Flashback

 

This time last year I sat in the waiting room of my new doctor’s office. A doctor I had yet to meet, while my mind did mental gymnastics debating if I should stay or run out the door like I so desperately wanted. This doctor was going to determine my fate, the one who decided what exactly was going to happen to me. Continue seeing Jamie or be hospitalized, and I didn’t have much hope that I’d be allowed to continue with Jamie. I had weighed myself a few days before and tipped the scales at 96-freaking-pounds, aka hospital weight. Thankfully, or not, depending on which part of my brain you ask, I stepped on Dr. Lapidus’ scale weighing in at a total of 101lbs. Relieved and sad and angry don’t even begin to cover the thoughts racing through my mind. I was lectured about gaining and then sent out the door with an order for blood work that would be the final determining factor in my future.

Well, it’s been almost a year since that doctor’s visit and I have so far managed to avoid inpatient. I’ve gone from 96lbs to 108 to 110 to 106 to 104 and now I currently weigh around 112. And my weight is still not something I can comfortably handle. I want back down to 96, or lower. But my relationship with food is on the mend. I can somewhat comfortably consume 1,000 calories in a day without wanting to throw myself off a cliff. Unfortunately this is quite a bit less than the 2800 I’m supposed to be taking in. I have a meal plan that I’m supposed to follow but by lunch I’m over it. By lunch the voice that starts the second I wake up is tired of being ignored and just gets louder. And since I don’t like being yelled at I tend to obey.

While I did manage to avoid inpatient I did land in intensive outpatient. Though, thanks to insurance that’s ended. So now I see Julie and Marlena for individuals once a week. I went from 5 days of support and therapy to being almost completely alone, at least alone in ways that I need right now. But I’m contemplating a letter to the insurance company regarding their refusal to cover more treatment.

The hardest part of this year was also saying goodbye to Jamie who had to move on for school and could no longer see me as a client. It’s been a weird adjustment, not that Julie and all of the ladies at my treatment center aren’t great, but I had to leave a relationship I had spent over a year building. I still get to talk to Jamie sometimes and thankfully we live in such a small town I know it’ll only be a matter of time before I bump into her somewhere, especially since I work at one of her favorite restaurants.

Sitting here thinking about this past year brings up so many emotions. Because I recovered and relapsed and now hang somewhere suspended in the middle unable to decide which side of the rope I’m going to cut. I just know that whatever happens, and for better or worse, I am not in the same spot I was in this time last year. And despite my struggles, that’s something to celebrate.

Wolves

Just because you're not eating doesn't mean you aren't feeding something. Things like eating disorders, depression, and anxiety don't need calories to survive. They live and thrive off of the thoughts that make you not eat.

Julie talks a lot about the wolves. And she asks me constantly which wolf I'm feeding, more often than not I'm feeding the bad wolf. I fed the bad wolf by letting the anger I felt for being fed so much sugar in a short amount of time, just consume me. And I let it carry and fester and suck me in so much so, that I didn't eat for 42hrs. 

The seconds ticked by and as the anger, fear, and sadness grew bigger my appetite got smaller and smaller. And I paid dearly for feeding the wrong wolf. Because when I got so desperate and unable to control the wolf I ran to Marlena. And in order to make the wolf less scary that meant I had a lot of eating to do.

So that's what I've done today. I made up 42hrs worth of calories in 7hrs. And it's awful. It makes me want to start all over. But what does that accomplish? Nothing. Because if I have another moment like that the consequences could be much much worse. 

So somehow I must let those emotions out, the ones that feed the bad wolf. I have to learn how to feel those emotions instead of filling myself up with the emotions instead of food. From now on, I must feed the good wolf more than I feed the bad. 

Frozen

My wish came true. Kind of.

I wanted to be "cold as stone" to not have to feel any of the shitty things that I was feeling, even if that meant not feeling joy either. Yeah, I know that's totally fucked up thinking, but desperate times call for desperately insane ideas.

Much to my dismay I must've screwed up the wording because instead of turning off my feelings I just turned off my ability to show them. So that means I'm stuck feeling all of these crappy things and I can't even express them. And not only does this make me feel crazy it also makes my therapists a bit crazy. They want me to open up so badly and express how I'm feeling instead of constantly trying to hide it and remain so stoic.

And as much as I try not blame my parents for my problems, at least not all of them, I can blame my dad for this one. I can blame him because me showing any sort of bad emotion would just enrage him, especially crying. It's the one thing he can't stand more than anything. So I learned not to cry. And I learned to use those emotions I wasn't expressing to fill me instead of food.

