It’s Not an Eating Disorder, I Swear.
Hi, friend. This is part three of my college series, where I share the challenges I faced during my time at UNC. If you haven’t already, you can catch up on the first two posts here.
This post takes place in the spring of 2011, during the second semester of my freshman year. My anxiety was bubbling just beneath the surface, growing harder to ignore. I was desperate for anything that might help me feel in control.
It’s a Tuesday night, and I’m at a random guy’s apartment with some of my sorority sisters. It’s 10 p.m., and we’re pre-gaming before heading to the bars on Franklin Street. I’ve borrowed a tight black dress and boots from my roommate. In high school, I avoided black—it felt too harsh, too bold. But here, in college, black feels right.
Black fits who I’m trying to become.
The apartment is loud and chaotic. Music pounds through the speakers, conversations blur together, and bursts of laughter echo from every corner. I know I should feel part of it, but instead, I feel detached—like I’m hovering just outside it all, watching myself go through the motions.
My friends and I laugh, pose for pictures on our Canon cameras, and sip from red Solo cups as if everything is normal. As if we are carefree, effortless, exactly where we belong.
But beneath the surface, my anxiety coils tight in my chest, sharp and relentless. I feel it creeping up, threatening to take over. I need something—anything—to quiet it.
There are no snacks in the apartment, so I suggest ordering Insomnia Cookies, desperate for the distraction.
When the cookies arrive, I rush to the table, my unease pushing me to grab the first one. The warmth of the gooey cookie soothes me, if only for a moment. I eat a second. Then another. And another.
I sneak the cookies like a child stealing from a forbidden jar, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one notices. I know I’m not hungry, but my body craves something. My chest feels hollow, like it’s begging to be filled. I am desperate for comfort.
By the time I reach for my sixth cookie, shame slams into me like a punch.
You’re disgusting. You’ve probably eaten 5,000 calories in 30 minutes. Ew, what a fat ass.
The self-loathing is instant and all-consuming.
I excuse myself to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. My knees hit the cold tile as I hover over the toilet. My fingers tremble as I gag myself once, then again, until it works. Relief washes over me, but it’s fleeting—like a wave crashing and pulling back, leaving only emptiness behind.
It’s better to get it out, I tell myself. I’ll be sick if I don’t.
The music outside is loud, but my friend Katie hears me. She knocks softly on the door.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine!” I shout back, forcing a brightness into my voice that isn’t there.
“Are you sure?” she presses, cracking the door open slightly.
I wave her away, desperate to end the conversation. “Please, Katie. Something I ate isn’t sitting well. That’s all.”
Her eyes linger on mine for a moment, skeptical, before she pushes the door open a little further. “I’m worried about you,” she says. “This isn’t normal. I think you could have bulimia.”
I shake my head quickly, too quickly. The word sounds way too extreme, too clinical, too final. “Katie, I’m fine. It’s not an eating disorder, I swear.”
She doesn’t believe me—I can see it in her face. But she doesn’t push.
To be honest, I’m not sure if I believe me either.
I don’t think it’s an eating disorder. If it is, it’s not extreme enough to count. Right? I do the math in my head. I only binge and purge most days, but not after every meal. People with eating disorders do it after every meal.
Besides, I’ve never struggled with food before. Someone like me doesn’t get eating disorders. I come from a family that is healthy, fit. This isn’t something that happens to girls like me.
I push the thought out of my mind.
When we leave for the bars, I drown the shame in shot after shot of tequila. The burn feels like a release, numbing the tightness in my chest. Tequila makes me feel nothing, and not feeling is exactly what I need.
At 2 a.m., when the bars close, we stumble to Time-Out, the late-night spot everyone loves. I order the breakfast platter—three pancakes, three eggs, three strips of bacon. I eat every bite, even though I don’t need it. Even though I know it won’t fill the emptiness inside me.
When I get home, I collapse onto my bed, still in my dress, makeup smeared across my face. My boots dangle halfway off my feet, but I don’t care. Exhaustion pulls at me, but one thought sticks:
They like this version of me. The Sarah-Frances who goes out five nights a week. The one who’s fun, wild, and always down for a party.
I am trying to like this version of Sarah-Frances, too.
March arrives, and with it, the first signs of spring. The warm air feels like a reprieve after the darkness of winter, but my anxiety is worse than ever. It hums under my skin, constant and unrelenting.
I’ve done well in my classes so far, but not without struggle. On the nights I don’t go out, I force myself to spend long hours in the library, trying to compensate. I have to make A’s, I tell myself. Who am I if I don’t?
The lack of sleep fuels my anxiety. I know the cycle is unhealthy, but I don’t know how to break it. The idea of letting something slip—my grades, my social life, my appearance—is unbearable.
On Thursday night, we have a mixer with a fraternity, and the theme is “Go Heels, Go America.” My friends and I plan to wear red, white, and blue UNC gear, accessorized with backward neon hats and cheap sunglasses. I borrow a pair of Nike shorts from my roommate, but when I pull them on, they’re too tight.
