Feeding Emmett

So it all had really come full circle...Feeding piper, first while she grew inside me, and then for more than two years with my milk. And then feeding Emmett, in the same way. Except I did much better during my pregnancy with Emmett, gaining nearly 50 lbs without too much drama, except that which lives in my head. Still the noise way at bay, like an irritating hum constantly in the background. I could change the lyrics sometimes. I ran four to five miles a day till close to the end, but I could tell myself, yes you can run. But you must not get out of breath to the point you cannot talk or oxygen will not get to your son, and this could affect his growth. No, you should not skip that meal or you're going to faint. Your blood sugar gets too low for this; you started too thin for this. You don't have wiggle room.

But it was also there painted in the back of my mind, a foregone conclusion: I will fix this. I will fix my body and reclaim my identity when he is born. Especially once those comments started (and good lord I was hoping to avoid them given all that damn exercise)... the utter SHOCK on people's faces when I assured them that no, I was not carrying twins. That I still had a whole month to go and hoped I would NOT indeed "pop" at any moment despite my monstrous belly. Anthony finally told me that the truth was I was very thin everywhere ELSE, not that I was necessarily any huger than any other any other nearly full term woman. We did have a nearly 9 pound son, but I was apparently less proportional than most. This was not awesome, considering the point of all that exercise was to be less.... conspicuous. You really can't do much to stop the comments on your body during pregnancy though. I was getting downright rude in response to the same questions and comments day in and day out by the end. I was hanging off a hormonal cliff as it was, and as a person with an eating disorder and body dysmorphia on the best day, this was adding fuel to the fire.

A reassuring voice in the back of my mind with every stare, I will fix this.

Emmett had a short NICU stay after his birth that had my fighter spirit going strong. I was intent on nursing him directly from the breast, no bottles, despite the fact that this is very difficult to do with a baby that is sick as well as being stuck with a hospital routine and having to be present every moment. We managed to do it and I think the week I roomed in with him was the only week I have not counted calories in 4 years. I had no choice but to eat hospital food, and if I was under eating it was due to my lack of intuitive eating skills rather than on purpose. I also did not weigh myself that week. As with Piper, he was exclusively breastfed 6 months, and is still, at 15 months old going strong. We started solid food in addition to breastfeeding at 6 months, but he has never had formula, never a bottle. At this point he has a sippy cup of water and eats meals with us. But he still loves his mama milk. I fed both of my children with my own body, and of that I am proud.

The first relapse was bad, but I did find my way out. I have a very good treatment team here in Boise.  I have to admit they keep in extremely close contact and do not give my anorexia an inch. They go to call the husband in to talk about higher level of care pretty rapidly. And I have been able to pull myself out, at least enough to get stable. Leaving my babies again isn't even an option.

And here we are again 15 months later. My life stress is through the roof, Donald Trump was elected President (nearly a month later I still wake up thinking this is a horrible nightmare, until I realize it's actually TRUE), and I'm just failing. I got to my goal weight, and then below, and now I'm back to trying to get my head above water. The meeting is on Wednesday.

This world.

This illness.

It really is depressing.

It can be extremely difficult, living inside my head. It's like my brain is wired with so many short circuits, synapses spark like fireworks flying or fighting without warning... you never know when the triggers will appear and make it all go up in smoke.

Oh where to begin.....

I feel like there are a thousand things running through my mind and I don't know where to start....I keep writing a line or a paragraph and then deleting it, over and over....

Half the time I don't think my excessive exercise or issues with undereating are that bad.....That, oddly, is when things really are snowballing and becoming "THAT bad". Anorexia is an insidious disease. I somehow get into relapse mode almost without realizing it.....it comes naturally to me to eat less, and exercise more. And since I am already underweight, what most people consider eating enough is, for me, actually restricting.

And there, they have decided, is the problem. I was hoping to keep up the "lowered expectation" where my treatment team is happy that I am at least maintaining, but no, they have decided I will not be able to stay in any semblance of recovery at this weight or with this level of body fat. Because, although eating disorders are not about weight or food at their core, one's brain does all sorts of funky stuff

This. Is. Terrifying.

I am eating a meal plan that is absolutely huge. I would like to not do this. The thought of gaining weight is so absolutely scary when you have anorexia. And no, it is not about vanity. It is an indescribable need to control something. It is, over time, an identity, the "thing" you are good at; the "thing" that is just yours.

They don't believe I can do this on my own. They don't believe I can handle my weight going up without being fed five meals a day in partial hospitalization.

But you see, that doesn't work. Because I have five children I cannot disappoint again. Because I have a husband who has a job and it would be utterly horrible on my family to have me leave for a month or three.

But most of all, because I am still feeding Piper.

Feeding Piper.......it has a new meaning now that she is 13 months old. Yes, she still benefits from my milk. But beyond that, so very far beyond that, is that she depends on me for the comfort of my breast, to be nursed to sleep, to nurse several times a night while snuggled beside me, and just because she is a mama's girl and a boobie baby, and I will simply not leave my daughter.

But it's a disease. It's a disease like cancer or diabetes, and I can't just make recovery on my own happen simply because I will it so.

But I can try. I am on day three of the giant meal plan. I am doing ok. I hope I can continue to do ok tomorrow when Anthony goes to work. I have to admit I feel better. I have more energy, my mood is better, life is less stressful. I hope I can remember this, I really do.

Because damn it, I gotta admit, the fact they think I can't recover at this level of care seriously makes me want to prove them wrong.