I had had eating issues in one form or another from age 10-ish to 23, so about 13 years in all. I pretty much fit every stereotype of the ‘typical’ anorectic: high achiever in school, dad that barely spoke, mom that was the personification of Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde, I was always a people-pleaser, etc. I started ballet when I was 4, did that until 12 when I started figure skating, then cheerleading in high school and college, so I covered a few of the stereotypical ‘thin’ sports. I never really purged. I tried, but I just could never really make it work. I used to get so frustrated, but in hindsight, I’m so grateful I never learned to do that. I always kind of felt like if I crossed that line, I’d never find my way back.
Personally, I think the single biggest factor in the development of my eating disorder was how my mother’s extremely erratic behavior influenced my sense of self, and my sense of others are being a single, constant….”being”. I didn’t know this as a child, but as an adult I’ve come to realize that her behavior is typical of people with Borderline Personality Disorder. Through her, I was taught that when I was behaving “properly” (in other words, catering to her needs and wants) I was ‘deserving’ of being treated as someone she wanted attention from. When I was behaving “improperly”, I deserved nothing. All sense of humanity, of any worth on my part, or any attachment between us was GONE. It was a no-holds-barred, all-out war on my psyche. I became the “enemy”, and there were no limits to what could be done to an enemy. I could be shamed, guilted, hit, or locked in a room for hours or days. Every bit of information I had shared in any previous supportive interaction (the kind where you open up about your flaws, fears, hopes, and dreams) was thrown back in my face and openly mocked.
I survived by ‘compartmentalizing’ my experiences with her. She was not one person– she was two people. When the ‘good’ mom was there, she was all I could remember. When the ‘bad’ mom was there, I had my “defense” mode ready to go, ripe with every bit of learning about how to survive these ‘bad mom’ times. I learned that time spent together, ‘bonding’ experiences, and the like would never keep me safe. All of that could be immediately thrown out the window as soon as I made the slightest mistake. My history, my feelings, my relationships, my dreams, my desires– all of those were more of a hindrance in terms of keeping me safe. What mattered is whether or not I displayed any behavior or characteristic that another person may not like RIGHT NOW. Eventually, I stopped thinking in terms of “What do I want?” or “How do I feel?”. Instead, I obsessed about keeping “good Mom” around. I thought about what SHE might want, because to me it would mean I would be safer, as “bad Mom” would be kept away for another hour, or maybe another day. Eventually, thinking for myself was something foreign, and I saw myself only through the eyes of everyone around me– I obsessed over the flaws I imagined they would see, and it became my goal to fix them ALL- before anyone could point them out for me.
In short, I learned that acceptance is fleeting. I heard people say that we should “accept our flaws” and “dare to be ourselves”. However, in my experience, I couldn’t imagine anything more dangerous. To actually display any flaw would be akin to pointing out to the hungry tiger that I was the zebra with a bum leg. Acceptance only resulted in you letting your guard down and showing your vulnerabilities, which would only be used against you later when the other person was upset with you. So yes, I ABSOLUTELY learned that survival required elimination of every potential visible flaw. And, by god, if the size of my thighs was a visible flaw that had been pointed out, I was going to eliminate it.
Fast forward to the year I ended up recovering.
Why did I recover when I did, and why was I successful?
Because I literally had no choice. I just couldn’t survive and still be eating-disordered anymore.
I had finished my last semester at college (fall semester), but was still on the cheer team (spring semester), and I was being forced to meet with the team docs every week in order to be cleared for practice. I was finally benched after a few very not-so-good EKGs, blood pressure, that kind of thing. I had been living with two friends of mine, who were also my teammates. Prior to moving in with them, I had considered them two of my best friends. Well, they didn’t really understand the eating disorder. At first, they tried to be ‘helpful’, saying they’d support me no matter what. But when their ‘help’ ended up being yelling at me for not eating enough every day, and telling me I was lazy and selfish and all that, we didn’t get along so well anymore.
