Missing time

There’s a point you get to in recovery, it’s a place you were always striving for, and yet a bit terrified of arriving at. It’s when you show up at your 6 month follow up to your doctors appointment and your doctor tells you how proud she is of you for coming this far, for fighting. And she says your weight has been stable for a year (mixed emotions with that one, guys) and that your labs look good.

You’re not so small anymore. You’re not so fragile. Not so breakable.

And yet a part of you yearns to go back to that place.

Because everything was out of your control, on some level you felt like you were blameless (it’s the mental illness, the disorder, not you).

You felt dangerous, helpless, yet almost superhuman.

Eating was out of the norm, so every bite you took felt like a miracle, a big win. You knew you had to eat, had to gain some pounds, so you ate and eventually some of that fear you carried with you dissipated.

And now…now you don’t celebrate every bite and hurdle you successfully jump over. You’re back in a routine, because that feels safe, but still not too safe.

Now, you fit into normal clothing sizes for your age category, you don’t get stares and second glances. You pull jeans from the rack and think “these are huge, they’ll never fit me” and yet they fit you perfectly.

(You know you have no room to be complaining here…you know thin privilege is something you’ve taken for granted.)

It’s scary to be here, in this place. Scary because you didn’t have the time or strength to develop a true self before, and now you have no idea who you are. Do you have interests, hobbies, passions?

Scary because even though you’ve worked so hard to stop listening to the voice that tells you you’re not enough, you still believe it.

Scary because even though you know the media offers a skewed view, you still feel pressured to go for daily runs (you don’t do it though) and if not that, then at least some aerobics or pilates (you’ve ended up browsing light hand weights a few times, convinced you have to do something to keep this body, keep eating…to earn the right to eat).

Some might say recovery is amazing, the best thing they ever did! And you want to believe that they’re telling the truth-their truth. Because for you, it hasn’t been glamorous and everything you’ve always wanted. For you, life is still hard.

Some days are easier than others, some days are filled with happiness, and you think “yes, this was what I was missing out on!”. But you still get caught up in how monotonous your life can be. How terribly sad this world is, and how you just want the pain and sadness to stop.

It’s easier to be the small one, the fragile and breakable one. Easier to obsess over things that don’t really matter, to distract from the big questions and things that matter most.

It was easier, because you didn’t put on so many masks, pretending everything was OK when it’s most certainly not. It was easier, because the tears and anger flowed more freely- almost uncontrollably. You felt more and it was tragic and heartbreaking but you were suffering so it made sense.

You’ve seen both sides of your adult life now. Sick, and healthy. Each one comes with its own struggles and setbacks. One feels morally right, and the other sinful. You like to think that it’s not a choice, not up to you. And yet now you know better, so you have to do better.

This mental health journey has been long and rough and looking back, it doesn’t even seem real. How did that much time pass? How the hell did that happen to you? And it’s not over yet, it may never be completely over. And that’s exhausting to think about, but you will survive. After all, you’ve come this far.

The scarcity mindset

It happened again when my husband was preparing dinner. I felt a pang of anxiety- he was putting a frozen pizza in the oven for me (half, because it’s my favorite and he doesn’t care for it) and an old fear cropped up: if I eat the pizza tonight, then I’ll only have half left. Meaning my precious pizza will be gone forever after I eat the other half tomorrow (I eat a lot of pizza now. Making up for the lack of it for so many years, k?).

My logical brain says my husband always buys me that pizza to have on hand. Even if he didn’t, we usually have another frozen pizza in the freezer that I like, and if not, Walmart. My logical brain knows I’ve never had to suffer for my food, never had to worry if there will be a meal on the table…and yet I have.

Trauma lives in the body like a memory lives in the brain. Throughout years of starvation, my brain still thinks I might not be able to provide it nourishment. It still thinks that even though I’ve had a good stretch of steady food intake, my track record says it might not see nutrients for a while if I eat that pizza now.

I spent years telling my body “if I eat this now, I won’t eat anything later” and “I ate (fill in the blank) so I can’t eat that”. I toiled over numbers, trying to calculate how I could cut out even more calories. No matter how many times I promised myself that this was the last time, no matter how many miles I ran, no matter how much weight I lost, it was never enough.

