eating disorder recovery.
As runners, we thrive in putting ourselves in difficult, painful situations. We do this by choice. We take pride in this decision. We often crave steeper hills, faster splits, and seek out races with the toughest competition; constantly pursuing a new threshold for pain. We enjoy the suffering, feel alive in it, get to know ourselves intimately while there.
The grit we have gathered through running is a secret weapon in eating disorder recovery. Confronting and deciding to recover from an eating disorder and/or exercise addiction will be one of the most painful and challenging decisions that we make in our life. When we run, we set up moments that bring us face to face with the feelings of addiction, and in these moments, our sport instantly becomes a tool that we can use to battle the disorders. We will be forced, in that single moment, to choose recovery or our eating disorder. But how exactly?
We first need to set some ground rules. Eating disorders are sneaky, so we can’t be trusted to come up with these rules. We must turn our control and accountability over to a coach, therapist, or doctor (maybe all 3!). Strict parameters around running are necessary so that we can observe how both our head and body react; allowing us to make a decision in order to confront our instincts. An example conveys this point best:
Four miles are on tap for the day. I am anxious and angry, my eating disorder is raging and I want to run eight miles. I need to run eight miles. Four just isn’t enough, doesn’t quell the demons, doesn’t reset me, doesn’t burn enough calories, doesn’t make me feel worthy enough, and most importantly, doesn’t allow me to eat enough. In this situation, I have two options that lead to recovery.
First option, I stop at four miles and everything inside of me starts to scream and wretch and I want to keep running and yell and hit and bury “just this one last secret” keeping my private little world intact. To stop would feel like death. This is the pain I mentioned earlier. It’s awful. And it will last. Five minutes or five hours. And I will be deep in it and it will feel like I won’t survive. But I will, and it will pass. It will feel fuzzy at first; then clear. The sun will appear a bit brighter in that moment. I will feel a freedom and a high that no amount of extra running would have brought me, and it will come from doing what I thought was impossible: sitting in that torturous moment, and choosing myself over my eating disorder. Choosing stillness over movement. It’s an inner strength that I’ve begun to cultivate, a new muscle to strengthen. It’s a good feeling. I’ll want more of this feeling.
This won’t always be the case of course, because eating disorders and exercise addiction run deep in my wiring. On the days when the extra four miles win and an eight mile run taunts a quick fix for my mind, I revert to the second option: I run the extra four miles. I feel defiant and proud. A bit badass and rebellious. I face no pain, and because of this, I do not grow nor do I challenge myself. When I keep up with my usual compulsive patterns and habits, the physical and emotional feelings that inevitably result are the opposite of the good feelings I’m trying to achieve. Instead of feeling empowered and resilient, it feels sneaky and dark and all too familiar in a very empty way. It may seem like the eating disorder and exercise addiction have won, but there is one slight caveat with this option: I refuse to lie about it.
Instead, I double down on self awareness and opportunities for growth present themselves. When I become completely transparent with my thoughts and actions, I can be honest with my coach and therapist, admitting to both that I gave into the urge to keep running (understanding this fully without excuses… none of the: “oops! I thought it said eight today or I just felt so good that I wanted to really embrace the moment for meditative purposes or it wasn’t about the exercise, I just love the freedom of nature!”- we’re on to you). I’ve learned to reveal the truth without shame. It’s matter of fact, it is what it is, and there is no judgment. This lack of secrecy will take away the power of the eating disorder. It thrives in that manipulative shadow. The more you can strip away deceit, the less ability it has to survive. It’s very easy to lie; it’s incredibly difficult to say “that level of discomfort was too much for me today; and in that moment, my addiction was stronger than I was.” The freedom that comes from transparency is incomparable.
When we run through recovery, we continuously put ourselves in “single moment decision” situations. This forces us to rewire the old patterns of our brain. This new skill can be equally applied to our actions around food (restricting, binging, purging) as it is to running. It’s all the same feeling, so it’s really about learning how to sit in it, and trust that it will shift. If we repeat these actions consistently, the five minutes or five hours of excruciating pain will eventually become barely noticeable.
After twenty plus years of an active eating disorder and exercise addiction, and six plus years in active recovery, it’s a solid thirty seconds on average for me these days. There are days when the eating disorder and exercise addiction win; I can’t deny that. But I refuse to lie about it. I’ll face it and come clean, dealing with any repercussions (my coach pulls miles, I’m told to add more calories and if I don’t hit this new number; there’s no running the following day, I take an extra off day, etc.). I have to constantly remind myself about the power that comes from stillness and the growth that can only happen there.
This is not easy, and I in no way mean to appear cavalier about it, but I want to emphasize that this type of pain is worth it. I’ve found the moments of wanting to scream and wretch dissipate quickly if I truly submerge in them. I gauge my daily progress on recovery by examining these moments, and I’ve come to accept the process. And I don’t do it alone. I work with an incredible team of experts who are in the trenches with me. With their guidance, I’ve learned that the more intimate I can become with the eating disorder, the more I will understand when and why it tries to sneak in. It’s easy to outsmart something you know as well as yourself, you just have to be willing to face all of it with complete awareness, honesty, and a slight desire to seek out and overcome the pain.
In future articles, I’ll deconstruct the “single moment decision” and get into the gritty details of how to apply this if you have an eating disorder but don’t feel the compulsion to exercise, or if you are an athlete who is injured and unable to train through recovery. I’ll also keep chipping away at what full recovery can look like.