I was referred to an eating disorder treatment program at a local hospital, and I went in for my intake assessment. I met with a medical doctor, a psychologist, and a dietitian. I had blood drawn, a bunch of tests taken, peed in a cup, and was weighed (backwards, of course). After the staff members met to discuss what was best for me, their official recommendation was that I either inpatient or partial program ASAP. Evidently, my heart rate was in the 30s/40s, my blood pressure was orthostatic, and my body temp was 95 degrees. There wasn’t an opening in inpatient though, so they set me up with daily outpatient appointments until I could get in. I did that for something like 2 weeks or so. After those few weeks, they called and left a message on my answering machine saying that my insurance company was refusing to pay, and they could not see me at ALL. After making a huge deal over how much I needed to be there, and how I wouldn’t survive if I didn’t get medical monitoring right away, they left me a message with referrals to some free walk-in counseling place in the ghetto. Nice. Evidently, I was not good for my insurance company’s or the hospital’s profit margin. So they told me to go home and try not to die.
I honestly thought that that was it. I guess I didn’t think that it was possible to recover without intensive treatment. I thought I didn’t have any hope left. I had tried everything- the social workers at the place where the team doc’s worked had been trying to find some treatment for me for months, with no luck. So I literally went home and was like ‘This is it. I’m gonna die, and no one cares. No one will save me. No one will help me. I am truly on my own.’ I thought that was the lowest I could get.
Well, shortly thereafter, my roommates kicked me out. They gave me a week to move. However, I was pretty darn sick. I hadn’t been working all that much, so I really couldn’t afford rent plus a security deposit, plus where I was living was cheap as hell, and Mpls was in a major housing shortage. Not only that, but I didn’t have a car at school, and no one would help me move, so I needed to find somewhere close by. Out of desperation, I found a place a few blocks away. I knew it wasn’t a good place before I moved in, but I didn’t feel like I had a choice. And I thought ‘Well, nobody really wants me around anyway, so I might as well just go there and rot and wither away and disappear’. And trust me, lugging your mattress down the street in the middle of January in Minnesota when you’re sick as hell and living off 100-400 cal/day just is not very fun at all.
Anyway, I stopped working, and I no longer went to class. I literally had nowhere to be and no one to be with. I got into a pattern of sleeping all day and drinking all night. Sometimes I’d run–usually at 2am after drinking, when I started to worry about the calories in all that alcohol.
So, I lived in the crack house for a while, freezing my ass off because the house was old and drafty and I was cold anyway, attempting to do my Buns of Steel videos at 2am in my bedroom in a creaky old house without waking anyone up……..
I guess you could say that something in me just snapped.
I mean, my life was very literally going nowhere.
I had nothing to do, no plans, no anything. A whole lot of nothing.
And I remembered back to the days when I was systematically getting rid of any responsibilities, ties to anything, any stress that would interfere with my weight loss efforts and then I remember thinking: Is this really what I was aiming for? What the hell? This sucks!!!!
I guess for a long time, a lot of my eating disorder was motivated by not feeling like I had ‘permission to exist’. Like it was a kind of test: I’d slowly kill myself while everyone watched. If they let me go, then I had my answer, and I’d know I wasn’t wanted here. I figured if they wanted me around, they’d ‘save’ me……although ironically enough, when people tried to ‘save’ me if pissed me off like nothing else. And I guess I felt like at that point in my life everyone HAD abandoned me. I WAS alone. ALL alone. Nobody even knew where I was. And then, the ‘me’ in me got good and pissed. I mean really, really, really pissed. I thought of all the other people in the world who just went about their daily lives without a care in the world, doing whatever the hell they wanted like it was no big deal. And I thought ‘Well, nobody ever bothered to ask ME if they were ‘allowed’ to exist. Nobody ever asked ME if they were allowed to make mistakes, to take up space, to step on my toes, or to just BE.
And then I figured, well, if they don’t need permission, then neither do I.
I guess you could actually say that my recovery, for me, was a big ‘FUCK YOU!’ back at the world around me. It was like…..revenge almost. Like, I felt so unwanted, so unloved. And for so long, I had lived my life trying to be everything that everyone ever wanted me to be, doing all the ‘right’ things in the ‘right’ way, trying to make everyone like me. And then I felt like I had given myself away- I had stopped living my life, just so I could meet some arbitrary definition of ‘good enough’. And I finally just said ‘fuck it. I’m done’. And I figured I might as well try recovery because well, honestly, I didn’t have anything better to do.
So, I decided to move out of the crack house.
I started looking for a full-time job.
I started to (gasp!) EAT again.
