I have been without a dietitian for a while now. It had to do with a mess of insurance stuff, but honestly, I could have gotten a dietitian. I didn't want one. I didn't need one anymore....
My therapist says there are a million red flags flying and that if I don't get an RD within the week, and things don't improve I need to step up in care. I decided to have an assessment for intensive outpatient back at my old treatment center. And then I changed my mind and canceled it. Oh and then I didn't make the RD appointment, so I canceled therapy. Nice work there ED.
I'm tired.
Stressed.
Depressed.
I kinda don't care right now.
I'm a failure at recovery. A failure at my disease. Almost everything I have attempted has been thwarted by a mess of mental illness. College seemed promising, vibrant.... I am wicked smart but certainly not immune to drowning in bipolar disorder. To repeated hospitalization. And I somehow wasn't smart enough to even know I had an eating disorder through all this cycling up and down, making best friends with a bottle of white Zinfandel, dieting to loooooooooow weights. Why? Because for some reason no matter what number I hit, there was fat still covering my body. Normal? Sure. For other people.
Just eat. You need to. Seriously. The fact you don't want to is just the eating disorder.
Ok, I'll eat a salad.
No. Eat something with calories. A salad with one teaspoon of olive oil is not a meal.
YOU DON'T NEED TO. IT WILL BE TOO MUCH.
You realize you don't need to lose weight right? You need to gain it, technically.
Ok. After I lose 5 lbs.
I know you're reading this and thinking, "What the ever-loving fuck?????"
This is life in my head. 24/7. It's almost Christmas. Too bad eating disorders don't take holidays, and too bad my eating disorder voice is relentless at the moment. And part of the reason I just let go sometimes is not because I want to, but rather because I need relief from the anxiety that comes from being unsure.... I need that ever-present noise to dissipate as it does when I eat less and exercise more. And then I feel great about my "accomplishment" until suddenly the world is crashing in on me and all I wish is for someone to hand me a meal plan. I figure out how to get myself back on food, or I don't, and I'm re-fed by someone else. Repeat. Did I mention I'm tired?
The decision I come to is wildly variable. But it never, ever feels "successful" to eat enough. Restricting is always more disciplined. I ate my son's birthday cake. And ice cream. Someone said "good job". I made that cake. I knew how many cups of sugar and sticks of butter went into that cake. I did a nutritional analysis of that cake and knew how many calories were in it. That was no success. I tried telling myself the success was eating the cake in front of my children and not showing them disordered behavior.
Ok. That I could buy. And keep trying for.... And eat at least breakfast and dinner. That's better than before. They say even when you slide back you don't lose what you have learned the times you fought to get forward. This is true I suppose. I used to REALLY BELIEVE a whole arsenal of bullshit that I no longer do... Post workout snacks do not negate the workout. Doing intense exercise undernourished is really fucking dangerous and can give you a heart attack. You really can be too thin.
But there are those things I know to be true, but only for other people. There are no bad foods. True, but I need to eat nothing less than perfect. If that's not available, eat nothing at all. It took nine months to gain the baby weight! Give yourself at least nine months to lose it, I proclaim to other women. Not me though. I was back at the gym two weeks postpartum. Oh except for the two back to back pregnancies where I was totally legitimately overweight for the first time in my life? I disgusted myself. I knew the relapse would happen though. So I waited. I pondered. And finally went on a diet anyway.
It was on.
And three years later it will not stop. There's no getting off this train. At least that's how it seems.
Friday, December 19, 2014
Thursday, October 2, 2014
You Are Enough
I have not had anything to say in a while. Or at least not a way to say what it is I need to say...or even a way to access that in my brain....
One thing that anorexia strips away is the ability to connect with people. When I was in PHP, I was essentially gone from my family in both mind and body. On the one or two evenings a week I was home, it was as if I was in another universe.... Completely and totally isolated from my husband and children; the people I loved and were once my world. Anthony says he didn't even know me.
We recently moved closer to work for Anthony, closer to treatment for me, and well, closer to everything. My children are in a much better school system, we are in a great area, and our house is perfect for us. It could not have been a better decision. I have no regrets.
I don't always give my husband the credit he deserves, or express how very much I love him. He is my best friend. He was the one who was there when everything came crashing down; when people scattered like ducks frightened when unfamiliarity approaches. I don't blame them really- who wants to follow someone into the darkness of something they don't understand? And even if they do understand, who wants to remember that piece of themselves?
