A Misunderstanding That Lead to Understanding

I'm going to out my eating disorder.

We've--it's been hiding (trying to not make us one in the same) from you all because of fear. Fear it'll be taken away from me. It thrives best when I'm isolated, made to feel like no one cares and that all I have is it. My trusty friend always there for me. It's twisted and weird to me still to think of it as having its own agenda and personality but that's really what it does.

Since last Sunday I had binged and purged 6 times. I fell down and I fell fast.

I believe it was a combination of losing the job (I had no incentive to NOT do it as I could sleep in the next morning I had no one to answer to etc) and the fact that I had to decrease my medication. 

Topiramate is associated with significant improvements in both binge and purge symptoms and represents a potential treatment for bulimia nervosa. Found in a study done by Mountain West Clinical Trials, Boise, Idaho.

Also, my psychiatrist at The Emily Program, a facility focusing specifically on eating disorders, had been prescribing the medication to me since February. I am not ashamed to tell you all that I needed help in my recovery or that I chose to take medication to do so. Obviously since I am typing it out here.

I recently lost a job that was going to lead to health benefits AKA I thought I was going to be able to go back to The Emily Program a week before I got fired. This means I had no way of getting my medication in time for my prescription to be refilled. So I just took one less a day--which on top of the firing and the emotional stress of being unemployed lead to a dramatic increase in depression, anxiety and my eating disorder.

I got a doctor's appointment as soon as I could. I only had three pills left--enough to get me through that night and tomorrow. Just in time I thought.

I waited patiently in the well waiting room and talked for what felt like forever with an eager-to-learn intern from UW all about what it's like to be a bulimic. He was kind, understanding and empathetic. My nerves were calmed, this was going to work and maybe I could get back on my feet again.

An hour and a half later the doctor comes in. I again relay how I have not been sleeping. How I have been bingeing and purging regularly for the past week straight. How I recently lost my job. How I have no income. How I am tormented with depression, feeling guilty for bingeing and purging and working hard all day to eat normal meals only to break down at night, and repeat the cycle. Slipping faster and faster into my old self and relapse.

She leaves the room and comes back in 20 minutes to say she cannot help me.

I feel the tears well up in my eyes and my throat tighten as I hear her say the words:

She goes on to say she'll need my medical records and to talk to The Emily "Project" as I keep correcting her it's "program". 

I fight for myself while feeling so abashed that a medical professional would dare use the words "strange" "don't know what to do with you". I tell her my psychiatrist prescribed this to me for months, there are studies done that says it helps and clearly it does since my behaviors have increased since I had to lessen my dosage. 

She continues to say that she doesn't trust what I'm telling her and doesn't feel comfortable.

I leave after two and a half hours of sitting in that little white room feeling so violated and more alone than ever.

I am being dramatic but that's what I was feeling. I finally had the chance to open up to someone again to tell them the truth about what was happening and they had the chance to help me and I was met with hurtful words and no help.

It reiterated what I've been trying to not tell myself for these past months since I've been out of treatment--That no one understands.

I called up my old psychiatrist and even though she hadn't seen me in over 3 months she was able to tell me that she'd help me. She told me that people just don't understand eating disorders yet and there's a lot of ignorance out there. She was able to help me calm down and not feel like such a freak and a strange case, rather to feel sorry for the doctor who didn't have all the information and maybe even excited that I get to help educate her.

I know I'm not the only one out there that's misunderstood and this situation reminded me of that. To be a little more patient with others, to try to be a little more understanding. You never know what someone else is going through. Or what a smile, kind words or patience can do to help brighten their day or even your own.

Merry Krismas To Me : Seven Months Later

I wrote this post about seven months ago.
And it breaks my heart because I remember that girl.
So desperately wanting to be free.
Wanting a holiday without addiction, disease, turmoil and torture.
I tried. I know I did my best.
And my best got me about three days in a row. Which bless me, was amazing.
I hated my parents. I never saw how we could ever exist in the same room together.
It wasn't possible. Not with me, my disease and them--it was too crowded.

I was at ground zero then.

Days later I had plans with my parents to go shopping at the Seahawks team store. I would get a new hat. We would go on The Seattle Great Wheel. I would have the happy Christmas I dreamed of each year.

That never happened.