I spent the next month living with 3 different people in two different states- on my brother’s living room floor in Mpls, my ex-fiancee’s house (used to be my house, too!) in Wisconsin, my parents’ house…..that lasted like a day. Every week I packed up all of my possessions and moved to a new place where I slept on the floor. I don’t even remember if I ever bothered to explain why I had moved out of my place. I don’t think anyone really asked.
During this time, I surfed the web for my OWN apartment- I figured no one would kick me out if I lived alone, and I was done with trying to be close to people. I interviewed for a position as a preschool teacher and got the job. I was supposed to start on February 2nd, 2002. So, February 1st, 2002, I moved into my own downtown Minneapolis apartment, maxing out a small credit card in order to pay for the first month’s rent and security deposit.
So, on February 2nd, 2002, I started my first day of work at an upper-class preschool/day care located in a high-rise in the business district of downtown Minneapolis (translation: trust fund babies sent to the place to have their IQ raised 50 points in the hopes that they would read by age of 2 and complete med school by age 10 so their parents would have something to brag about at business meetings).
Let me say this: 2-yr olds NEVER sit still. And you can NEVER relax around them. They need constant supervision. Especially when there are 12 of them roaming around in one room. I learned very quickly that if I hoped to survive at my job, I would need to learn to actually give my body fuel.
On my first day, I hadn’t brought a lunch, but I had had some yogurt for breakfast (breaking my rule of not eating before XXo’clock, so I was proud). By lunchtime, I was exhausted, starving, and getting cranky. I remember being ‘brave’ and eating one chicken nugget and some peas. During naptime, I got myself an extra-large coffee from the coffee shop next door.
I didn’t even make it through the first day. After the coffee, I had horrible stomach cramps, got dizzy as hell……I was so frustrated that I couldn’t just wave a magic wand and suddenly be healthy and have energy and all that. It pissed me off that my body wouldn’t just work when I needed it to.
I learned very quickly that eating ‘normally’ again would not be an easy task. Once I increased my intake, it was like something in me just snapped, and I was hungry like *every*single*second*.
I had somehow convinced myself that increasing my intake by a few hundred calories while getting myself back in the gym so I could burn off a thousand or so calories every night was a *wonderful* strategy.
Let me tell you: IT IS NOT A GOOD IDEA!!!!!!!!!!!
I started packing a lunch of ‘safe’ foods, and making an effort to eat something every day before I left for work. My biggest problem became the night time. After a day of constantly moving around, constantly chasing kids, (and by the way, I worked 11-hr shifts!!!!), then stopping at the gym for some cardio before heading home…….I was HUNGRY!!!! Looking back, I can’t even imagine how much of an energy deficit my body must have been in by the time I got home. I would go home and have dinner, which I had carefully planned. I figured I would start with ‘safe’ foods that fit into all the different food groups that should be included in a ‘normal’ dinner. And then……I’d still be hungry. And I’d suddenly get all excited and tell myself ‘It’s OK!!! I’m in recovery!!! I can eat food now!!!!’ And I’d eat. I remember those times so clearly. One night, an apple sliced up and then dipped in peanut butter ended up with me eating half the jar of peanut butter. Another night, a graham cracker turned into an entire box of graham crackers and a full jar of jelly. Needless to say, I was completely in a state of……frenzy, fear, upheaval, you name it. Either way, it wasn’t good. I’d start out every meal saying ‘I’m recovering. This is a GOOD thing I’m doing. I can eat and enjoy food again now!!!!’. Ten minutes later, I’d find myself in a state of extreme anxiety, pissed at what I’d just done, berating myself for being so stupid to think that it was *ok* to eat, wishing I hadn’t done that, and wishing I had actually developed the ability to purge before.
I did try to purge. I even got *better* at it- better meaning I actually got a couple small chunks up- but I just couldn’t get it to work for me. So, I’d tell myself I couldn’t go to bed until I burned it all off through exercise.
But something had already changed for me a bit. What, I don’t know. But I’d exercise for ten minutes and then suddenly my mood would change and I’d stop. I’d go to bed. I’d feel ok.
