
(*Content Note: Eating Disorders, Substance Use and Justice Involvement)
“Eat This Not That” By Ashley Bachert
When I was three years old, my parents enrolled me in dance. My mom’s friend had recommended a local dance studio to help me overcome my shyness. Even at that age, I was stubborn. I refused to go onto the dance floor alone, so my dad had to join me.
As the third child and only girl—a surprise baby—my dad, at 43 years old, found himself tap dancing with his three-year-old daughter every Saturday morning. I think he even started to enjoy it. Who says you’re too old to pick up a new hobby? Peter certainly didn’t get that memo.
One weekend, my dance teacher told my dad that he’d either need to sit with the other moms or pay for a dance class. Reluctantly, we parted ways on the dance floor. I was doing considerably better by then; I could even manage a few shuffle-steps.
Now, I don’t remember if anyone ever told me there was going to be a recital, but for the sake of storytelling, let’s say they didn’t. One day in June, I found myself being rushed around backstage at Pinkerton Academy without explanation. My brother’s girlfriend was curling my hair—a process that always seemed to take ages—and my mom was struggling to shove my chubby legs into baby pink tights, occasionally poking me with her acrylic nails. I hated wearing tights.
Finally, my dance teacher shuffled my classmates and me onto the stage. The curtains opened, and I found myself staring out into a crowd of 100 people at 8 a.m. I glanced stage right (because, obviously, every three-year-old knows their stage directions) and spotted Ms. Cathy doing our dance routine.
But I froze. Standing there with my hands on my hips (sassy, right?), I felt a warm rush down my leg. Oh no. I was peeing.
Desperately, I tried to recover by following the steps, hoping no one would notice. It seemed like I was in the clear. 1, 2, 3, spin… and then it happened. I slipped. I slipped in my own pee puddle. On stage. In front of a huge crowd. At 8 a.m.
Seriously, who gets up at 8 a.m. on a Sunday to watch a dance recital?
Ms. Cathy swooped in and whisked me backstage, where my parents were waiting. I’ve always wondered what my dad was thinking in that moment.
That was my first experience with anxiety—at least, the first one I can remember. Don’t worry, even if I didn’t remember, there are pictures. At such a young age, my anxiety went unnoticed. It was easy to overlook, and I’m sure it’s a common experience—or at least I hope it is.
Even though I started experiencing anxiety as early as three years old, it went untreated for years— through no fault of anyone. Symptoms of anxiety are tricky little monsters, hiding in plain sight.
Growing up, I used to have raging headaches at 3:00 p.m. every single day. I saw specialist after specialist, kept a headache journal, and tried everything: “Drink more water.” “Wear sunglasses in the car.” “Spin around four times on one leg.” Nothing worked.
Eventually, my pediatrician chalked it up to anxiety—not a formal diagnosis, just a write-off. When they couldn’t find anything “medically” wrong, they blamed it on an unknown entity they didn’t have to treat. I was told I’d grow out of it. Or maybe I should quit dancing since the headaches often came on the way to class.
Fast forward to today: I’m 21 years old. On some busy days when I forget to take my medication, when 3:00 p.m. rolls around, I still get that headache.
In high school, I dealt with a new symptom: stomachaches. Every morning on the way to school, we’d pass Azusa Avenue, and an intense stomachache would hit me—a stomachache that meant I had five minutes to find a bathroom or face the consequences.
At first, my mom thought I was exaggerating, and I don’t blame her. Nothing in my life was as routine as that 9:00 a.m. stomachache. I was late to school nearly every day. This was just another symptom of anxiety, hiding in plain sight.
Earlier, I mentioned I was the youngest of three. My two older brothers live with substance use and mood disorders. My oldest brother was diagnosed when I was ten.
My childhood, however great, was mixed with experiences of rehabilitation facilities, “summer camps” (my family’s code for when one of my brothers was currently incarcerated- I should have known summer camp stopped once you turned 18. And when it was January), and all-too often police visits.
My friend and I were playing monopoly in my playroom one night while two police officers were in the front hallway. I pulled a wild card and yelled “Robbery!”, at which point my friend and I looked into the hallway and somehow felt that we would soon be scolded for saying such a thing. People around me knew these experiences were quite common in my life.
