Sitting at the table with anorexia and addiction

In high school, I was given the green light to get high. 

Well-meaning but misguided adults told me it was okay to smoke cannabis—so long as it encouraged me to eat. 

Smoking cannabis during anorexia recovery was like hitting a pause button on pain. Being high interrupted the voice of anorexia.

Finding solace in smoking rituals instead of food rituals, I believed I was in control. 

Reaching recovery milestones while under the influence, I believed I was in control. Thinking I had found a powerful tool to cope with thoughts of self-harm, I believed I was in control. 

I wasn’t. 

Every time I got high, I was inviting the voice of addiction to sit at the table of my disorders.

At first, the voice of addiction was quiet, soft, comforting. 

It was a relief in contrast to the all-consuming and carrying voice of anorexia.

But as I continued to use cannabis to cope, things got loud again. The voice of addiction amplified, becoming harsh and distressing. 

Solace, lost. Button, unpaused. Table, tipped. 

People around me were so proud of my recovery journey, though, that I didn’t have the heart to question whether or not I was really in remission or whether or not cannabis had become a problem.

Living in survival mode, I told myself that I should be grateful to appear high-functioning while being high.  

Throughout my twenties, I struggled to see through the smoke and recognize new food rituals and rules as echoes of anorexia’s voice. I couldn’t admit my life had become unmanageable. On the outside, I seemed successful. Inside, I was at war. 

No one—not even medical and mental health professionals—could see that I was a risk to myself because this version of suffering no longer looked like the stereotype of “sick.” 

Anorexia lied. It weaponized my efforts against me as evidence that I was in control.

You went to therapy. You recovered. 

You gained weight. You recovered.

You stopped obsessing. You recovered.

Addiction lied. It weaponized my efforts against me as evidence that I was in control.

Adults said it was okay. You aren’t addicted. 

Professionals said it was harm reduction. You aren’t addicted. 

You said you could stop any time. You aren’t addicted. 

Over the years, I started seeing signs that challenged these lies. My cannabis use increased, but stopped providing relief and started interfering with my other efforts to be well. No matter how much cannabis I consumed, trauma work I did, or care plans I followed, I couldn’t get high enough to calm the intrusive thoughts, anger, anxiety, and depression. 

Every time I tried to stop smoking cannabis, not only did I experience cravings and withdrawals, but the voice of anorexia returned with a vengeance. Days, weeks, or months later, I’d start smoking cannabis again to quiet the voice of anorexia. 

The cycle scared me. But it also reinforced my long-held false belief that I couldn’t cope with anorexia without cannabis—and that cannabis was medicine. With each cannabis relapse I grew more protective over this toxic relationship, telling myself I was destined to use and that staying high was keeping me safe.

My mental health kept plummeting to new lows. Eventually I stopped being able to find reasons to stay alive.

I stopped seeing a future. I stopped feeling anything but that familiar pain from the past. 

The button broke. I wanted out. I wanted to push a permanent pause. Leave the table.

One day after getting high I literally fell to my knees and started heave-crying to the point of gasping for air. It’s then that I heard another voice: “Before you leave the table, invite sobriety to take a seat.” 

Now in my mid-thirties, I can see clearly how my eating disorder and my addiction were both coping

mechanisms and avenues of self-harm. They helped keep me alive, and I thank them for that service, but they also kept me stuck in a perpetual state of mental anguish and basic survival—and that’s no way to live. 

Now I sit at the table of my disorders and I find solace in sobriety. 

For anyone living with anorexia and addiction, I hope you’ll consider that these two conditions often go hand-in-hand, but letting go of their grip is possible. Anorexia and addiction will try to isolate you, but you are not alone. Help for dual disorders is possible, and you deserve it. Your life matters. 

Michelle P is a freelance health writer whose work focuses on coping with chronic conditions and reducing stigma. Photo by Vlad Sabila on Unsplash