I never really realized how sick I had gotten until I started getting better. I couldn’t remember when I started to feel cold and dizzy all the time, but I definitely noticed when it stopped. I didn’t notice when my energy-starved brain started tuning out background noise, but I noticed when I finally heard it again. It wasn’t until I actually felt closer to ‘fine’ that I realized just how painful starvation is. The constant muscle aches, the headaches, feeling my heart pounding from dehydration, nearly passing out every time I stood up too fast, my hands so dry they would crack and bleed no matter how much lotion I used, the agonizing over whether or not I had the energy to walk across the room, the feeling that everything was too bright, too loud, too stressful, too confusing– just altogether TOO MUCH…….
It was around that time that I’d wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, craving food like mad. I’d wake up in the morning in a panic, berating myself for being so stupid to think I was allowed to eat again, wishing I had never decided to recover. I’d vow to eat NOTHING until the end of my work day. I’d make little signs to put all over in my cabinets, in my fridge, etc, telling myself that it was NOT ok to binge, that I had to stick to ‘the plan’. The plan was my ‘meal plan’ that I drew up for myself every night, telling myself what I was ‘allowed’ to eat the next day. And on this plan, I told myself it was ok to eat up to (warning….. numbers)
1000 calories. Oh, and did I mention I often decided it was smart to burn 1000 calories at the gym on the days after a binge? It took me a good long while before I realized that that strategy just was not helping the situation.
By the time I got home from work each day, I was all happy and excited about recovery again, 100% gung-ho on ‘eating to live’ and ‘healing’………well, until I had eaten everything on my ‘plan’ and found myself still hungry………then, I’d find myself bingeing. The bingeing was new to me. I’d never really done it before.
I started to dread going home. My little place of my own- a symbol of me branching out, a girl on her own in the city, my start of a new life, the place where I would reclaim who I was— my apartment started to feel differently for me. I didn’t want to be there. That was the place where I ate. I started applying for a second job. I just wanted to be away all the time, so I’d never have to go back to that kitchen where I wasn’t in control anymore.
So I spent the next few months swinging violently back and forth between recovery and wanting to quit recovery. One minute, I’d be 100% into recovery. 5 minutes later, I’d be beating myself up for ever trying recovery, and trying to burn off any ‘recovery’ food I’d eaten. Words can’t even describe just how extreme the change would be from minute to minute.
The night bingeing was happening a bit too often, and I had been trying to cope by starving all day long. I somehow convinced myself that it if I was going to take in enough calories for ‘recovery’ anyway…….I might as well do that during my binge time. OK, NOT A GOOD IDEA.
My moods were insane. The mood swings made me feel like I was losing my mind. Sometimes when I started eating, I’d get……high. Like literally, ecstatically HIGH. But after eating, I’d flip to the other end of the spectrum. One particular night, I remember feeling such tremendous anxiety that I found myself turning all my lights off, huddling in a corner with my arms around my knees, rocking myself in an attempt to comfort myself.
I felt lost, and I didn’t know how to go about learning to eat normally again. I spent some time on the internet, and I found an advertisement for a research study that was taking place at my University. I had called before, when my primary diagnosis was anorexia, but it was specifically a study for binge eating. So I called back. They did a quick interview over the phone to see if I qualified, and they said to come in for an assessment in a few months.
During this time, I was still in cheerleading. Hockey runs through March and even into May if you make it to the finals (we did- the National Championships, even!), so I was still being forced to visit the team medical doc (who really didn’t understand eating disorders at all). I happened to mention that I had signed up for this research study. Well, I don’t know if he actually pulled any strings or not, but he said that he actually knew the guy in charge of it. All I know is that I got a call a week later, and they said they ‘suddenly’ had an opening before the end of the month.
Ok, fast forward to the research study. It was a study where people were divided into groups. Some got meds, some got guided self-help, and some just got a self-help book. I got the self-help book and was supposed to go back and meet with one of the research people for 15 min every few weeks at first, then every 6 months or so, and then finish up with a final assessment.
The self-help program was EXACTLY what I needed. It outlined specific steps I could take in order to re-establish normal eating habits. The first step was to start eating at scheduled times, every 3-4 hours, all day long, regardless of whether I binged in between or not. Trust me, it was not easy to convince myself that I really needed to eat that often. And at first, it seemed ridiculous to be continuing to eat at those times when I’d just binged. And on days when I wasn’t so sure about recovery, and I started out the day by skipping meals, it was hard to figure out how to stay on track.