I was confined to my bed because I could not stop throwing up. I was a slave to my disease. I had binged and purged for meals and days straight. Like a zombie I went to the store just a block from my house, spent hundreds on food, ate as much as I could and got rid of it. And then did it again. Slept. Repeat.

But then my body began to shut down. I had no sense of time of day, hunger, self.

I remember lifting the chips to my mouth and so desperately not wanting to. Wishing with all of my might that I could just stop. Leaning over the fridge in my puke-splattered sweats, oily hair, shaking not wanting anything in there and seeing my hands reach for something new.

I could not stop.
Until my body did stop.

My body said I can't do this anymore the day we were supposed to have Krismas in Seattle.

I remember so vividly opening the door for my parents. All of my energy was drained. I didn't even try to hide the dishes, the wrappers, the food or my ghostly appearance.

My mom covered her mouth when she saw me. Shock of what her daughter had become. My dad put down the coupons Mom had cut for me back home. I wouldn't be needing those.

The fear in my parents' eyes is indescribable. The shame I felt was overridden by exhaustion. I felt as though I was done. I hadn't actually eaten in days and my stomach was eroded by acid.

My parents stayed with me for hours.

My dad brought me Diet Sprite at my request (which really doesn't help anything but ED was still so loud as I lay there lifeless). I don't remember their time there as hours. It's a blur. There were crackers and broth. And there was my mom.

I had let them down. I was so scared. How did I get here again? Where did I go?

As I write this I remember how dark my room was, how sick I felt, how ashamed I was.
And by the grace of the universe I began to keep food down.
And my parents finally had to leave.

My mom said she thought I wasn't going to wake up.

Once again I had, my disease had, ruined another family event.

Days later my friends had an intervention with me and I wrote these words in my blog on Christmas Eve:

"I'm looking forward to working my ass off to get a better life. One where these thoughts aren't constantly breaking up my day.

I'm looking forward to a life where going to work won't be a struggle. And I will have enough nutrition in my body to stay focused and not forget things.

I'm looking forward to WANTING to eat which currently I don't have. It's all or nothing at the moment.

I'm looking forward to wanting to cook.

I'm looking forward to a new life. The life I was always meant to have.

Merry Krismas kids."

And I write to you now sobbing and snotting and with total fucking pride that what I wanted and what I looked forward to is exactly what I'm doing.

And recovery is more than wanting to eat, and quieted thoughts.

It's wanting to live. It's wanting to be me. It's having the clarity to carry on a conversation. It's being honest. It's being able to breathe. It's having the peace of mind to think of others. To live in the moment. To remember. To show up for people. To live.

Gah Help Me

When I write in here it's usually because I am overwhelmed.

It's almost instinctual the way I blog.

I have a thought, emotion, experience or all of those and my mind goes "I must tell them!"

I must tell you!

I think it comes from the uncomfortably of the intensity of emotions.
I have a very VERY hard time sitting with any emotion, even the happy ones.

I need to DO something when I feel something either to change it or lessen it or to get more of it.

So, the time has come to where I no longer need to be in a higher level of care. I am stepping down from PHP (partial hospitalization program)---that's what I've been in for the past two months, 5 days a week, 7 plus hours a day at The Emily Program (highly recommend it), now I'm moving into IOP (intensive outpatient program).

Which yes--smart ass--is intense.

Here's what my life will look like:

8 - 3 Work

3- 5 Therapy / Dietitian / Psychiatrist / Case Management (pick one of those for Monday to Thursday)

5 - 8 IOP

8 - 8:30 commute home

8:30 - ?? keep my long distance relationship going, stay in touch with friends, attend to my cat, fix food for the following day, shower?, blog?, Netflix? etc.

It will be very tough.

Just writing it out overwhelms me.

There is no real break. There is no skipping.

Ah I'm already doing it. Spinning. I do this a lot. Taking the bad and taking another bad and putting that bad with the bad and making it worse.

So I will have to reframe the above--meaning put it in a different light or perspective. 

And while it is a lot and I will have no time to see my friends who I desperately miss I still...

Get to go back to work and prove myself to MYSELF.

I will be able to text, call and be in touch with my boyfriend and friends then.

I will be able to be social with my coworkers.

I will get the chance to eat for the first time ever in a recovery setting at work.

