After Bulimia, Addiction, and Self-Hatred Came Healing by Karen Hill

PUTTING ABUSE IN THE PAST

The words stung like a wind-whipped branch: “worthless…you’ll never amount to anything…your fault...set a good example.” My father’s harsh judgments became my reality. Silently, I absorbed his words until they defined me.

Growing up in a home marred by physical and emotional abuse, I learned to survive. I hid my fears and pretended to be perfect. Covering up my mother’s alcoholism and her frequent suicide attempts, I assumed the role of caregiver to my siblings. I became a confidante, mediator, and counselor to both my parents, trying to mend their fractured marriage, though my efforts often seemed to make things worse.

As the eldest child, I faced immense pressure. My grades had to be perfect, yet they never were good enough. I was expected to maintain a positive attitude, be helpful, and never cry, as crying was seen as a weakness. My goal was perfection to make my parents happy. I believed if they were happy, Mom wouldn’t drink, they wouldn’t fight, and we wouldn’t get hit.

My parents tightly controlled my life. They monitored my phone calls, chose my friends, interrupted my school days with humiliating visits, opened my mail, read my diary, and inspected my room. Nothing was hidden, except our painful reality. Outwardly, we seemed like the perfect family, attending Sunday Mass, dining together, and dressing well. But at home, we were constantly reminded of how we truly measured up—and we always fell short.

My weight was the one thing beyond their control. I ate to fill the void left by a lack of love. I would sneak cookies to my room before dinner. People teased me about my weight, but then I discovered laxatives, induced vomiting, and extreme dieting. I lost about 90 pounds in a few months. My parents were thrilled, even proud, of my new appearance. I took on three part-time jobs, biking to each. The combination of not eating and little sleep took its toll. My parents’ concern manifested as anger. Yet, I was thrilled—this was my secret rebellion, something they couldn’t control. I enjoyed the newfound attention from peers, but I was dying inside.

For five years, I maintained this destructive pattern. During this time, I married a wonderful man, Alan, and became pregnant with our first child. I wanted to break the cycle of abuse and dysfunction for my baby. However, my parents’ crises continued. For the first 14 years of my marriage, Dad called daily, asking me to keep Mother from drinking or becoming depressed. If she did, Dad blamed me. Although I didn’t drink, I had my own addictions—seeking approval, workaholism, and overeating. My weight climbed to 211 pounds, amplifying my feelings of worthlessness. I tried to be a supermom and the perfect wife, but I was exhausted and unhappy.

A constant, critical voice echoed in my mind: “worthless…garbage…ugly…you make me sick.” No matter what I did, I couldn’t silence it. I prayed, believing even God couldn’t love me because I wasn’t perfect. For 38 years, I felt imprisoned by my parents. Despite reading the Bible, spiritual books, and praying, I remained consumed by shame and fear that my secrets would be discovered and I would be hated.

Despairing, I considered medication for my depression. Then, a car accident changed my life. Rear-ended by a 17-year-old, my neck was severely injured, and physical therapy didn’t help. Both my hands became numb, and doctors suggested surgery, which terrified me.

Sharing my fears with a priest friend, he mentioned an upcoming healing Mass. Skeptical but desperate, I attended. The church was overflowing, and during the Rosary and Mass, I watched in awe as people were healed. Nervous but hopeful, I approached the altar. The visiting priest blessed Alan and me, and we both fell to the floor. I felt a warmth from head to toe, and for the first time, I experienced love—divine love from the Holy Spirit. The feelings of worthlessness vanished.

Afterward, Alan and I felt a childlike joy. That night, I slept peacefully, feeling loved and embraced by God. The next day, my neck pain was gone, and the numbness in my hands disappeared. Doctors and physical therapists were astounded, calling it a miracle. The true miracle, however, was the realization that God loved me unconditionally.

My entire outlook changed. I lost 74 pounds effortlessly, as God filled the void within me. My prayer life deepened, and the Bible became meaningful. Each morning, I now wake with anticipation for what God has in store. Though the healing process is ongoing and sometimes painful, I no longer succumb to self-loathing when memories resurface. Instead, I find solace in prayer, surrendering control to God.

In my most distressing times, I feel God’s love and compassion, like a comforting hug I longed for from my father. I hear God’s promises of unwavering love and presence. God has given me the ability to forgive my parents, understanding that their dysfunction was inherited. With forgiveness came tears and gratitude—to God and to the friends who supported me.

I am not who I was before. The old me has died, and a new me is being formed in God’s image. God continues to work on me, and I now hear a gentle, loving voice inside: “I love you…I am always here…I will never leave you.”

Karen Hill is a pseudonym. The author has changed all names of people in her story.

“HOLY SPIRIT, WE SUBMIT OUR LIVES TO YOUR GUIDANCE. LIVE IN US AND SPEAK THROUGH US THE WONDERS OF GOD’S LOVE.” AMEN.

Note: This article is from the New Covenant dated September 1999. Please consider sharing this story with others who may be going through similar situations. You never know how, when, or where you might help save a soul and bring healing to a hurting world. Amen.