We were also supposed to keep track of what we ate and when, and whether or not we compensated with eating-disordered behaviors. I was able to spot a major pattern within a few weeks: I would tell myself I didn’t need a whole meal, so I’d try to have just a ‘bite’ or a ‘snack’ of something. Then, I’d have another, and maybe another couple bites of something else. Then, I’d feel like crap, because I’d think ‘Well, I’m supposed to eat again soon, but I’ve probably eaten plenty of random bites, it could have been a meal’. Finally, I realized that I was doing the random-bites-of-everything thing at almost the EXACT times I was actually scheduled to eat a meal!
So my next goal was to start eating actual meals. (the first step focused more on timing, not actual composition of meals). I started trying to eat a balance of carbs, protein, and fat at every meal, with snacks in between.
During this time, I found myself dealing with incredible amounts of hunger. It was like once my body tasted real food again, it wouldn’t stop asking for more. I literally remember so many times where I had just eaten a full meal, and I was still hungry. I’d tell myself just to go hungry, but then I’d feel like crap. So I’d eat. And I’d hate that I had to eat more, but I’d feel better for a moment. Then, sometimes as little as a half hour later, I’d be soooooo hungry again. I’d literally cry and scream and get so upset and say ‘Why am I hungry? I don’t WANT to be hungry!!!!’.
During this time, I gained a LOT of weight. Too fast for my taste. I felt awful. I looked awful. I couldn’t move the same. My skin itched from stretching so fast. I was constipated like mad. I’d get dizzy often. I’d get horrible headaches, major blood sugar crashes, mood swings, night sweats, etc. I’d get horribly dehydrated. None of my clothes fit anymore. And since I lived in a downtown apartment by myself, I had literally no money to spend on clothes.
I felt like I wanted to wear a sign that said something like ‘I’m a recovering anorectic. Please don’t think I got fat because I’m just greedy and lazy.’ Like, my anorexic mind was still very eating disordered, but my body no longer looked like it. THAT was hard.
My saving grace though? A bunch of slobbery little two-year olds. Yup, I credit the initial stages of my recovery to a group of two-year olds. There were so many days where I woke up and just wanted to be invisible. I felt like everyone would stare at me and point and laugh and make fun of me. I felt like my friends would be disgusted. I felt like people would stop being nice to me on the street. I was terrified at how people would react to my ever-expanding backside.
But every day, when I walked into that classroom, there wasn’t a single little person who gave a rat’s ass what I looked like. All they cared about is that I was there to play with them, read them stories, and give them hugs. And they gave me lots of hugs, too. It was really a powerful thing to realize that through the unbiased eye of a toddler, my body was irrelevant. My soul was what mattered. Not only that, but working at a daycare also meant that the kids were fed a balanced breakfast, lunch, and snack every day. I started to take advantage of the pre-planned, balanced meals at ‘normal’ times.
OK, so there’s one thing I forgot to mention.
A small thought, yet a huge change in my thought process. Back when I was living in the crack house, jobless, moneyless, hopeless, sick, tired, cranky, friendless, alone, scared, etc……..I remember thinking that I had finally lost everything- that I no longer had anything to live for. Then I was hit with this sudden realization: I HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE. Literally. No matter what I did, no matter which direction I chose, anything, anywhere, anyhow was better than where I was. So I felt oddly free– liberated, almost. There was nowhere to go but up. Not only that, but I had systematically removed myself from the larger world of society. I had successfully absolved myself of all responsibilities, ended all friendships, ceased anything that required me to interact with anyone or anything. I had basically cleaned house on my life. I had lost a lot of good stuff, but I had also managed to cut out some really bad things, too.
And so I chose to begin rebuilding my life, brick by brick, step by step, until I was living a life that I CHOSE. No more living by other people’s rules, living to impress people, to live up to some sort of arbitrary standard…..life from then on would be different. It would be on MY terms.
And THAT was the real turning point for me.
I CHOSE to live MY life MY way. And no one was going to stop me.
So the more I ate at meals, the less I binged. However, for a very long time, I was still incredibly hungry. I never felt satisfied. Sometimes I’d swear I wasn’t hungry at all, but when I finally ate something, I’d realize that I was actually starving.