I have the BLESSING of going to a treatment center and spending time there four days a week.

I still have Fridays and weekends off.

This is all worth it. But it will be hard. And I will need your help.

It is hard to admit that.

I feel ashamed to say I am not 100% better after two months. I have even had a very hard time with anorexic and over exercising behaviors lately in response to the stress of stepping down.

But I'm really using my recovery voice and being assertive (two totally awesome treatment things I learned) by asking you guys to please message me with encouragement, with a funny cat picture, with a how are you? with anything you like. Even if you're struggling with something. I love love love hearing from you all. When I feel less alone it is so much easier to stay on the right path. 

I'm really fucking proud of myself for coming this far. I've lessened my drinking, I am now only bingeing and purging twice a week (coming from three times a day every day), I have hope, I am no longer depressed, I have a voice, I have confidence, I am finding out who I am. And so much more that can only be seen and felt within me.

I appreciate all of you who read and reach out to me. Every one of you has had a part in my recovery and I'm so grateful.

My Imaginary Foe

It's quiet in the sunny room.
Lunch is only halfway over.
I still have to eat this stupid, fucking sandwich.

I wanted to keep her hidden.

My head is in between my hands.
Eyes closed.
Jaw clenched.
Leg shaking.
I feel like there's a spotlight on me.
Get me out.
GET ME OUT.

"What is your eating disorder saying to you right now?"

I look up to address the cold, tense quiet of girls inside their heads fighting their own voices.
They are angry, they are tired, they are conflicted, they are disordered--just like me.

"Mine is saying, wipe the grease off your sandwich. They won't notice. No normal person would even eat that salami. There's too much butter on that. This is disgusting. So unhealthy. You're disgusting. You can't eat that. Wipe it off. You have to workout tonight. I don't care that you did yesterday..."

I get quiet. I feel ashamed. I do not know how to move on.

The dietitian's voice brings me back.
"What would you say to your eating disorder if it were here right now?"

My head is back down.
My jaw is still clenched.
My eyes squeezed closed.
I see her plain as day.
We're sitting at the table together.
We've got the same outfit on.
Nikes, leggings, hoodie, vest.

I picture her--me--saying those things out loud to me.

"You fat fuck. You're fatter than all these girls here. You disgust me. Ya look at your thighs. Everyone sees them. I know you've gained so much weight since starting. You're just adding to it. You fat fuck. You disgust me..."

Then I hear me say loud and clear.

"Leave me alone."

The tears come instantly.

My eyes open. The girl next to me isn't a girl in treatment it's me but a mean me. ED me.

I look at her.

I say it quieter, scared of the power the first statement had and what it would ignite.

"Leave me alone. You have been talking to me all my life. I want to be left alone. I don't want to listen anymore. Just go please just go. You've taken so much from me. Just leave me be. Just leave me be. Just leave me be...."

My words turn into silent sobs.

She leaves.

Not Normal

This is incredibly hard to write about as it feels that is should be shameful.

People don't really share when they do 'not normal' things and I'm constantly doing that here but this 'not normal' thing is not normal even for me.

I had a panicish attack this past Monday slash freak out.

My deep frustration and anger came out during my therapy session with only the slightest push from my therapist.

"What if you try and feel your anger."

Heart pounds
Jaw clenches
Chest heaves
Not here-not now
Leave me be

Emotion strobe lighting
Fast, violent, unrelenting
It claws from within me
My Resistance is caving

Involuntary shaking
I need something to calm me
There's nothing to tame me

Don't let it go
I can't do this
Mustn't lose control
There it goes
Here I go

Fingers find flesh
Grasping, sinking, scraping
Release with every tear
Pain calms me

I see me
I'm not me
Who is that shaking there?

Suddenly my breath finds me
Shuddering in and out
My heart slows
I catch up with myself

What was that?
It mustn't
It can't be
Was that me?

I was told by my therapist about two baby monkeys. One was put in a cage with a loving mother, the other given nothing. The one with the loving mother acted normally. The other slowly became frustrated. It did not know how to show its frustration so it began to pull out its hair, hit itself and act irrationally.

In this case, I am the one without the loving mother, without an outlet.

I'm slowly learning to love myself the way I needed so long ago.
I'm slowly learning how to show my anger the way I needed to so long ago.