So for years, I told my body no. I told my stomach to “toughen up” and my head to “shut up”. Eventually, my mind and body realized that somehow as going on and began conserving energy and my brain began making new pathways. Pathways that said “this is what we do around food now, we freak out”. Brains are amazing things though. Given time and enough love and discipline, damage that was done can be healed.

For a long time, I thought I was the only one getting anxious about running out of food. Not like the grocery store shelves would be empty kind of running out…running out of the foods I allowed myself. My light yogurts, my baked Lays, my Diet Coke…and so I began to hoard because if I ran out, what would I eat?

I bought food items during rare times when I felt stable enough to be spending money on myself and food. Sale on my favorite soda? Buy one and stuff it in the corner (it will expire and I’ll throw it out a year later, when I could finally allow myself to throw out old food). New flavor of 100 Calorie Greek yogurt released? Buy 3 and eat 2, a similar scenario to the one above, except I didn’t keep the expired yogurt quite as long. I was terrified of eating the last of “my” food. I was also scared that once it was gone, I wouldn’t allow myself to buy more- a scenario that most memorably occurred years ago when I moved into an apartment. I was excited that I had my very own place, and I took one shopping trip in the month that I lived there. One shopping trip to buy foods that I squirreled away and barely touched. I remember this time as one of loneliness, anxiety, and of very low intake. I recall going to the apartment on my lunch break and dropping in and out of sleep uncontrollably. I remember calculating how long my food might last before I would be forced to buy more.

Eventually though, when I began eating again, I found that I had a little bit of a different mentality- stock up, stock up, stock up! It felt like it would be the end of the world if, god forbid, I ran out of my favorite granola bars. I still have a little bit of that fear of running out inside of me- but I’m not hiding from it anymore. Instead of getting anxious about running out, I buy in bulk and restock my favorite items as I run low. And guess what? I’m not the only one who does this. A post I read a few months ago actually suggested buying say, 3 boxes of the cereal you know you’re going to eat most mornings. When you open the first box and finish it off, go out and buy another one, even though you still have 2 at home (obviously, don’t be like me and let the food expire, use your best judgement here). This is a great way to show up for yourself by not only allowing this food into your home, and claiming it as yours (you can totally share, if you’re able. If not, don’t sweat it…some day you’ll be able to- I’ve been there!), you’re also proving to yourself that this food isn’t going to just disappear. You have plenty, and you have permission to eat it.

It’s kinda embarrassing to have so many weird issues with food. However, learning how to navigate your own idiosyncrasies is key in allowing more food back into your life. You have to learn to let yourself be judgement free in this area. It takes time, and lots of self-talk. In recovery, facing “weird” judgements you place upon yourself about what you do or don’t eat is difficult, because it requires asking yourself how much you can really handle. You have to be honest with yourself, about why you’re not fueling your body adequately. It’s tough. There were, and still are, foods I won’t touch. And I’m learning that that is perfectly fine for me. I had to eat a lot of things that made me really uncomfortable in my weight restoration phase, and I often didn’t do it for me, I did it because I was told to, or I did it to make the dietitian happy and the scale happy. Sometimes, you’ve just got to find what works for you, and do your best to stick to it.

Maybe it’s just me

I’m trying to pinpoint when clothes caused me so much headache. It does bring me some anxiety to shop for clothes, because I don’t really want to connect the dots. I don’t want to admit, believe, discover, lament, my body size. 

It’s not a cause of a full on panic attack, but I do experience some discomfort when flipping through racks of clothing. It’s frustrating to no longer be able to wear the same old worn out clothes that I’ve had for years, to finally care about how I look. It’s annoying to try on clothes and not be able to just assume they will fit, perhaps loosely or not so loosely.

Shirts make me self-conscious, because despite what my husband says, I do have a bit of a “muffin top”. I never used to pay attention to whether or not my tops stayed where they were supposed to, but now if I’m not careful, my midriff displays itself. I have enough mixed feelings about my butt, I don’t need anyone else chiming in. True, low rise jeans may be the culprit…thank god high waisted slacks are back in style.