When I met him, I knew he was a person I wanted to know more. His blue eyes drew me in. Have you ever met someone that you just KNEW was kind? Someone who didn't need to sell themselves with all their accomplishments or even their personality traits or the life they have lived....someone whose heart you could just FEEL? That's what my first conversation with Anthony was like. And in very short succession, we fell in love, we got married, we had three children. We lived happily ever after, right?
Wrong. We had more early struggles and stressors than most marriages could endure. The mortgage industry collapsed and we went broke. Simultaneously I had three back to back pregnancies. My husband frustrated the hell out of me....get a job, was my response. His response was to keep embarking on these business ventures that ended badly. It took me a while to recognize he was depressed- all he had worked for had been stripped away and he was trying to get it all back in an instant. Except it didn't work out that way, and I was frustrated. I should have understood, I really should have, given my history. I should have understood that his worth till that moment had been defined by how much money he made. Growing up with financial struggles, and deciding that he would be successful career-wise and have a nice lifestyle- that was how he measured success. We have slowly gotten out of this hole- by taking the baby steps he didn't want to, and finally making his way back into the mortgage business and building his own branch.
My husband is a wonderful person. Person. As on the inside. As something that cannot be measured by financial success and cannot be bought. He took care of me when I was ill. He loves his children. He stayed home with four kids all by himself for three months while I was hospitalized. He remembers little things- like bringing me home a coffee when he is out, like taking the kids to the park so I can have a break, like doing laundry for a family of seven.... I realize these are actions he takes, but what is obvious is that his reason is that he loves us. Unconditionally. I see where he gets this- it was obvious from the first time I met his mom that she loves him deeply.
Last night he was telling me more about all that he wants for me....all that he needs to prove, all about how living in this house and having happy children who love their school is so motivating. All of this is fine and good. But it is not all there is. He is also a father, a husband, a son. He is so much more than a paycheck. He is a man that cuddles with his son every night while he falls asleep. He is a man who enjoys co-sleeping with his babies and connecting with his kids. And he is a man I can see in the eyes and big goofy grin of my three year old boy.
And so I said something I have heard a million times before, that is essentially the eating disorder treatment mantra.....
"You are enough."
He continued talking about goals and how much more he could be..........
And I repeated, with tears in my eyes, "YOU are enough. Just you. Only you. Imagine our son, Dylan. Would you look into his eyes and tell him he is worthy once he makes some money?"
No, of course not. We would not put those expectations on our son because his sweet, beautiful soul is enough.
And we are all enough. This isn't a measure of a number on a scale or how disciplined we are with food, or how "successful" we are. It is not a measure of worldly achievements.
You are enough. You are so much more than enough.
One thing that anorexia strips away is the ability to connect with people. When I was in PHP, I was essentially gone from my family in both mind and body. On the one or two evenings a week I was home, it was as if I was in another universe.... Completely and totally isolated from my husband and children; the people I loved and were once my world. Anthony says he didn't even know me.
We recently moved closer to work for Anthony, closer to treatment for me, and well, closer to everything. My children are in a much better school system, we are in a great area, and our house is perfect for us. It could not have been a better decision. I have no regrets.
I don't always give my husband the credit he deserves, or express how very much I love him. He is my best friend. He was the one who was there when everything came crashing down; when people scattered like ducks frightened when unfamiliarity approaches. I don't blame them really- who wants to follow someone into the darkness of something they don't understand? And even if they do understand, who wants to remember that piece of themselves?
When I met him, I knew he was a person I wanted to know more. His blue eyes drew me in. Have you ever met someone that you just KNEW was kind? Someone who didn't need to sell themselves with all their accomplishments or even their personality traits or the life they have lived....someone whose heart you could just FEEL? That's what my first conversation with Anthony was like. And in very short succession, we fell in love, we got married, we had three children. We lived happily ever after, right?
Wrong. We had more early struggles and stressors than most marriages could endure. The mortgage industry collapsed and we went broke. Simultaneously I had three back to back pregnancies. My husband frustrated the hell out of me....get a job, was my response. His response was to keep embarking on these business ventures that ended badly. It took me a while to recognize he was depressed- all he had worked for had been stripped away and he was trying to get it all back in an instant. Except it didn't work out that way, and I was frustrated. I should have understood, I really should have, given my history. I should have understood that his worth till that moment had been defined by how much money he made. Growing up with financial struggles, and deciding that he would be successful career-wise and have a nice lifestyle- that was how he measured success. We have slowly gotten out of this hole- by taking the baby steps he didn't want to, and finally making his way back into the mortgage business and building his own branch.
