My Disorder and Vice Intertwined

I started taking Pure Barre classes in August 2024, and man, they are hard. My teenage self would be so disappointed by how difficult some of this stuff is for me now—and honestly, how out of shape I’ve let myself become compared to what I thought was “bad” back then.

It’s kind of wild, looking back at old pictures. I used to say, “I look anorexic—like I’d disappear if I turned sideways.” And the truth is… I was. Anorexic, bulimic, and dealing with body dysmorphic disorder.

At the time, it wasn’t just about looking a certain way; it was about the fear of being “too much” or “not enough.” It started with not wanting to be fat or gain weight, but no matter how much I lost or how small I got, I never saw myself clearly. I never felt like it was enough. Even when I hit goal weights I thought would finally make me happy, I couldn’t see the progress. Nothing was ever good enough.

Somewhere along the way, though, it shifted. The obsession with weight and appearance faded, but not because I suddenly learned to love myself—it became more about control. When life felt chaotic, when things around me felt like they were slipping out of my grasp, I turned to controlling what I could—my food, my movement, my body. I know, not exactly a healthy coping mechanism, right?

I’m not sure when exactly that shift happened, but over time, the goal became less about appearance and more about gaining some semblance of control over my life. And once I realized I was slipping back into old patterns—doing things to feel like I had some grip on things—I had to face that head-on.

It’s an ongoing battle, though. It’s not just about recognizing when I’m falling into those old behaviors, but actively choosing something different. Something healthier. Something more honest. Healing isn’t a straight line, and sometimes the struggle to stay on course is real.

But here’s the funny thing: I hate not being in control. That’s actually why drugs never really appealed to me. Any time I was prescribed painkillers for injuries, I’d refuse to take them. I didn’t like feeling loopy or “off.” I didn’t feel in control of my body, and that made me anxious.

But alcohol? That was different. Alcohol made me feel less shy, less socially awkward, and less like I had to overthink every little thing. I could talk more—which, if you know me, you’re probably thinking, “There’s no way that was ever an issue.” But it was. I could be more outgoing, more relaxed, and less in my head.

Looking back, I think it started when I switched schools. I didn’t know anything about drinking—I was coming from a private Catholic elementary school, and the only alcohol I’d ever really heard of was wine at church. I remember being on the phone with my (soon-to-be) high school boyfriend, probably around ninth grade. He was telling me about a hockey tournament and some kind of alcohol they had, and I was literally Googling it while we were talking just to keep up. I had no clue and didn’t want to seem uncool.

It’s almost funny to think about now, considering how much chaos alcohol ended up bringing into my life. But that’s how it started—innocent curiosity, a desire to fit in, and slowly, it became another way to manage discomfort, anxiety, and all the stuff I didn’t know how to face. That coping came with a price—blackouts, regret, and a whole string of consequences that I eventually had to clean up or carry.

And then there’s my car accident—something that still carries a heavy weight. I’m always afraid to tell people it was caused by drunk driving. Not just because of the shame I feel, but because of the way people react when they ask if a drunk driver was involved. I see their expressions shift, and they don’t realize—yes, a drunk driver caused it. And that driver was me. I was the one behind the wheel. I made a choice that night, and that choice brought serious, lasting consequences.

The scariest part? I don’t remember anything from the sixteen hours leading up to the accident. Sixteen hours—completely gone. A full day of my life, wiped from memory- my brain’s way of shielding me from the trauma.

So when people hear about the accident and ask, “Was it a drunk driver?” I usually say, “I don’t really know what happened.” And technically, that’s not a lie.

“I don’t remember” became my go-to. And it was true—I lost those sixteen hours. But over time, it turned into more than just the truth. It became a shield. A half-truth I could hide behind to avoid the judgment of being that drunk driver they all despised.

But at some point, I had to stop hiding behind that. If I was ever going to heal, I had to face it all—what happened, what I did, and who it hurt.
And this—right now—is the first time I’ve said it out loud, beyond the small circle of people who already know:
It was my fault.
I was the drunk driver.

I never wanted any pity for the injuries I sustained because I knew I brought it on myself. I wasn’t looking for sympathy, and I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I knew whatever happened to me was a result of my own decisions—there was no one to blame but myself. And as difficult as it was, owning that truth was something I had to do from the very beginning. But it’s a part of my story that I can’t hide from anymore. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.

Let me tell you—when you're someone who’s already super self-conscious, shy, and awkward, hearing about some of the things you did while blacked out? Brutal. Embarrassing on a whole other level. It made me even more anxious, even more self-aware in all the worst ways.

All of it—just because I wanted to fit in.

I say all of this today because I took a Pure Barre class last night and this morning—and man, they kicked my butt. And now, I’m being super hard on myself because of how easy some of this used to be for me.

But I have to remind myself: give yourself some grace.

Progress doesn’t happen overnight. It takes consistency, patience, and a whole lot of self-compassion. It can’t be all or nothing. You have to celebrate the little wins along the way—the tiny steps forward, the effort, the showing up—even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

If I hadn’t owned that it was my fault, or if I had let myself feel pity, I never would’ve healed or gotten better as quickly as I did. I would’ve stayed stuck in that mindset of thinking I didn’t deserve to be in pain, and that doing the work in physical therapy should’ve automatically meant I was “fixed” right away. But healing, physically and emotionally, doesn’t work that way. It’s messy, it takes time, and it requires facing the truth of your actions. By accepting responsibility, I gave myself the opportunity to truly heal.

I still feel shame about it at times. Even after all this work, there are moments when it hits me—those moments when I’m reminded of the consequences of my actions, and the weight of it all feels heavier again. But I’ve learned that shame doesn’t have to define me. It doesn’t mean I’m stuck or that I haven’t come a long way. It’s just a part of the process, something I have to work through. I’ve learned to acknowledge it, sit with it, and then let it go, knowing it doesn’t dictate who I am today.