The Back and Forth of Mining the Worst Time of my Life in a Narrative Essay
I originally titled this "how to write about yourself without everyone hating you" but that seemed a bit presumptuous
Last week my I finally published the longest / most ambitious / least pleasant story I’ve ever written. It’s nearly 7,000 words spanning 23 years of eating disorders, disordered eating, and body dysmorphia, and I disliked nearly every second of writing it.
The challenges of this piece ranged from the length of time I was trying to cover (from age 13 to present), as well as the subject matter.
Surprisingly, digging into the disordered mind, reading journal entries from my worst months of college, and revisiting my stint in rehab wasn’t as bad as putting words to my current struggles with body dysmorphia. The whole subject matter felt undignified and shameful, and that’s after I removed much of the more graphic material from the draft. The internet doesn’t need everything, I told myself.
My three-part contract with Longreads were all for longform narrative essays. They had elements of supported reporting, but were mostly based on personal experience. I like to think these aren’t entirely naval gazing, rather use the experiences as a narrative backbone to explore larger concepts.
My story about a near-drowning tackled themes of keeping up in a competitive mountain town, and how our sense of self can be intrinsically tied to our social identity. My piece about a SAR extraction on the Great Divide was really about partner communication. This final piece was the most straightforward subject-wise, speaking to the long-term effects of eating disorders, which aren’t widely covered after the person is declared “recovered.”
It was certainly the most personal piece I’ve ever written, and I had a lot of doubts about it as the process dragged on.
Initially, I was excited when my editor accepted the idea. I didn’t even mind writing the outline and drafting it out. Then, as I kept working on it (and asked for my first extension in years) I started to doubt why I was even writing it. In the past I’ve doubted my ability to pull off a story, but I’ve never doubted why I was writing something.
The other two narrative pieces were more obvious: dramatic inciting incidents in the outdoors with a powerful backdrop and narrative thread. The other pieces were also aligned with my normal subject matter, exploring the social aspect of outdoor culture.
The eating disorder piece was different. The backdrop was my college dining hall and my family’s home in New Hampshire, with a splash of residential facility for pizazz. I didn’t have the excuse of a dramatic outdoor event to write about, and I kept questioning if I deserved to write it or if I was being self centered.
I wrote in the piece that it felt “indulgent to have had an eating disorder” and it felt indulgent to be writing about it as well. In my most panicky moments I wondered if I was using my platform to indulge in a self-absorbed topic that droned on and on about myself. I have a habit of thinking that everything I do—from drawing animals to backpacking to writing first-person essays—is a lesser form in each relative category than anything else. I should be drawing people instead of animals, mountain biking instead of backpacking, long-form reporting instead of essays. I have a hard time seeing the value in what I produce, which is a topic for my next therapy session. But in this case, it really impacted my confidence writing the Longreads piece.
I finally sought the wisdom of my writer coven, asking The Girls if I should even go through with it.
Gabby, one of my closest friends, is a prolific writer in the sex and wellness space. She was honest about her own feelings in similar situations. “I wrote a few pieces that I felt like shared too much,” she said, “and I wished I hadn’t published.”
We had a really good conversation where she asked insightful questions (as writers do) to determine my motivation behind the essay, as well as what was tripping me up. We chalked up my doubts to less of a gut warning and more aligned with sudden insecurity and imposter syndrome. I felt more confident after our talk, and she offered to beta read any sections I was uncertain about.
This isn’t to say I enjoyed the process. From the subject matter to the structure, I really struggled throughout the whole first draft. My editor was amazingly patient and gave me carte blanche on an extension, and I set a self-imposed deadline for October 15, two full months past our initial mid-August filing date.
Every time I worked on the story for more than a few hours I would plunge into a terrible mood. I was anxious and irritable, and focusing on my body dysmorphia made it feel worse. Eventually though, by the time I tackled a segment about wishing that I was kinder to myself, I felt like I’d reached a therapy breakthrough. Just alone on my couch with my cat blocking half my keyboard.
I’ve always been a verbal processor, from long-winded voice notes to rambling conversations to my childhood journals. In many ways, writing these stories and being forced fine tune them for a large audience removes the ability to skim uncomfortable sections. This isn’t a journal entry I can decide to avoid—someone is paying me and expects an intelligible draft by a certain deadline. By signing the contract, I committed myself to facing the subject in a more comprehensive way (though if I really had doubts, my editor would have been understanding).
When you write something so personal, there’s always the chance that it spreads to the wrong people. I’ve been lucky so far that this hasn’t happened to me, and the vast, vast majority of feedback and responses are positive. And if I’m being honest, it’s partially luck, but also deliberately phrased presentation honed by 15 years of writing on the internet.
I’ve developed a fairly thick skin since I started writing, and I accept that not everyone is going to like me. But since I’m not a sadist, I also don’t want everyone to hate me. I aim for my first-person tone to be honest and forthcoming, but still objectively explanatory to rationalize actions and decisions. This means straightforward storytelling without asking for pity, and making sure I don’t try to come across as a hero. I think of this as the anything you can accuse me of, I’ve already addressed mindset. It’s a habit honed by years of trial and error in the world of internet writing, with some auspicious examples lost to the archives by the grace of god.
With all that said, I wasn’t sure I was nailing it with this piece, and that’s where a lot of the doubts seeped in. I lost track of why I was writing it, it seemed indulgent, and I felt like I lost the plot.
By the time I filed a draft, I didn’t even know if it was good. I’d spent months wrestling with the extensive timeline, balancing exposition and narrative and trying to work in my sources without forcing reporting, but I felt like my instincts were failing me. I focused mostly on fiction in school, and never had a formal education in nonfiction narrative, and certainly not in reporting.
I rely on teaching myself by reading similar styles and trying to reverse engineer the structure, but I definitely still struggle. My editor helped balance the narrative, but by the time it went to fact checking and copy-editing, I was so stressed I had one final weeping breakdown in Joshua Tree with Hannah and Amelia. They listened calmly as I said I didn’t even know if the writing was good / what the point was / if I was mining my own trauma for an easy sell, etc. They talked me off my ledge, we ordered a pizza, and I felt less chaotic and despondent.
When it finally published—seven months after I started writing it—I was glad it existed. I didn’t read it for a few days, and when I saw it on the Longreads website with the banner image and their font and my bio, I felt so much better about it than I did staring at it in a Google Doc in the ugly default Arial font I write drafts in.
“Ok,” I texted my group chat. “I think this is good writing.”
The hundred-plus emails, DMs, comments, and responses have all been deeply personal to the people writing to me, so I’m not going to share them here. But the response has been incredible and I am glad I wrote it. I’m also glad it’s over. If you’re here on this Substack from that story, or you wrote to me, or commented, thank you. It made the whole process worth it, and I’m happy to take a break from it.
I feel so fortunate to have the opportunity to write about my experiences in a way that connects with other people, and makes their experiences feel more seen. The responses help me remember why I pitched this story in the first place. I want to think that if I read something like this, I would also feel seen, and I would appreciate that it existed.
This story publishing was a bright spot in a very tough four-month period, and I’m really glad it’s out there. Thanks as always for reading!
Hi Maggie,
I did indeed come to your Substack from that article to say how grateful I am that you wrote it, how deeply reflective and accurate your story is, and for being a beacon for women who don't have the words to describe their own, similar experiences. My teenage / 20s experience with ED was very similar to yours and, like you, I've wondered if the awareness of the body ever goes away. I don't think so. However, in opening these conversations, we can close the door on shame around body dysmorphia, and support the men and women who continue to exist with such deep feelings around their bodies each day.
Bravo on a wonderful piece of work.