My husband is a wonderful person. Person. As on the inside. As something that cannot be measured by financial success and cannot be bought. He took care of me when I was ill. He loves his children. He stayed home with four kids all by himself for three months while I was hospitalized. He remembers little things- like bringing me home a coffee when he is out, like taking the kids to the park so I can have a break, like doing laundry for a family of seven.... I realize these are actions he takes, but what is obvious is that his reason is that he loves us. Unconditionally. I see where he gets this- it was obvious from the first time I met his mom that she loves him deeply.
Last night he was telling me more about all that he wants for me....all that he needs to prove, all about how living in this house and having happy children who love their school is so motivating. All of this is fine and good. But it is not all there is. He is also a father, a husband, a son. He is so much more than a paycheck. He is a man that cuddles with his son every night while he falls asleep. He is a man who enjoys co-sleeping with his babies and connecting with his kids. And he is a man I can see in the eyes and big goofy grin of my three year old boy.
And so I said something I have heard a million times before, that is essentially the eating disorder treatment mantra.....
"You are enough."
He continued talking about goals and how much more he could be..........
And I repeated, with tears in my eyes, "YOU are enough. Just you. Only you. Imagine our son, Dylan. Would you look into his eyes and tell him he is worthy once he makes some money?"
No, of course not. We would not put those expectations on our son because his sweet, beautiful soul is enough.
And we are all enough. This isn't a measure of a number on a scale or how disciplined we are with food, or how "successful" we are. It is not a measure of worldly achievements.
You are enough. You are so much more than enough.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Anosognia
Anosognia- in simple terms, lack of insight, not having knowledge that a person has an illness. In eating disorders, a person is usually high-achieving and perfectionistic in other areas of their life; school, work, extracurricular activities. For example, an anorexic sees herself as fat, even when severely underweight. Or that they are simply dieting and any concern expressed is because people are trying to make them fat. This can lead to treatment occurring only once it is physically apparent. However, a person can die without ever becoming emaciated, or even underweight. In fact, bulimia and binge eating disorder sufferers are typically a normal weight or overweight. And practitioners who are not experts in eating disorders often perpetuate the sufferer's anosognia.
"But your weight isn't THAT low."
"Don't worry; you can exercise that much as long as you eat a little more."
"How much do you weigh?"
I liken this to waiting to treat stage II cancer until it gets to stage IV. And in the eating disorder world, stage IV might mean suicide or a deadly electrolyte imbalance, not an emaciated appearance.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am doing well. I will first give myself credit for doing well, and then follow it with my possible anosognia.
I did not weigh myself for eight days. I also ate my meal plan for several weeks. It did occur to me, during that time, that life is a lot easier for normal people. I ate some things I usually don't, and I realized I kinda do miss out on stuff a lot of people take for granted. By this I don't necessarily mean eating specific foods. More like being able to share a family meal in a restaurant, or having ice cream with my kids....the whole social aspect of eating. Because anorexia is an incredibly isolating disease. It destroys one's connection with people.
And then the guilt crept in. Not just that, but the NOISE. The voice that tells me eating even a normal amount of food is bingeing. Eating icecream is weak. I am failing. I am going to become fat. Like, by tomorrow. Besides, I miss being hungry....If I had eaten half the sandwich, I would be successful. I HATE this feeling of fullness. I am being weighed down like a rock in the ocean.
I'm really having trouble determining which it is- anosognia.......or reality.
I gained 2.5 pounds. It's been the same for three weeks. I did not have the number until I finally got on the scale today, but my dietitian said it had been the same for three weeks, and not to worry. That we were out of the OH MY GOD, HIGHER LEVEL OF CARE zone, which we were in three weeks ago, but that we were not anywhere near finished weight restoring. So I got curious, and weighed myself. Never a good thing.
My stomach is disgusting me. I don't know if I can live in this body. I saw my legs in a yoga pose this week and nearly passed out.
So. I discovered powdered peanut butter in the organic section of the grocery store the other day. At first I was skeptical, thinking, this has to be processed to shit. But, they simply pressed most of the fat out of the peanuts. And viola! You add water and get peanut butter with one quarter of the calories! I really would be much, much thinner if I didn't eat peanut butter. It's one of the few calorie dense foods I will eat. So this discovery was like EUREKA!
My dietitian did not agree. Her response was, and I quote, "Oh my God. I'm freaking out a little."
I restricted for two days. And then I had a thought. Yeah, I'm fat. But was my life any better three weeks ago, before I gained two pounds? When I was thin?
I'm starting to think........anosognia. I ordered a mocha frappaccino at Starbucks to make up for skipping my workout snack.