I remember times when I didn’t give a second thought to wearing the same clothes for days on end. I was simply too cold to find the will to let my skin feel the air on my exposed skin. Or I just didn’t have the energy to deal with it. Who cared anyway? I wore a belt for years whenever I decided to dress in jeans. I got so accustomed to wearing it that I’d often fall asleep with it clasped around my waist. My little brother once asked me why I wore a belt, because weren’t they for boys? Baby, if only you knew!

In my childhood years, jeans that fit me were difficult to find. I think it was Old Navy where I finally got a pair with some elastic adjusters in the waist (actually, it was probably a second-hand store, but Old Navy brand). Even then, the jeans didn’t fit exactly right, but it was better than a hem that fell well above my ankle. I didn’t really care though. I’d happily wear pants that were easier to find, my lean and lanky frame was just me. I never thought that much about it.
Recently I’ve found that jeans are a joke. I wear them, but they’re not comfortable. Every time I eyeball a pair that look like my size, I no longer think about the length of the legs, but whether or not my waist, butt, and thighs will squeeze inside. I’m new to this, but come on, I can’t be the only one. Jeans seem to be designed to cause shame, guilt, and anxiety about our bodies.

I wear jeans. I like how they look. I hate how they feel though. More than once I’ve felt a waistband on my skin, not cutting in, just snug and fitting, (you know, the style that’s “in”) and thought “I can’t eat, I’m getting fat!”. Ugh. As if fighting off thoughts that ed instigates isn’t hard enough.

It doesn’t help that jeans have weird sizes that (apparently) in certain area are a status symbol. Who decided to start at “00”, and why is it that this size obviously has nothing to do with inseams, waist size, etc? 

I really don’t care. I just don’t. There are so many other, more important things to worry about. But on some level, on eds level, I do. I still have these thoughts and feelings that I’m sure are the dregs of an eating disorder. 

My body is finally catching up with typical jeans dimensions, but my brain hasn’t. I’m working on finding peace with my body, food, and clothes. I guess if all else fails, there’s always leggings, right?

If you desire to read more about my problems with jeans, check out this post!

Violent storms, soft rain

Oh, didn’t I tell you? I have a new job now. All of a sudden I decided I was an expert at predicting things. Like the weather, for example. Today looks nice. It could get a little patchy at times. And tonight you’ll enjoy the mild weather we will be having. Looking forward to tomorrow, it looks like breakfast will go ok, and lunch will be a little late, you mi…wait. Didn’t I just say I was basically a meteorologist? “An expert at predicting things”. Yeah, no. Not weather silly. Food. I am basically an expert at predicting what I will eat. Some days I tune in more, and other days I don’t even try to decipher through the static. After all, it is what it is, right?

When did food become such a big part of my life? Like the weather, food can affect my mood in good ways and bad. When I am happy with myself and have a sunny outlook (as a result of my “good” food choices?), it’s easier for me to be happy. When the clouds race in and an unexpected meal occurs, or I eat something that doesn’t feel “safe”, my day can be ruined just like it might be if plans for a day at the beach were scrapped because of a thunderstorm.

I know when it happened. It’s when I put food on a pedestal. I began to believe that the food choices I made were of utmost importance. But the thing is, I am not just the “weather predictor”. No, I am the weather maker. I get to decide what goes into my body because it’s mine. A dangerous power, this one that I have. I made a hurricane, and a tsunami. I let go of the things that were holding me to the earth, and let myself be carried away by the wind and waves. I knew I had the ability to stop this phenomenon, but it was growing too big too fast. Whoops, silly me. The control I thought I had was suddenly the complete opposite. I can no longer predict what will happen, because I am no longer “making the weather”.

This too shall pass. All storms must come to an end. Mine is dying down. The hungry anger that was the sea is calming. The wind, which was once so forceful and my ruining, is turning into a gentle breeze. Sometimes I look at my maps and charts, and realize how sad it was to think I knew, or wanted to know how to predict and control the wind and rain. And other times I try to get back into it. I over think and lose sleep over the patterns I see, the radar showing a bumpy day ahead.