I wasn’t really sure how much I should be eating. It was a scary feeling to know that if someone told me that I needed to eat 5,000 calories RIGHT NOW, because my body was sick and needed to repair itself, I probably would have believed them….but at the same time, if someone told me that I should skip my next four meals because I’d already eaten too much today, I would have believed that just as easily. I literally had no clue what I needed. I wanted to see a nutritionist so bad. I hadn’t yet found any message boards online. I spent hours and hours looking for research studies, reading nutrition textbooks, studying physiology, etc. But still, I felt like I wasn’t sure what to do. And my eating habits reflected that. Some days, I’d have from 3,000 to 4,000 calories and feel like it was just right. Some days, I’d have 1200 and think it was too much. Overall though, I was eating more and feeling better- less cold, less tired, a bit more awake, a bit more……alive- like I wasn’t watching TV anymore. I was actually engaged in conversations and stuff.
The first weekend of April, the UofM hockey team competed in the National Championship tournament that just happened to be held right here in St Paul. As I rode the bus with the other cheerleaders and the band to the Xcel Energy Center, I turned around in my seat and saw a cute boy behind me. We bonded over our similar experience teaching, just getting out of a serious relationship (me calling off my wedding, him going through with a marriage then divorcing very shortly after). A friend of mine was dating his friend, so I asked if she could figure out if he had a girlfriend. He did. So I decided to give up on the boy. That was on Thursday (the semi-final game). Then, when we rode the same bus on Saturday, his friend informed me that he had just broken up with his girlfriend the night he met me. I was a bit freaked out at how quickly he broke it off with her, and then he told me ‘when you meet the right girl and you know it, why stay with one that’s already not going well?’. That night, we won the National Championship game. The entire city went crazy. There was rioting everywhere. Justin and I stayed up the whole night talking. We’ve been dating ever since.
Ok, so where was I going with this? Oh yeah. When Justin met me, I had gained a few, but not much compared to what I would still gain. I was a cute little 110 pound cheerleader when we met. One month later, I was close to 145. I made the mistake of trying to dye my hair blond (I’m definitely a brunette for life now!), and cutting it short. None of my clothes fit, and I had no real money to spend on clothes. I ended up wearing some really old ‘fat pants’, some super-cheap things I got on clearance at GAP, some awful, awful jeans that I swear were from the 70′s. I felt so ugly. My new short hair-cut only accentuated my now-chubby cheeks. But Justin didn’t care. He absolutely refused to make any comments about my weight, and he wiped my tears when I had a meltdown about gaining weight. He didn’t understand, but he just told me that he wasn’t going anywhere just because of my weight. Of course, I was terrified. I figured it was only a matter of time before he finally got sick of me and left. I told myself that I needed to lose weight ASAP, or he would never want to stay with me.
Around this time, I settled into a regular pattern of eating at regular meal times, but eating just a little bit less than I really should have, so I’d be very hungry before the next meal….and then I’d eat, but still try to be hungry when I stopped…….I figured this would help me lose weight. I was completely wrong. I kept gaining. I’d cry, day after day, I’d cry about how I was restricting and I felt like shit but I kept right on gaining. This went on for a month, maybe two….maybe three. I don’t know. Somewhere around a couple months or so. Until finally, one day, I gave in. I couldn’t fight the weight gain anymore. The restriction wasn’t working anymore. I decided to just go ahead and eat whenever I wanted to. The week I finally did this, I lost 7 pounds. I was completely, totally shocked. A few weeks after that– this is maybe at the end of July, beginning of August of that year, or about 6 months after I started recovery– I was eating a meal and suddenly I realized: I’m satisfied. I can stop now.
It was almost too wonderful to be real. I finally felt satisfied, and I knew that I had just eaten a normal meal. Words cannot describe the level of elation I felt at that moment. It was the first time I’d felt ‘satisfied’ after a meal for…..oh god, I don’t even know how long. Years. I literally cried tears of joy.
So, 4-5 months into my recovery, I felt physically better- as in more energetic, more alert, less cold, less anxious and irritable. I still found myself talking incessantly about how I was going to ‘fix’ my body through exercise this and eating so and so and such things like that. My poor Justin- I didn’t even realize until now just how incredibly patient he was back then.