But maybe it's not?
Sunday, June 29, 2014
The Perfect Storm
I have this past life, that I lived for twelve years, and my memories of it are like a sketch, some areas intense with color, others very vague and incomplete. Unfortunately the vibrant memories are of the very end, the very tragic.
I was married to one of the great loves of my life. We met when I was just eighteen years old; he was twenty years my senior, but this rush I felt when I was around him was a magnet that drew me in....He was charismatic and wonderful and we got married when I was twenty. I had problems. Very significant problems. An undiagnosed eating disorder that was quite severe, yet easily covered by more obvious situations that almost everyone thought were the cause- quite frankly I was a raging bipolar who drank too much and said I was too depressed to eat and too manic to sit still. But my husband loved me. You see, in my young life I had never felt so accepted for exactly who I was. He knew my insecurities and not to step on them. He knew the triggers to avoid, the stressors to alleviate. He was strong and rational while I was emotional and moody. I wish the colors of the details of our marriage and the babyhood of our two children were more clear in my mind, however it all just ran together in this blur of tears and tragedy that was his death.
I had a therapist for six years. At the time he died, after diabetes ravaged his body and he finally let go, I was doing wonderfully. I had stopped drinking. I had started eating. I was on the right meds and at a healthy weight. My therapist flew home from vacation when I had her paged with what had happened.... And practically every detail of those events are etched in my brian with indelible ink. As she and I spoke on the phone, she said, "Five years ago we wouldn't be having this conversation. You would have already killed yourself."
For the twelve years we were together we lived near the coast in Southern California. It was a beautiful place, with sun drenched summers and mild winters. We were near my family and around them often. At the end of it all, I was thirty years old. I had a tribe of women to support me, as well as a therapist and doctor who knew every piece of my history. But lurking in the darkness was his illness, the man I loved more than anything, and when faced with his mortality I shoved it to the back of my consciousness. By now he was on dialysis. Diabetes had destroyed his kidneys. In April 2006 he had his first heart attack, ironically, because he always said "Diabetics don't have first heart attacks." But he did survive, albeit barely, and he was never the same. He never even made it up our stairs again. The four of us slept on two couches in the living room.
My birthday is in July and I remember it being so cast with darkness. It was a sweltering hot summer; the dog got fleas. He was sick with some sort of infection, so three days after my 30th birthday, he got in the car to drive to the ER, ostensibly to get some antibiotics and come home. I slammed the door in a rage; nothing was ever OK. It was the last time I saw him alive.
As soon as he drove off, a feeling of dread swept through me like ice slicing through the 90 degree heat. I packed my kids in the car. I yelled at my three year old because he was wearing a Winnie the Pooh costume that could have passed as a snowsuit, so I had to change his clothes before we could drive off.....
And then I saw the ambulance. I was actually following an ambulance and I thought, "It's for him. I know it's for him." Surely I saw his car on the side of the road in the distance. I pulled over and ran into the street screaming......"He doesn't have a pulse," said the medic, "Follow us."
Once we got into the ER, I watched behind a curtain, as my children chattered in a nearby room with a chaplain. They were doing compressions over and over. They asked if I wanted them to stop. I looked at his feet, pale, and I knew it had been too long. Six minutes without oxygen, they told me. But I just couldn't do it. Not yet. Keep trying, I said. Keep trying just a minute more. Somehow they got him intubated and "stable". No one thought he would survive the night. I remember each and every gory detail of the next week, every redundant test on his brain, the moments I spent crying with my stepdaughter, and when we finally turned off the machines. We waited, holding our breaths, but he did not go yet. The brain stem can apparently still operate respiration and cardiac activity for a while, even when the cerebral cortex is dead. I remember the 3 AM phone call when he finally passed away, and heaving uncontrollably on the cold tile floor, probably the only place in the house that wasn't warm and stuffy. I remember the phone calls that followed, the funeral home the next day, and telling my children. What I don't remember is most of my life. And what I do is just.....vague.
August 1st, 2006. The day I grew up. I was 30 years old. I took care of my kids. I moved far away, and got a job, and did all these things that grown-ups do. And I made this new life. I know I was running away; I know somehow I thought if I started a new life I would erase the pain of my loss. I think what happened instead was I lost the very parts of my life I want to remember. That's all; because I remember every traumatic detail.....but the joy is shrouded away.