But now I don't want that. I mean, I still don't want to be full of food, but I really don't want to be full of unexpressed emotions either. I want to be able to scream and cry and yell if that's what I'm feeling. But right now I just can't.

I came closer than I have been tonight. In group we did "family sculpting" where I positioned my therapists and fellow ED fighters in poses to resemble my family. And then I had to talk. I had to go to my "dad" "sister" "brother" and finally "mom" and say all of the things I haven't been able or allowed to say. 

Mom. That's what almost did it. Talking to her and getting out the things I needed to, almost broke down that wall. One of my therapists, Leslie, could see what was going on. At least in my eyes, my face remained passive. And she tried so hard to get me to just let it out. But I just couldn't I wanted it out as much as everybody else did but it wouldn't come. And I hate myself for not being able to cry. But I'm also proud of myself for not breaking down. And that's terrible.

So how do I do it? How do I let myself show everything I try so hard to conceal? How do I become unfrozen?

Killer Cardio

I'm on exercise restriction. That means no running, spinning, hiking, swimming. I'm not even allowed to walk long distances. My dietitian told me I could walk to Starbucks as long as it was under a mile and I did it in flip flops.

And that's the problem, I do all of the exercises I'm not supposed to be doing. I have found a new love for spin and do that 2 or 3 times a week. Or I go for 2ish mile runs. On top of the work schedule I have that already burns calories like crazy. And my recovering metabolism that's in overdrive.

I'm compensating for the food that's being forced down my throat with exercise. I can't starve anymore so it's off to the gym I go. And the worst part is that combined with the restricting i still do when I'm left on my own for too long, and the damage of eating so little for so long that's already present I'm killing myself. I'm killing myself and I can't stop.

But I have to. I have to get this under control because if I don't I'll end up in the hospital, or worse. I'm supposed to come up with ways to keep myself from doing those exercises but other than being physically restrained I have NO idea how to kick this habit. Especially, since I know if I didn't have such a crazy schedule I would workout even more than I am now.

Working out right now also screws with my vitals. And unstable vitals means back to PHP or even the hospital if it gets too bad. And I think about that every time I get in the car and head to spin or lace up my shoes for a quick run. But even these thoughts aren't enough to keep me from working out because It convinces me being thin is so much more important.

But I'm so scared of this newest addiction because I know this much cardio really could kill me.

Me Time

"You need to schedule 'you time'" That's what my new therapist, Julie said.

I beg to disagree. I don't need or deserve "me time". I get that time when I'm at treatment-time that should be spent working. So adding even more time to focus on myself just cements the idea that I'm lazy. It tells me that if I have time to take care of myself I'm not doing a very good job of taking care of others. Clearly, I'm not working enough or doing enough if I've got all of this extra time to spend on myself.

Lazy.
Useless.
Selfish.
Fat.

That's what I hear when I have free time. So I make sure not to have any, and it's easier to run myself into the ground than it is to sit back and have time to think about how much I've failed that day, and even my life.

I'm told all the time I'm a hard worker and super motivated but I can't believe them because I don't think it's enough. I waste 5hrs a night sleeping when there are so many better things I could be doing with that time. And here I am now, typing away at the computer during my scheduled me time when I know I could find something to clean or someone to take care of.

I do wish It would let me relax and just breathe for a moment. But it doesn't. Not really ever. The only time I'm given even a small repreve is when I'm working out, and that's only because I know I'll get the praise after. But I want to REALLY relax. I want to be able to sit and read a full book in a few hours like I used to do. I don't want relaxing to involve killing myself at spin class especially when I know I'm not supposed to be there anyway.

Sure, I could've skipped this hour like I should've. But then I would've felt guilty for breaking the rules. For ignoring the mark I had made in my calendar to do this. It's an evil catch-22, feel guilty for relaxing and knowing I would've felt guilty for disobeying Julie.

But I did it. I took time out of my day to do something I like, writing. And so far I've survived. So hopefully I won't always view "me time" as torture. And it won't make me feel, lazy/useless/selfish/fat.

Hello My Name Is...

Ana

Mia

Ed

No. Stop it. I've never understood the point in giving this a name. I've always referred to my disorder as "It" and even that seems too dignified for the hell I'm going through.

Eating disorders aren't friends/sisters/brothers/magical fairies. They are hell/nightmares/torture/fucking evil. 

I cringe whenever I hear anyone refer to their disorder as the "best friend they never had". I scream reading the Twitter handles "anasbitch22" or "miasbff13". 

In my opinion this only perpetuates the disorder. Giving it an identity makes its chokehold that much stronger. Making it that much harder to escape. I can't imagine the state I'd be in had I ever viewed this as anything other than an abusive relationship. An abusive relationship I was having with myself. Because I've wanted out since I realized what was going. 