I had this issue of never wanting to eat a full-size meal. By now I could eat, no problem. But I didn’t want to finish an adult-size portion in one sitting. I could even eat most of the meal, then return for the rest like an hour later. Weird, I know. But that was a rule that I was still in the process of breaking. So I’d often find myself eating tons and tons of very-low-cal foods, like lettuce, pickles, etc towards the end of a meal, in an attempt to feel ‘satisfied’ without eating ‘too much’. One day, my boy said ‘You know, if you just ate your normal meal like everyone else, you wouldn’t have to eat three servings of vegetables’. Of course, me being the one with fucked up ideas on eating, I interpreted that as: ‘You are eating three times as many vegetables as any other normal human would eat, and you should just stop and quit bingeing uncontrollably on vegetables’. I totally went off. I freaked out. I thought he had just called me a greedy pig. I got so upset that my boy ended up walking out of the apartment and sitting on the rooftop courtyard just staring into space, because he didn’t know what to do. Looking back, I see that he was right. If I had just eaten the last few bites of REAL food, I wouldn’t need to keep stuffing in tons of veggies. I just had to EAT if I was HUNGRY. He didn’t call me fat. He didn’t call me greedy. He didn’t say any of those things. Those things came from MY OWN HEAD. I told them to myself, then turned my anger on him.
So anyway, six months into recovery, I was WAY larger than I would have been comfortable with. And I learned that when you put on weight fairly quickly, it doesn’t just automatically look like a ‘normal’ body shape. I have always (just like everyone in my family) gained all my weight in my butt & thighs. But during recovery, for the first time ever, I gained a bunch around my stomach. I had NEVER worried about my stomach before!!! In time, the weight redistributed itself, and I look just fine now. But at the time, I was extremely uncomfortable. I had also gained quite a bit on my inner thighs, and I found it difficult to cross my legs. When I went running, my upper thighs would get red and raw and bleed just from my legs rubbing together. I hated it.
The thing about eating disorders is that your main goal is to get through today by holding on to whatever small comfort you can find. And hiding behind a bony body brought some strange kind of security and sense of satisfaction. Feeling numbed-out and distanced from everything brings a weird sort of comfort. Feeling dizzy and fuzzy-headed all the time provides a sort of defense from really experiencing anything at all.
The problem was, even though my mind was very much eating disordered still, my body no longer represented that. And I felt like a freak. But eventually, I got to a point where I was like ‘Ok, nothing I do today is going to make me a skinny anorexic by the end of the day. It’s my choice whether or not I will sit at home and cry about that, or whether I will do my best to go out and try to enjoy myself.’ So I started searching for joy in things OTHER than my physical self. I reached out to old friends whom I had alienated myself from. I tried new hobbies. I spent a lot of time really focusing on LIVING.
The interesting part?
My friends welcomed me back with open arms. My illness had put distance between us. My illness had made me incredibly selfish– I was so constantly thinking about my weight, my body, calories, food, etc, that I couldn’t even take five minutes to really focus on any REAL conversation with anyone. I was so stressed by my own issues that I couldn’t be supportive of my friends. I was too tired to go out. That all changed when I was in recovery.
Suddenly, it was extremely important to me to really get to know who my friends were. I actually found myself in a vulnerable position– something I have always done my best to avoid at all costs!- and I was pleasantly surprised to experience just how concerned my friends were about my mental well-being. And how little they cared about my body. As one friend of mine put it: “When you were sick, it was like you weren’t there. You weren’t the friend I knew. You were just a lump of negativity. Now, you’re vibrant. You’re energetic, engaging, caring, fun, friendly, open, and interested in what’s going on around you.”
Justin and I spent the summer taking little mini-’adventures’ every chance we got. We’d spend the day bike riding in a state park, or we’d go to some very weird restaurant where we couldn’t pronounce anything on the menu. We watched parades and visited friends and met family and went places and traveled and just, in general, LIVED.
By the end of summer, I had shed a handful of pounds– not by trying! I had continued to eat just as I had done before. In fact, I think I ate MORE than I had before. The fun part? I barely noticed the weight loss. I didn’t care. My life, for the first time in a very, very long time, was full. I didn’t have a need that wasn’t met on some level– I had friends, hobbies, a great place to live, a boyfriend who loved me, my health, happiness, and a future to look forward to. I was back in school and I could finally concentrate again. I was taking classes in neurochemistry and anatomy and sports psychology and loving every bit of it. No more staring blankly at the page, waiting for the fuzziness to clear for a second so I could try to make sense of the words, only to forget them seconds later.
I finally, finally, finally felt ALIVE.
And ‘alive’ is a very GOOD way to feel.