I am genuinely happy in so many ways. I am amazingly blessed. I married a wonderful man that I love so, so much. His blue eyes just melt me, and he's my best friend. As crazy as I am, I must say I have been really good at having meaningful relationships. I had three more kids that wouldn't be here if I hadn't come to the northwest and married Anthony. We have an awesome family. Anthony is my rock, my everything, and my number one supporter. Sometimes I'm afraid it wouldn't be fair to Anthony if I had any happy memories of my past, which probably contributes to the way my PTSD manifests. I mean honestly, if it were so simple to just rewind and rewrite the story, wouldn't that be easier?
I also have an eating disorder and I seem to relapse every July or August. Maybe I want to forget the summer I grew old? It seemed odd for him to die in the summer, in the midst of BBQ's and beach parties, and children playing in the park. It felt like the rest of the world was in a completely alternate reality than my children and I. And then I had to figure out how to get rid of the dog's fleas, which had now infested my house. I never went back in my bedroom. A friend donated his clothes to Goodwill before we moved. It's these little practical things you don't realize you will now have to deal with alone....you are now responsible for everything. Every diaper change. Every dish. Every bill to be paid.
And then there is Diabetes. It is said that making strong associations that are very hard to break is common in anorexics. This is certainly true of me. I read a statistic, it stays in my mind forever. For things like college and interesting conversation this is useful. But I will make associations like, Brad died of diabetes. Brad did not follow his diabetic diet very well. He also had heart disease. That could have been caused by diabetes too.....
The list gets exhausting, but I ended up with a fixation with having the perfect diet. I was no longer the anorexic subsiding on diet Coke and cigarettes. I was just REALLY REALLY concerned about my health. A hot dog will kill you. A piece of non-organic chicken will kill you. Eat leafy greens and blueberries every day or you will die. Oh shit, now you are eating ONLY fruits and vegetables and you are back to this bizarre mix of starving yourself, like in the past, and actually believing this is the best choice, given the fact you are avoiding all these "bad foods".
Oh yeah, and you left your therapist, psychiatrist and support system in California. Your sweet husband knows your psychiatric history, and that you take meds, but to him you are pretty damn normal.
Ahhh shit, that's one hell of a way to create the perfect storm.
I was married to one of the great loves of my life. We met when I was just eighteen years old; he was twenty years my senior, but this rush I felt when I was around him was a magnet that drew me in....He was charismatic and wonderful and we got married when I was twenty. I had problems. Very significant problems. An undiagnosed eating disorder that was quite severe, yet easily covered by more obvious situations that almost everyone thought were the cause- quite frankly I was a raging bipolar who drank too much and said I was too depressed to eat and too manic to sit still. But my husband loved me. You see, in my young life I had never felt so accepted for exactly who I was. He knew my insecurities and not to step on them. He knew the triggers to avoid, the stressors to alleviate. He was strong and rational while I was emotional and moody. I wish the colors of the details of our marriage and the babyhood of our two children were more clear in my mind, however it all just ran together in this blur of tears and tragedy that was his death.
I had a therapist for six years. At the time he died, after diabetes ravaged his body and he finally let go, I was doing wonderfully. I had stopped drinking. I had started eating. I was on the right meds and at a healthy weight. My therapist flew home from vacation when I had her paged with what had happened.... And practically every detail of those events are etched in my brian with indelible ink. As she and I spoke on the phone, she said, "Five years ago we wouldn't be having this conversation. You would have already killed yourself."
For the twelve years we were together we lived near the coast in Southern California. It was a beautiful place, with sun drenched summers and mild winters. We were near my family and around them often. At the end of it all, I was thirty years old. I had a tribe of women to support me, as well as a therapist and doctor who knew every piece of my history. But lurking in the darkness was his illness, the man I loved more than anything, and when faced with his mortality I shoved it to the back of my consciousness. By now he was on dialysis. Diabetes had destroyed his kidneys. In April 2006 he had his first heart attack, ironically, because he always said "Diabetics don't have first heart attacks." But he did survive, albeit barely, and he was never the same. He never even made it up our stairs again. The four of us slept on two couches in the living room.
My birthday is in July and I remember it being so cast with darkness. It was a sweltering hot summer; the dog got fleas. He was sick with some sort of infection, so three days after my 30th birthday, he got in the car to drive to the ER, ostensibly to get some antibiotics and come home. I slammed the door in a rage; nothing was ever OK. It was the last time I saw him alive.
As soon as he drove off, a feeling of dread swept through me like ice slicing through the 90 degree heat. I packed my kids in the car. I yelled at my three year old because he was wearing a Winnie the Pooh costume that could have passed as a snowsuit, so I had to change his clothes before we could drive off.....
