I’ve always considered apathy to be negative. The dictionary defines apathy as a lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern. Conducting a little research about apathy and whether it’s considered an emotion, I was interested to discover it’s actually a lack of emotion, which makes perfect sense. Apathy is the opposite of empathy.
“Caring too much” has always been my default state of being. This isn’t a bad thing; in some ways, I think of it as a superpower. From time to time, however, it can get in my way. Being highly sensitive or an empath can facilitate deep, thoughtful connections with others but can also make day-to-day life somewhat difficult. There are degrees of this, where some people cannot watch the nightly news because they feel so deeply for those suffering around the world, whereas for others, empathy is closer to home.
I’ve discovered that many people who experience eating disorders are highly empathetic toward others but don’t extend this kindness to themselves. The ED voice that has taken control of their lives continually tells them they are not worthy of empathy; they are simply not worthy. They aren’t deserving of happiness or love or connection. That toxic voice also spews lies and distorts reality on a moment-by-moment basis. There is rarely, if ever, any true peace of mind. The ED voice employs selective apathy in pursuing its agenda of self-destruction.
Comparing myself to others has also always been my default state of being. My eating disorder made sure of that early on. Compare and despair became a popular phrase for a reason. There will always be someone smarter, prettier, funnier, more successful, more popular, and, of course, thinner. The rise of social media has helped perpetuate this trend, although I’m not on any social media platforms. (That’s probably good for my mental health!) I’ve managed to berate myself all on my own, with the help of old-fashioned media in magazines, television, commercials and movies.
When in the throes of my ED, I compared myself to others constantly. I immediately wanted to be thinner if I saw someone thinner than me. If I saw someone larger, my ED warned me not to gain weight. Toward the end of my ED’s reign, however, I began to grow tired of existing in a constant state of fear and inadequacy. I was literally and figuratively hungry for a life lived with freedom and enthusiasm around food and experiences. Eating disorders can make life very lonely and small. The quest to be in a smaller body also makes life smaller.
Seeing my body change as I restored weight was, and still is, challenging. At age 64, I was at a point where I was motivated and ready to rid myself of the ED, so permitting myself to eat more wasn’t particularly difficult. The weight I restored distributed itself where my post-menopausal body needed it, around my middle. Having had a flat stomach and a small waist as a result of my ED behaviors for many years, having that part of my body change was difficult to accept—and frankly, still is.
Looking around and doing my comparisons, I see many women my age with thicker middles; it’s a normal part of aging. Diet culture preaches that women’s bodies should look the same at 65 as they do at 25, which is not only unrealistic but dangerous when it encourages eating disorder behaviors. We’re also told not to age, period. Various cosmetic surgery procedures are touted to turn back the clock on aging, but that’s impossible as well. As long as we are alive, we are going to age. One of my daughters has told me that aging is a privilege not everyone is given, and she’s right.
While restoring weight during my recovery, I decided to embrace other aspects of aging, too, namely, my hair color. The COVID-19 pandemic helped with that decision since I could not go to the salon to have my hair colored and highlighted. Slowly but surely, my natural hair color emerged; now my highlights are gray instead of caramel, and I like it! My mother, who passed away at age 76, had always colored her hair. Shortly before her death, she’d said she was going to let her hair go natural. Sadly, she never had the chance to do that, so my decision to go gray is for her as well. Coloring one’s hair as it turns gray is a personal choice and I don’t begrudge anyone for choosing to do that. In my case, not covering my gray was helpful in my journey of accepting who I was becoming. I don’t think it’s unusual that it coincided with my ED recovery. They worked together, one giving me the courage to do the other.
Another aspect of my personality is what I guess you’d call vanity. My father always teased me about being vain whenever I’d agonize over what to wear or how I looked. He wasn’t wrong. For whatever reason, I’ve always cared a lot about my appearance—fertile ground for an ED to take hold. Now that I’ve restored weight and have learned the truth about diet culture, the last challenge is to conquer the fear that others will judge me based on my appearance. Letting that fear dominate my thoughts is both pointless and unhealthy. Taking care of my appearance isn’t necessarily a character flaw, but giving my freedom and power to others is unhealthy and an impossible feat. Why is their opinion more valuable than my own?
Society ingrains in us the need to look and be a certain way, and some of us are more susceptible to that than others. I have accepted I am one of those people; I don’t know if a complete change at this stage in life is realistic, but I’m remaining hopeful. To experience the total freedom I’d feel by becoming selectively apathetic about what others think is a very appealing thought. It goes right along with no longer listening to that ED voice and choosing what’s best for me, not everyone else.
Even though I am in a space of ED recovery, moments of insecurity about my body and aging randomly drift by from time to time. This doesn’t mean I’m any less recovered; it means I’m human and vulnerable in this diet-culture-obsessed world. The difference is that now, when these thoughts attempt to awaken the ED from its sporadic slumber, I say, “Stop it! I don’t care!” to flip the script and employ some selective apathy. I’ve spent too many years giving my power and care to others; it’s high time I give it to myself.