Part 2: Anorexia
This is a continuation from my previous post - Part 2.
The introspection I have, in general, coupled with living with my eating disorder (to some degree) for over two decades, allows me to reflect on things deeply. As I strive to learn more about myself and stay curious, I’m opening myself up to greater understanding, which can sometimes be a hard pill to swallow. I can speculate about why and how my eating disorder started but I’m not sure I’ve discovered the full truth. As I mentioned in my previous post, I had a large identity shift and I don’t think I had the support systems in place to help me process that transition. I’m not sure I knew what to do with myself, where I fit in, or what would become of my future. My life was centered around academics and sports. Academics came more easily to me – I could memorize things and get good grades. I was so focused on being the A+ student that I’m not sure I truly learned, but instead memorized for the short term requirements of test taking. I wish I had been able to relax and enjoy learning, but I was too worried about not acing tests.
After my knee injury, at 17, I didn’t have a sports outlet, which was truly what energized me and what I enjoyed. I didn’t know where to turn to find that passion and excitement. That team building and being part of something bigger than me. Maybe I hid within the team and flew under the radar instead of sticking out like a sore thumb, all alone. All alone is how I felt after that injury. Like I was losing a place (a team) I felt most at home. Without it, I didn’t feel like much of anything and quickly realized how uncomfortable I was in my own presence. I didn’t have any external accomplishments to make me feel worthy. My academics felt expected of me versus accomplishments.
I remember immediately feeling like I wanted to restrict my food, after my first knee surgery. I wouldn’t say that I didn’t want to get fat, at that time, but more so, that I just wanted to shrink and not be noticed. My day-to-day life changed completely which meant I didn’t know what to expect, and that unknown threw me for the biggest loop. Hindsight being everything, the urge to shrink and not eat, coupled with taking prescribed (and administered by my parents!) narcotics for the knee pain, was my first experience of seeking something external to numb my feelings and not process the emotions running through my body.
My last 2 years of high school I had the mental heaviness and thought patterns of anorexia but I wasn’t taking consistent action on these. It wasn’t until my high school senior year, going into college, that my eating disorder progressed. When I entered the hell of anorexia, it happened really fast, at least I think so. As I see now, anorexia (and other eating disorders) can continue for decades without much change to body weight / outward appearance. They can manifest in the brain and be hidden so well from the world, all while wreaking havoc on the body internally – organs, teeth, bones. It’s ironic how invisible eating disorders are, especially when most people believe eating disorders are all about food and feeling fat. They don’t start that way, for sure, and most people I know in recovery would cringe at that belief.
Many people with eating disorders have safe foods. Foods that they allow themselves to eat in limited amounts or all together only eat. I did not have safe foods. I ate whatever I wanted to eat, just very limited amounts. I would eat a burger and fries or sweets but the amounts just kept getting smaller and smaller. Eventually it became one saltine cracker per day, or nothing at all. This was my first attempt at running from me and rejecting me. I didn’t feel I deserved to eat and I didn’t feel l deserved to be loved.
As the weight melted off of me, in my freshman year of college, the compulsions grew stronger and stronger. The ability to control the very thing that we need to survive is a powerful power. This power turned into powerlessness when I truly believed that I could not stop starving myself, and that if I did start eating, I’d never be able to stop. The weight loss was obvious and people started to notice. I remember a few attempts at crying for help, because a part of me desperately wanted to remove the weight of this disease. I was in one-to-one therapy and outpatient therapy initially. Here, I fell into my old habits of being an A+ student. I could shine here by memorizing tools and language, but I wasn’t truly learning or implementing these tools. Partly because I was playing the role of A+ student, a default mode, but also because I didn’t have the energy to listen, absorb or retain the tools I was being given. My first summer in college, I hit my lowest point and weight. Eventually, both programs said that I could not return because I was medically unfit to participate.
Being a parent myself, I cannot imagine how my parents felt. Their child dying in front of them while also being rejected from treatment. They didn’t give up on me. They found a renowned inpatient eating disorder treatment facility and they were able to secure a bed for me. In order to be accepted into the program, and fly on an airplane, I had to be in a medically stable state. I was not in this state. I was 90 pounds on a 5’8” frame, completely emaciated, a literal walking skeleton. I had to be hospitalized in order to be tube fed, and monitored, for a few days before going into the long term inpatient treatment program. I don’t remember much of those last days before entering the inpatient program or being in the hospital. My brain had shrunk, so any functioning went solely to focusing on keeping my organs alive. I slept a lot and felt an overwhelming feeling of relief, like I was being rescued.
That feeling of being rescued faded quickly when we arrived at the inpatient facility. Medical and psychological intake, drug testing, rules and expectations swirled around me. Then they sat me down to eat my first meal. Plates on plates on plates of food. Food everywhere. I was expected to eat it all, otherwise I would need to go to a padded room, alone, until I was ready to finish it. Tough love, to say the least.
Tough love was a pillar of that program. Very strict procedures that every patient was expected to follow, or you couldn’t be there. I was put on a 4,000 calorie per day diet, weighed every morning (after using the restroom), monitored for every bathroom visit and at one point had someone sleeping in the doorway to make sure I was not exercising during the night. My fellow peers ranged in age from 10 years old to 40 years old. After several weeks, I was able to live off site and continue my therapy and weigh-ins. I followed the rules, because I’m that A+ student. This time, the rules also included gaining weight, which I did. So, I gained weight, did all the therapy. I was cured, right? Nope.
As I’ve worked my way backwards in my story, you’ve seen that this wasn’t my first and last rock bottom. I definitely didn’t heal the parts of me that needed healing. I don’t think any of what I’m understanding and healing today was even addressed, to be honest. I fixed enough of me to move on and function, something I became really good at, while still having open wounds. The missing piece was truly loving me. Today, even with some of the thought patterns and beliefs not fully reframed, I’m able to notice them, get curious and dig deeper into my healing. I have a different relationship with my body, too. I’m truly in awe of everything that it has endured and I’m thankful and grateful for it.
My goal is that as I continue to grow, heal and age, I can become more in love with my body. For years I’ve praised my mind and intelligence. It’s true, my beautiful brain has helped me be successful in many ways. Today, I’m trying to come down from my head and into my body. My mind can lie and create stories. My body cannot lie.