And then I saw the ambulance. I was actually following an ambulance and I thought, "It's for him. I know it's for him." Surely I saw his car on the side of the road in the distance. I pulled over and ran into the street screaming......"He doesn't have a pulse," said the medic, "Follow us."
Once we got into the ER, I watched behind a curtain, as my children chattered in a nearby room with a chaplain. They were doing compressions over and over. They asked if I wanted them to stop. I looked at his feet, pale, and I knew it had been too long. Six minutes without oxygen, they told me. But I just couldn't do it. Not yet. Keep trying, I said. Keep trying just a minute more. Somehow they got him intubated and "stable". No one thought he would survive the night. I remember each and every gory detail of the next week, every redundant test on his brain, the moments I spent crying with my stepdaughter, and when we finally turned off the machines. We waited, holding our breaths, but he did not go yet. The brain stem can apparently still operate respiration and cardiac activity for a while, even when the cerebral cortex is dead. I remember the 3 AM phone call when he finally passed away, and heaving uncontrollably on the cold tile floor, probably the only place in the house that wasn't warm and stuffy. I remember the phone calls that followed, the funeral home the next day, and telling my children. What I don't remember is most of my life. And what I do is just.....vague.
August 1st, 2006. The day I grew up. I was 30 years old. I took care of my kids. I moved far away, and got a job, and did all these things that grown-ups do. And I made this new life. I know I was running away; I know somehow I thought if I started a new life I would erase the pain of my loss. I think what happened instead was I lost the very parts of my life I want to remember. That's all; because I remember every traumatic detail.....but the joy is shrouded away.
I am genuinely happy in so many ways. I am amazingly blessed. I married a wonderful man that I love so, so much. His blue eyes just melt me, and he's my best friend. As crazy as I am, I must say I have been really good at having meaningful relationships. I had three more kids that wouldn't be here if I hadn't come to the northwest and married Anthony. We have an awesome family. Anthony is my rock, my everything, and my number one supporter. Sometimes I'm afraid it wouldn't be fair to Anthony if I had any happy memories of my past, which probably contributes to the way my PTSD manifests. I mean honestly, if it were so simple to just rewind and rewrite the story, wouldn't that be easier?
I also have an eating disorder and I seem to relapse every July or August. Maybe I want to forget the summer I grew old? It seemed odd for him to die in the summer, in the midst of BBQ's and beach parties, and children playing in the park. It felt like the rest of the world was in a completely alternate reality than my children and I. And then I had to figure out how to get rid of the dog's fleas, which had now infested my house. I never went back in my bedroom. A friend donated his clothes to Goodwill before we moved. It's these little practical things you don't realize you will now have to deal with alone....you are now responsible for everything. Every diaper change. Every dish. Every bill to be paid.
And then there is Diabetes. It is said that making strong associations that are very hard to break is common in anorexics. This is certainly true of me. I read a statistic, it stays in my mind forever. For things like college and interesting conversation this is useful. But I will make associations like, Brad died of diabetes. Brad did not follow his diabetic diet very well. He also had heart disease. That could have been caused by diabetes too.....
The list gets exhausting, but I ended up with a fixation with having the perfect diet. I was no longer the anorexic subsiding on diet Coke and cigarettes. I was just REALLY REALLY concerned about my health. A hot dog will kill you. A piece of non-organic chicken will kill you. Eat leafy greens and blueberries every day or you will die. Oh shit, now you are eating ONLY fruits and vegetables and you are back to this bizarre mix of starving yourself, like in the past, and actually believing this is the best choice, given the fact you are avoiding all these "bad foods".
Oh yeah, and you left your therapist, psychiatrist and support system in California. Your sweet husband knows your psychiatric history, and that you take meds, but to him you are pretty damn normal.
Ahhh shit, that's one hell of a way to create the perfect storm.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Dear Piper.....
Dear sweet girl,
I chose partial hospitalization for you, because you were moving in my belly, although I didn't believe them that you and I were in danger. But some part of me knew that this was not risk I could take. On some level I knew I had lost insight. I think this decision is why you were born perfect and big. I think the treatment team that supported me through that pregnancy and your first year of life is why you thrived on my milk.
