I see my anorexia nervosa as an orchid — like this lovely sanggumay, scientific name: Dendrobium anosmum, with its beautiful pink flowers. It is my favorite orchid.
I live as a tree that learned to grow with this beautiful but high-maintenance bloom. I do not want to kill it; it is part of me. I refuse the label “parasite,” which is how some people see an orchid.
In truth, most orchids are epiphytes. They grow on a tree, relying on it for structural support, but they do not leech off it.
In a way, my anorexia lives like a separate entity with my whole person, but not quite. It is me and not-me. I regulate its existence; it does not dictate mine. Without me, the orchid dies—yet I cannot imagine my life without it. This plant is beautiful to look at, but uncompromising in its standards. Get the temperature wrong, and the organism slides rapidly toward decay.
The sanggumay clings to its tree for dear life, an inter-dependent co-existence. The tree? It owns the little pet as its own—wrapping its branches protectively around it.
The origins
The clinical truth is that my disease was born out of trauma—specifically, Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). When I was young, my emotionally abusive household forced me into a corner. To survive, I had to pick an obsession—something to control, something to call mine amidst a chaos that was beyond and above me. I was powerless, and anorexia gave me hope.
Fast-forward to now. Do you know one of the biggest reasons I hate having my picture taken? Over the years, I have grown accustomed to the mindless photography of the smartphone era. If you see my photos out there, most are not well-posed. I can tolerate my face, but I hate looking at my body.
In my head, I am an obese woman—a dabyana. Totally disgusting.
The psychological term for this is body dysmorphia.
Fact: I am 40+ kilos.
Delusion: I am 300 + kilos.
I look at the mirror and I cringe. If you had that in your head, you would not like being videoed. Recording yourself with a cam or smartphone in your hand? It is so much like a violation. Like self-harm.
So. I. Don’t.
And I. Won’t.
Not for “likes,” not for “subscribes,” and not for fear of my voice being obliterated by other content creators.
I have this sanggumay on my branches, and it comes with excess baggage.
H2: Theoretical Framework: Post-Traumatic Growth Theory
When I hit the books to research if I am really worth doing my job as a psychotherapist because of my long-term ailment, I am vindicated.
Several theories explain my stance, but my favorites are Post-Traumatic Growth (PTG) and Polyvagal Theory.
Core researchers Richard Tedeschi and Lawrence Calhoun explain PTG as the idea that “what does not kill you makes you stronger.” You do not simply return to who you were before the trauma; if embraced well, you exceed your previous baseline of psychological functioning.
As Haruki Murakami wrote in Kafka on the Shore:
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over.”
In PTG theory, trauma is a developmental accelerator. Nobody wants trauma, but when it happens and there is post-traumatic growth, it is like a “blessing in disguise” or, if you are irreligious like me, you can alternatively say, “Every cloud has a silver lining.”)
PTG theory enumerates five domains, and these apply to my life.
The first of the five domains is new possibilities. My relapse at 37 was the entry point to my midlife crisis and my journey to becoming an author in my 40s. While my father’s abuse instigated the eating disorder, being forged by his fire gave me the will to live.
The second domain is about relating to others. In this area, I know that I have developed deeper compassion and emotional attunement for my clients. However, I still struggle with boundaries. Because my father had untreated narcissistic and bipolar traits, I grew up not knowing where he ended and I began. While some clients become people-pleasers, I became an over-worrier.
The third domain concerns personal strength. The way I rationalize my suffering is this: If I survived my late father’s abuse, I can survive anything. I got away. I get to live. Broadly, whenever I am going through something that drives me mental, I recall the harshest of the harsh experiences I have had and say to myself: “Kung yun nga na-survive ko, eh, ito pa kaya? Perspective, Melany, perspective.”
The fourth domain touches on existential clarity. When I relapsed at age 37, I feared I had cancer because of my low immunity and a fungal growth in my throat. I realized then that I am worth fighting for, and there are things I still want to do before I die. I saw how zealously I wanted to be with my kids when they grew up.
Finally, the last domain of PTG is the auditing of our appreciation of life. Even if my father had his shortcomings, I am grateful he was financially responsible. Even if he blocked my childhood dream to be a creative writer, I am grateful to be in this field. In a way, my papi changed the trajectory for the better.
Theoretical Framework: Polyvagal Theory
The Polyvagal Theory of nervous system regulation explains the neural mechanics at work during ongoing trauma, particularly ongoing trauma related to family relationships. Prolonged distress makes it physically difficult for CPTSD survivors to feel safe. It’s easier to distance yourself from what traumatizes you if it is something tangible—a bomb going off, for instance. But emotional violence is more caustic, don’t you think?
As I prescribe grounding and somatic work to my clients, so do I apply it to myself I have been doing yoga (asanas and breath work) since my 20s. It’s been two decades hence and counting. I plan to do headstands as a septuagenarian.
Last words
To summarize what you can take away from both PTG and Polyvagal Theory, I can say: “anorexia is a trauma-based survival adaptation mediated by nervous system sensitization.”
But since I fancy myself a little bit as a literary artist, I can also say:
“I am a tree with a sanggumay on my branches. It has been there since I can remember and I see it as part of me.
I do not see life without it. I don’t know who I am without it.
I open my arms to protect it from harsh elements and it grows on me, making me look very pretty and defining me from the rest.
But pretty as it is, there are running costs attached to its existence and upkeep.
Will I breathe easier without it? Sure. Will I be a better tree? I don’t know. What I know is that I have accepted it as being stitched to my side.
There are days it feels like a giant thorn I can do without and there are days it just makes me feel so special.
There is ambivalence hovering over me and my disease. In my mind’s eye, I see this ambivalence as an evanescent mist that sometimes reveals a beautiful woman and sometimes a skeletal, haunted being obsessed with not taking up space.”
Choose whatever works for you. Both statements about my experience with anorexia are true for me.
As I write this, I am grappling with increasing my threshold for being seen and heard in this world. It is a painful growing up process. It’s neural rewiring, and it is correcting faulty behavioral conditioning from childhood. (You can also say I am healing my inner child and inner teenager, if you prefer the lyrical version.) I share these field notes to inspire anyone else facing a seemingly perennial mental struggle.
Do you know that some trees experience structural weight stress and light blockage because of orchids growing on them? That’s me when anorexia expresses its presence too dearly. I feel burdened by it, attacked even. I lose my light too. But then I remember: it is a pet, it is a pet, it is a pet. I have just angered it; I can tame it and then try to smooth its mangled cane-like stems later.
Did you know that another name for the sanggumay is latigo? How very apt—it’s the Filipino word for horsewhip.
Sometimes this orchid can feel like a punishment. But sometimes the pain can help me concentrate, repent, and renew myself.
I just must not overdo the self-flagellation!