In my program we refer to eating disorders as Ed. Yes, it makes it easier to shorthand what this is, but that doesn't mean I don't cringe whenever they ask me "what Ed is telling me now." 

Eating disorders are not their own entity. They don't have souls or personalities. But rather, they steal yours. They take your essence and change it from the inside-out. And these changes are not for the better. So why name something that changed you so drastically, so deeply, and forever?

Maybe people name these disorders as a way to distance themselves from this. Maybe it is easier to create a seperate existence from the torture. Maybe it is easier to pretend this is just a visitor, one who keeps extending their stay no matter how desperately you want them to leave. 

But, distancing yourself from this isn't any way to make it better. Distancing yourself doesn't make this any less scary. Distancing yourself will not make this any easier to fight. Instead accept it. Meet your disorder head on and fight. Fight tooth-and-nail to rid yourself of these thoughts and feelings. Fight because you cannot physically kill this without killing yourself.

But most of all, stop naming this. Stop naming all mental illnesses. Stop naming what can and will kill you. Ana is not your best friend. Ed is not your boyfriend. Don't give this the decency or dignity of a proper name. After all, it's not as if you met one day and were greeted with,

Hello, my name is... 

Run For It

"RUN! Run as fast and as far away as you can. You just have to get out of here right now."

For once this is not the voice of It. This is the voice of my anxiety. Anxiety is telling me just to run from every thought and feeling I'm currently having. You, see, I started an outpatient program here. I love the program, It hates this place. But It is also completely confused, I'm eating and eating and eating. Which is bad, bad, bad. But I also keep losing weight. And It says this is awesome. I don't know where my true self is, except, that I'm just terrified. And Anxiety has the perfect solution: RUN.

However, It wants me to bolt too. It wants me out of there before I screw up even more. It is trying to convince me these people are not to be trusted and even though I know It is never right, I'm inclined to believe It this time around.

I was weighed a little over a week ago and tipped the scales at 108. (totally had a meltdown over that but whatever) I was weighed again on Friday and nearly crushed the scale at 106. (shhhh I'm not allowed to know) and I was weighed again today. Two days after my Friday weigh-in. I don't have today's weight, like I said, I'm not allowed to know. But SURPRISE I fucking LOST more weight. What.the.hell?!

Of course I wasn't told this until an Ensure was being handed off to me at snack time today. And in fact, I wasn't even told then. And right in that moment, is when everything stopped. I just shut down. I "porcupined" and that was it. I was done. Thankfully, one of my new therapists saw this exchange. She saw me shut down and she recognized the terror I was feeling.

After snack Julie checked in with me and I explained that I just didn't like the fact I couldn't adjust and accept what was going to be done, it all just happened soooo quickly. She spoke with Hannah (our dietetic intern) and asked her to speak with me about it. So I did. I told her that I knew why it was happening and she had JUST weighed me before we ate, so, there was no time to tell me I had lost weight and they would be adding an Ensure to my snack. But, that's the rational part of me. The part of me that knows these ladies care. That they would never just STUFF me full of food without at least talking to me about it first.

But...I have a few different irrational sides as well. And those were the sides that caused me to shut down and check out. Those were the sides that produced the anger I was feeling. It started screaming at me that these people can't be trusted. Because not only had I lost weight (around 4lbs) in less than a week but my vitals had changed drastically in only a few days. So drastically, that I'm currently on exercise restriction with threats that I'll be IP by FRIDAY if those don't at least pick up.

Inpatient. By FRIDAY. F-R-I-D-A-Y. But, the whole reason I'm doing this program is to AVOID fucking inpatient. And because I'm doing what I'm told and eating I'm losing weight. I'm losing weight because my metabolism is in overdrive. And it's in overdrive because I've starved myself for so long it's trying to repair all of my organs. But that's where all of the not-so-good parts come into play. That's where they tell me these people are purposely making me lose weight so they can ship me off. Like it's some sort of conspiracy to get rid of me. And what's even more irrational is that while It is whispering this in my ear, It's also whispering they're trying to make me fat by forcing me to eat, ALL THE TIME.

The paradox. They're making me eat to lose weight so they can ship me off. They're making me eat to gain weight and make me fat. Of course, my eating disorder doesn't let me think about how they're making me eat to get better. That they're making me eat to get rid of It. Because my eating disorder wants me to be better by Its own standards. The standards that say I'll only be skinny enough when I'm dead.

I know the irrationality of it all. I do. I'm not stupid. But I'm so angry and upset and scared that I can't see anything except for these untruths. These untruths that tell me to stay shut down. To keep everybody out. And most of all..

to just fucking run.