I chose the birth that we had......I made sure you stayed on my chest from your first moments and looked into your eyes as we nursed. Not just through the hospital stay, but for your entire first year- you were never away from the comfort of my milk for more than two hours, and you never even had a bottle. I chose all of this because that's what *we* needed, after all we'd been through. And this took a huge level of committment from daddy. He knew it was so important for me to be with you, and also so very important for me to be in treatment, he devoted hours of driving and holding you while I kept my appointments. All so you could be right in the building if you needed me. We are so blessed. I am grateful I have this wonderful husband and that he is your dad. Because if I had anything to say about it, it wasn't gonna go down any other way. You see, my dear girl, there was so so much grief and despair and anxiety throughout your time in my belly......so many times I sat there, crying and staring at a cookie, and because of this powerful, powerful force inside of me, I just could not eat it. So many times I swam so hard I threw up, or nearly fainted, or drove in the fog of malnutrition, not to hurt you, but because the voice of the eating disorder was too loud and too intertwined with my own. I was more afraid of gaining weight than the consequences of these behaviors. Honestly, if not for you I don't think I would have believed I had anorexia. In the past I have become painfully thin and associated it with discipline and success. Anyone that dared to suggest otherwise was just trying to make me fat. But this time, even though my starving brain had left the lines between healthy eating and a dangerous obsession blurred, I chose treatment.
But I did not choose the disease of anorexia. I did not choose to fail at recovery, over and over and over again. I did not choose the eating disorder voice that resonates so loudly in my head, never dissipating, only vacillating in its intensity and the ugliness of its tone. I mostly fight it, and I mostly do all I can do- which is maintain this status quo, which is so less than perfect and barely good enough.
I did not choose the relapse I had when you were eight months old. I rapidly lost weight after I was told under no uncertain terms that there could be no more weight loss. I took exercise classes I had no business being in given my nutritional status and my weight. Also, it is an unequivocal truth that anorexics who exercise AT ALL until in a very stable period of remission, are at a huge risk of relapse. Because I really had not been able to let it go. Let 100% of the control go. I will not go into how much people misunderstand this fact, and how horrible it is for people with eating disorders to hear that they can exercise all they want as long as they eat.... because unfortunately there are so many things about ED people don't understand.
However, when I was confronted with another admission to PHP, to being unable to continue to nurse you sweet darling, somehow, somewhere inside me, I found the strength to stop that weight loss and stay with you. Every day, I manage to maintain that status quo, the number that is too low, but not low enough that it requires severe restriction to maintain. I eat. I eat a lot. Just not enough for my metabolism, my exercise level, and the fact I barely sit down all day.
I have, according to the experts, made strides. I ate at a buffet on Father's Day. For your dad. And the guilt consumed me for a WEEK. I thought of that as a failure, although I am assured that merely going and trying a few new things and eating dessert was a success- even if I hated myself a little for it.
And here I am again. I have a headache. I have a 60 day streak on a calorie counting app. I engage in triggering conversations about weight and nutrition and exercise that I should steer away from.
But I can't. Because that voice is so loud, and if I listened to it any more than I do I know what would happen- it would look to me like a beautiful snowflake, my weight going down, feeling my bones more sharply with each passing day, heading into a hypermetabolism. And then, suddenly, you look up, the anorexic, and you see an avalanche upon you, barreling down a hill, with enough momentum to not only smash into you with unbelievable force, but to crack every facet of your home and break everyone and everything you hold dear.
My weight is holding. And only because some days I eat. Some days I hate myself for eating and eat far less than I should.
But some days I eat. Some days I nourish my body simply because you call nursing your "cuddles", because you need my milk emotionally even though at 17 months old, you are eating plenty of solid food. You love to cuddle. You are the sweetest, most affectionate child. And I am your world. My therapist says I need to find another passion, something of my own to be good at besides losing weight. Because baby girl, sometimes it's lonely having five kids. I love being a mom. But this eating disorder has become the identity that I need that is just mine.
You, my darling, are my line in the sand. You are the line that I will not cross, because if I crossed it there would be no controlling the force of my anorexia. So I stay so very close to this line, hoping that can continue this life right there on the edge without falling.
I know what I need though, ultimately, to get into true recovery. I found it once, written in a journal during a period of desperation, scrawled in red Sharpie.....
Find something else.
Find something else. It is a goal my therapist has for me to think about this week.
My daughter, I love you. I do what is in my power. I do not want you to witness this struggle as you grow. But unfortunately, wanting isn't enough. Because having an illness is just not a choice.
And for that, man I am sorry.
Love,
Mama
I chose partial hospitalization for you, because you were moving in my belly, although I didn't believe them that you and I were in danger. But some part of me knew that this was not risk I could take. On some level I knew I had lost insight. I think this decision is why you were born perfect and big. I think the treatment team that supported me through that pregnancy and your first year of life is why you thrived on my milk.