That’s strange, I think, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I usually wear a small, but these mediums barely fit.
I tug at the waistband, twisting to get a better look at my legs. They look bigger than I remember. My arms feel heavier. My throat tightens.
This is the first time I’ve worn shorts in months, and the evidence is clear. I’ve been binging and purging, but I haven’t acknowledged the toll it’s taken on my body. My legs bulge out of the shorts. My reflection feels like a stranger.
I rip off the tank top and pull on an oversized sorority T-shirt, covering the parts of myself I can’t bear to see.
At the fraternity house, everyone is dancing on tables under streaking neon lights. Drake blares from the speakers, and my friends wave for me to join them.
“Come on, Sarah-Frances!” one of them shouts, reaching for my hand.
I glance at their toned legs glowing under the blacklight and then down at my own. Panic rises in my chest, fast and unrelenting.
“I’ll be right back,” I mumble, retreating to the makeshift bar.
I pour myself a shot of vodka and throw it back, letting the burn distract me. Another sorority sister joins, then another, until we’re all clicking solo cups and cheering. The vodka is vile, but I drink it anyway.
Eventually, I numb myself enough not to care and climb onto the table, singing “Party in the USA” at the top of my lungs.
“So I put my hands up, They're playin' my song, the butterflies fly away, Noddin' my head like, yeah, Movin' my hips like, yeah..”
For a moment, I wonder if everything really is “going to be okay.”
On Saturday morning, I drive home, desperate for a reset. My dad is a Presbyterian pastor, and we live across the street from the church I grew up attending. On Sunday, I join my parents and little sister for service.
The dress I throw on is tighter than it used to be, but I push the thoughts aside. As we walk to our pew, familiar faces greet us warmly. One woman hugs me and pulls back to look at me.
“College is really helping you to fill out,” she says with a smile.
I know she is trying to be nice, but her words hit like a slap. My heart sinks as my worst fear is confirmed. My weight gain is noticeable to everyone.
I scribble a note to my mom on the church bulletin: I’m going to be sick.
She nods, and I slip out of the sanctuary. Back at home, I strip off the dress, pull on a T-shirt, and head straight to the bathroom. I gag myself until my body convulses, each heave pulling something from me I can’t name. Then I collapse onto the toilet seat, sobbing into my hands.
Later that day, I force myself to step on the scale. I hesitate, staring at the dial as if it’s a loaded gun. When I finally step on, the number leaps higher than I ever imagined.
Twenty pounds.
Panic grips me as I step off and back on three more times, praying for a mistake. There isn’t one.
I collapse onto my bed, pulling the blankets over my head. Tears stream down my face as I whisper the same questions over and over:
What have I done? Why didn’t I notice earlier? How could I let this happen?
Panic sneaks up on me when I remember that I am supposed to attend my boyfriend’s Spring Formal at Hilton Head in a few months. I picture the other girlfriends—toned, tan, perfect—and compare them to my pale, flabby legs.
I dig through my drawer, pulling out an old bikini to assess the damage. The bottoms dig into my hips, and my arms look thicker than ever. I feel disgusted. I am so gross, I think.
I strip off the bikini, throw on workout clothes, and drive straight to the gym. I push myself on the elliptical for an hour, gasping for air by the end.
When I finally return to my car, I’m too drained to drive home. I sink into the seat, resting my forehead against the steering wheel, and feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. Desperation wells up, and before I realize it, I’m whispering a prayer.
I don’t even know what I’m asking for—relief, forgiveness, escape, maybe all of it. The words feel hollow, barely audible, and I can’t help but wonder if anyone is even listening.
How did it all fall apart so fast? How could everything change so completely in just one year?
I don’t have an answer.
I think about the girl I used to be—the girl who didn’t obsess over every bite of food, who laughed freely without worrying how she looked, who didn’t reduce her worth to numbers on a scale or a calorie tracker.
I miss her.
And I’m scared I’ll never get her back.
Click here to continue reading the next post in this series!
*While the stories in this series are all true, names and identifying details have been changed.
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Thanks for being so vulnerable and sharing this. I really know all those feelings you mentioned above, because I too had a similar time at university. I now accept that it was all those times and experiences that have led me to who I am today. I love your way of storytelling - it's honest, raw and refreshing
I’m 70 but could relate to your story. My 35 year old daughter suffered a horrific eating disorder which manifested in college and continued for some time. She is now recovered and healthy. It took tremendous effort on her part and much support from family. She sought both residential and out patient treatment several times. Each facility helped her reach her goal of a normal life. The first step to recovery is admitting you have an eating disorder. This is paramount. She is now a writer in LA and has written openly about her Ed. Writing and talking about this illness is so important to the healing process. Other sufferers need to hear your voice and know they are not alone. Thank you