By 13, my parents and I moved from New Hampshire to California. My brothers stayed in New Hampshire, relatively stable and able to live on their own. I attended a performing arts high school in Los Angeles, and my freshman year was a whirlwind.
Life at school was incredible—I fell in love with LA. Dancing in a conservatory setting, I was challenged daily, and every day brought a new adventure. But life at home was far from perfect. My dad struggled to find a job, financial stress loomed, and my mom grew homesick and withdrawn.
By the end of my freshman year, my parents decided to move my brothers to LA. I was terrified. What would this mean for our family? For my safety?
I grew angry and bitter. The adjustment period was not smooth- my oldest brother and I have always had a rocky relationship. Substance use disorder made him a different person. My mom told me he wasn’t always like that, but I have no memories of who he was before the change. As high school went on, the situation steadily worsened. Both brothers fell deeper into the devilish hands of addiction and my mom withdrew more and more as depression took hold.
At school, I juggled academic stress, friendship drama, boys, and a demanding dance schedule. At home, I grappled with panic attacks and the chaos of my family. Desperate for control, I developed disordered eating habits. I restricted food during the day, counting every calorie, and binged at night when everyone was asleep. I would stay up all night to purge myself of my binge, overwhelmed by shame. As my eating disorder worsened, my grades slipped, and I fell behind in dance, after I had worked so hard to make it to the next level. I was exhausted—physically and mentally. A close friend noticed and bluntly asked me if I had an eating disorder. Her directness shocked me. “Isn’t there a taboo rule against asking questions like that?” I thought.
At the time, I laughed it off. I didn’t think I “fit the look” of someone with an eating disorder. But her question stayed with me. Together, we learned about eating disorders. I realized they don’t have a “look,” and there are more than just two types.
With her support, I told my parents. They contacted our insurance, and I entered residential treatment at the end of sophomore year. I followed the step-down procedures, and by junior year I was what they now called “in recovery”.
I learned some amazing things in recovery. Eating disorders are a type of anxiety disorder- isn’t that crazy? All eating disorders are, in part, caused by anxiety. I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and bulimia nervosa, and this time, doctors treated my anxiety. I started medication, and after a few different combinations, I finally found the right mix for me. I like to describe treatment as daycare for adults. My days were filled with lots of crying, feeling homesick, but also lots of arts and crafts!
When I tell this story, this is usually where I end with a “happily ever after”, but it’s far from the truth, as anyone in recovery knows. Insurance could only pay for so much treatment, and I had a hard time transitioning from intensive outpatient care to back to school. I didn’t have a therapist set up, nor was I able to get one. At the end of my junior year, COVID-19 hit, and I never stepped onto campus in the same capacity again. My support system disappeared, and my home life grew more chaotic.
I begrudgingly limped my way through graduation, at which point my oldest brother was homeless, and my middle brother was experiencing symptoms of schizophrenia that had put my family in the messiest game of Twister we had experienced yet.
Through COVID, I leaned on the coping skills I had learned in treatment and rode them through the wave of 2020-2021. My days were spent journaling and reading, and—my favorite—throwing ice cubes outside when I was too angry to read or journal.
After treatment and COVID, my GPA had dropped, and I felt like I had failed. Looking at my college options, I decided to travel. I took a program through EF Gap Year and spent a semester in Europe.
I stayed for as long as I could. It felt so freeing to make mistakes, to not have to look after anyone but myself. I ate amazing food, I drank the tastiest coffee and walked historic streets. I made rookie mistakes and leaned on the little common sense I had. It was challenging- but not the same type of challenging that I had dealt with before. These were challenges that most teenagers had dealt with while I was in survival mode. I felt like I had hit the reset button and put everything behind me.
The moral of the story? Europe will solve your problems.
I’m just kidding- sort of. Running away is not generally the answer, but healing your inner child can be. Today, I work in public health as a preventionist, advocating for eating disorder awareness and promoting mental health education.
Healing isn’t a straight path, but I’ve learned that progress—however small—is worth celebrating.
* Content Notes are provided by NAMI NH and 603 Stories to inform readers of potentially sensitive topics and materials that are discussed within the featured story.
Resources:
- https://www.naminh.org/resources/eatingdisordersresources/
- https://www.naminh.org/resources/sudresources/
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