I chose the birth that we had......I made sure you stayed on my chest from your first moments and looked into your eyes as we nursed. Not just through the hospital stay, but for your entire first year- you were never away from the comfort of my milk for more than two hours, and you never even had a bottle. I chose all of this because that's what *we* needed, after all we'd been through. And this took a huge level of committment from daddy. He knew it was so important for me to be with you, and also so very important for me to be in treatment, he devoted hours of driving and holding you while I kept my appointments. All so you could be right in the building if you needed me. We are so blessed. I am grateful I have this wonderful husband and that he is your dad. Because if I had anything to say about it, it wasn't gonna go down any other way. You see, my dear girl, there was so so much grief and despair and anxiety throughout your time in my belly......so many times I sat there, crying and staring at a cookie, and because of this powerful, powerful force inside of me, I just could not eat it. So many times I swam so hard I threw up, or nearly fainted, or drove in the fog of malnutrition, not to hurt you, but because the voice of the eating disorder was too loud and too intertwined with my own. I was more afraid of gaining weight than the consequences of these behaviors. Honestly, if not for you I don't think I would have believed I had anorexia. In the past I have become painfully thin and associated it with discipline and success. Anyone that dared to suggest otherwise was just trying to make me fat. But this time, even though my starving brain had left the lines between healthy eating and a dangerous obsession blurred, I chose treatment.
But I did not choose the disease of anorexia. I did not choose to fail at recovery, over and over and over again. I did not choose the eating disorder voice that resonates so loudly in my head, never dissipating, only vacillating in its intensity and the ugliness of its tone. I mostly fight it, and I mostly do all I can do- which is maintain this status quo, which is so less than perfect and barely good enough.
I did not choose the relapse I had when you were eight months old. I rapidly lost weight after I was told under no uncertain terms that there could be no more weight loss. I took exercise classes I had no business being in given my nutritional status and my weight. Also, it is an unequivocal truth that anorexics who exercise AT ALL until in a very stable period of remission, are at a huge risk of relapse. Because I really had not been able to let it go. Let 100% of the control go. I will not go into how much people misunderstand this fact, and how horrible it is for people with eating disorders to hear that they can exercise all they want as long as they eat.... because unfortunately there are so many things about ED people don't understand.
However, when I was confronted with another admission to PHP, to being unable to continue to nurse you sweet darling, somehow, somewhere inside me, I found the strength to stop that weight loss and stay with you. Every day, I manage to maintain that status quo, the number that is too low, but not low enough that it requires severe restriction to maintain. I eat. I eat a lot. Just not enough for my metabolism, my exercise level, and the fact I barely sit down all day.
I have, according to the experts, made strides. I ate at a buffet on Father's Day. For your dad. And the guilt consumed me for a WEEK. I thought of that as a failure, although I am assured that merely going and trying a few new things and eating dessert was a success- even if I hated myself a little for it.
And here I am again. I have a headache. I have a 60 day streak on a calorie counting app. I engage in triggering conversations about weight and nutrition and exercise that I should steer away from.
But I can't. Because that voice is so loud, and if I listened to it any more than I do I know what would happen- it would look to me like a beautiful snowflake, my weight going down, feeling my bones more sharply with each passing day, heading into a hypermetabolism. And then, suddenly, you look up, the anorexic, and you see an avalanche upon you, barreling down a hill, with enough momentum to not only smash into you with unbelievable force, but to crack every facet of your home and break everyone and everything you hold dear.
My weight is holding. And only because some days I eat. Some days I hate myself for eating and eat far less than I should.
But some days I eat. Some days I nourish my body simply because you call nursing your "cuddles", because you need my milk emotionally even though at 17 months old, you are eating plenty of solid food. You love to cuddle. You are the sweetest, most affectionate child. And I am your world. My therapist says I need to find another passion, something of my own to be good at besides losing weight. Because baby girl, sometimes it's lonely having five kids. I love being a mom. But this eating disorder has become the identity that I need that is just mine.
You, my darling, are my line in the sand. You are the line that I will not cross, because if I crossed it there would be no controlling the force of my anorexia. So I stay so very close to this line, hoping that can continue this life right there on the edge without falling.
I know what I need though, ultimately, to get into true recovery. I found it once, written in a journal during a period of desperation, scrawled in red Sharpie.....
Find something else.
Find something else. It is a goal my therapist has for me to think about this week.
My daughter, I love you. I do what is in my power. I do not want you to witness this struggle as you grow. But unfortunately, wanting isn't enough. Because having an illness is just not a choice.
And for that, man I am sorry.
Love,
Mama
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