Recovery Wasn’t About Removing My Eating Disorder.

It Was About Replacing Its Job.

Content note: eating disorders and self-harm. This post reflects my lived experience. It is not medical advice.

There was a time when recovery meant one thing:

Stop.

Stop self-harming.
Stop restricting.
Stop engaging in behaviours.
Stop. Stop. Stop.

And every time the focus was solely on stopping, something inside me bristled.

Not because I wanted to be unwell.
Not because I didn’t understand the risk.
Not because I didn’t care about my life.

But because no one was asking:

What are these behaviours doing for you?

The Role They Played

My eating disorder and self-harm weren’t random.
They weren’t aesthetic.
They weren’t attention-seeking.

They had a job.

They regulated me.
They numbed me.
They gave structure when my brain was chaos.
They gave me control when everything felt unpredictable.
They gave me something to hold onto when I didn’t feel held.

When services focused only on removing the behaviour, they were trying to demolish a pillar without building anything to replace it.

And when that pillar went, I collapsed.

Or I rebuilt it.

The Space It Took Up (And Why That Matters)

I want to say this carefully.

I am okay now.
I am safe.
I am living a full, expansive, genuinely good life.

But I think it’s important to name what these behaviours were actually doing because without that honesty, we oversimplify recovery.

My eating disorder was about control.

When you grow up in chaos, when trauma lives in your nervous system, when your body doesn’t feel like a safe place to exist - control can feel like oxygen.

It numbed unbearable feelings.
It gave me structure when my brain (autistic, ADHD, PDA, traumatised) felt like it was constantly on fire.
It made the world smaller when the future felt terrifying.

There was also something much younger in it.

A part of me that wanted to be small.
Small enough to be looked after.
Small enough not to have responsibility.
Small enough to pause the future, because the future felt like a threat.

It was tangled up with childhood trauma.
With experiences of sexual harm.
With shame.
With fear.
With the belief that taking up less space might keep me safer.

And then there was connection.

The first time I remember feeling truly heard was in a room about my eating.

Professionals asking questions.
People looking concerned.
People paying attention.

Even when those systems later hurt me and sometimes they did - my nervous system learned something dangerous:

This is how you get care.

I don’t think I consciously chose that.

But I think some part of me absorbed it.

And when you are starved of connection, even clinical attention can feel like attachment.

When it came to self-harm, it was different but also similar.

Sometimes the emotions inside me were too big for my body.

Too loud.
Too physical.
Too overwhelming.

Self-harm externalised what I couldn’t contain internally.

It made invisible pain visible.

It was proof.

Proof that it was real.
Proof that I wasn’t exaggerating.
Proof that something inside me was actually broken open.

It was also, at times, a way of saying without words:
“Can you see how much this hurts?”

And here’s the part that feels important:

The more unwell I became, the smaller my life became.

The smaller my life became, the more those behaviours had to do.

I lost hobbies.
I lost friendships.
I lost routine.
I lost purpose.
I lost future thinking.

So of course I clung to the only coping mechanisms I had left - even though they were hurting me.

They were dysfunctional.
They were dangerous.
But they were doing a job.

And until I built something else to do that job, I couldn’t let them go.

Context Matters

I also need to say this clearly:

C-PTSD played a part.
Autism played a part.
ADHD played a part.
PDA played a part.

A hyper-reactive nervous system.
Sensory overwhelm.
Rejection sensitivity.
Black-and-white thinking.
A deep need for autonomy.
Chronic dysregulation.

None of that excuses harm but it explains why regulation was so hard.

And when regulation is hard, you reach for whatever works fastest.

Where I Am Now

I am not writing this from crisis.

I am writing this from stability.

I have community.
Purpose.
Creative work.
Advocacy.
Routine.
Joy.
Layers of coping strategies that don’t harm me.

There is so much between me and those behaviours now.

And I think we need to talk more honestly about how recovery sometimes isn’t about ripping coping mechanisms away - It’s about building something sturdy enough that you don’t need them.

The Gap No One Talks About

Even when I “stopped,” there was a gap.

A silence.
A space.
A loss.

And if you don’t fill that gap intentionally, something else will.

For me, that’s why relapse was so common. Not because I didn’t want recovery. But because recovery had taken something away and given me nothing back.

I wasn’t building foundations.
I was being told to remove scaffolding and hope I could stand.

What Actually Changed (Without Me Realising)

This part is nuanced.
And it’s important to say clearly:

Eating disorders and self-harm are dangerous. They carry serious physical and psychological risks. Support from trained professionals is vital. This is not a guide or recommendation - it’s simply my reflection.

What shifted for me wasn’t a dramatic “I choose recovery” moment.

It was slower.

Messier.

Less cinematic.

Instead of obsessing over eradicating behaviours, I started - almost accidentally - building a life.

I filled my days.

I filled my world.

I filled the role those behaviours had played.

Creative work.
Advocacy.
Community.
Performance.
Purpose.
People who knew my name and meant it.
Projects that required me to show up.

Layer by layer, I built foundations from the bottom.

Not a fake floor that looks solid but caves in under pressure.

Actual foundations.

And the more foundations I built, the further away self-harm and my eating disorder moved from being the “only answer.”

There Are Now Layers Before I Get There

Things still get hard.

I still get overwhelmed.
I still experience waves of dysregulation.
I still have trauma responses.

But now?

There are layers before I reach those old coping mechanisms.

There are people to text.
There are scripts to write.
There are rehearsals to attend.
There are workshops to deliver.
There is a future version of me I actually care about protecting.

Self-harm used to be the first step.

Now it would be ten layers down.

And those layers matter.

This Isn’t Anti-Treatment

This is important.

I am not anti-therapy.
I am not anti-medical care.
I am not suggesting behaviour safety isn’t crucial.
Immediate risk always needs appropriate professional support.

What I am saying is this:

For me, long-term sustained recovery wasn’t built by focusing solely on stopping harm.

It was built by making harm less necessary.

Recovery As Expansion

Maybe recovery, for some of us, isn’t just subtraction.

Maybe it’s expansion.

Expanding capacity.
Expanding purpose.
Expanding identity beyond “ill.”
Expanding the number of coping strategies available.
Expanding the life that exists outside survival.

When your life gets bigger, there is less space for destruction to dominate it.

Not because it’s banned.

But because it’s crowded out.

If You’re In It

If you are in the thick of it right now, this is not pressure.

You do not have to build an empire to recover.

Sometimes filling the gap looks like:

• one hobby

• one safe person

• one routine

• one reason to get through the evening

It does not have to be glamorous.

It just has to be something.

My Disclaimer (Because It Matters)

If You’re Struggling

This post is not a replacement for professional support.

If you are in the UK and struggling with eating disorders or self-harm, you can contact:

• Beat Eating Disorders – 0808 801 0677

• Samaritans – 116 123 (24/7 free helpline)

• Or your GP / NHS 111 for urgent mental health support

If you are in immediate danger, call 999.

There is no one “right” path to recovery.

This was mine.

And it took time.

But it built something that lasts.