Why try to control this thing that is only here to help us live and satiate our hunger? Why spend my time worrying about what may or may not happen? I don’t need to know everything. My life will not end if I get caught in a rain shower, or if I eat something that is unexpected. Sometimes spontaneity and uncertainty can be more comforting and invigorating than when I try to pinpoint and predict every little bite that passes my lips, and every drop of rainfall. In fact, I don’t even need to record it. Let nature take its course. Instead of lamenting the coming storm, see it for what it is in its entirety. It isn’t only a menace. It will help you grow, like a newly planted garden soaking the moisture up.

Storms will come and go. Navigate them as you will. Seek help. Choose courage. Take heart. I see the clouds clearing on the horizon.

Stagnant

I’m a people pleaser. I like my family, friends, co-workers and acquaintances to like me. Even if I don’t like them. It’s hard wired into me. So lately I’ve felt a little disappointed in myself. And disappointing to my family and friends.

I feel like I have come to a stagnant place. It’s swampy here, and hard to move around. I’m not sure if I should try to back up, or risk going forward.

I really don’t know what I am so afraid of. I’ve been racking my mind, trying to pinpoint just what is keeping me back. I like food. I am trying to accept my body. I am kind of afraid of gaining weight, but I don’t know why, because I’m really not.

I feel like someone else has taken over my brain. Someone who has always counted calories, based their worth off of the number on the scale, and gravitated towards “diet” foods. Where did this come from, and why do other people have it too? Aren’t our brains amazing? When something horrific happens, a person may develop PTSD. When depression is genetically prevalent boom, depression sets in. Some people stress eat, some restrict.

The pathways in my brain feel like they are sparking. I hope new ones are being formed. It feels like this is out of my control, butt thoughts and how I respond to them…I can change that.

I feel like a little kid again. Trying to “help” and messing everything up.  Am I doing this right? Is there a recipe to follow, or is this just a free for all? Annnnd I just put in a teaspoon of baking soda instead of the baking powder the recipe called for.

I do want to keep doing this. It’s hard when I don’t feel like I am succeeding, or making progress. I want to make other people happy with me. But I also want to be happy with myself. It feels like I am just living day to day. It’s hard for me to envision the future. I’m uncertain, but aren’t we all?

Missing:

I have been taken, spirited away like a ghost in the night. Missing. It seems as though I am right there, where I have always been. When did I disappear? He has taken me away, and put me where no one can ever find me. He never leaves, always on the prowl. Ed is a stranger, is that even his name? He says he will protect me from all of the things that cause harm. Lies, all lies. Little does he know that I am my worst enemy.

Chains around my wrists. Shackled to the wall.

Ed is like a cancer, twisting and twining himself into my being. He is a sickness and a death sentence. I try to eradicate him, but he is like a leech, sucking out my life-blood. If I don’t fight him, who will? Ed is not just anorexia or bulimia. Ed is hatred, loathing, and harm. I am not safe when I am with him. I am not alone.

I am haunted.

Ed is hissing and screaming in pain. When I am surrounded by this, I cave. I put a band-aid on his wounds, and tell him I will take care of him. I take my focus off of me, and my hurts and wants. Suddenly it’s all about Ed. There is no room for my thoughts or feelings, barely any room for those who love me. Eds howls drown out the important parts of my life, as he tries to scare away those who care about me. The panic Ed instills in me. The rules and regulations he says I must live by “or else”. That is fear and anxiety. Ed is one and the same. I am Ed. He is me. Or is he?

I catch a glimpse of me. The real me. I almost don’t recognize her.

Who am I? What am I? I no longer know. Ed has taken me, like an abductor. He has padlocked and chained me up. I live in the filth of my own lies and fear. I am so hungry, starving. Because of him. Even when I do escape, I don’t know how to properly take care of myself.  Everything is foreign to me. So much has changed..He has taught me all I now know. I have forgotten my life before. Who am I? What am I? Am I Ed? Is he me?

He steals my hope and joy, taking it all for himself. Should I call this self-sabotage?

I am not Ed. Please tell me I’m not that monster. He gave up for a while, but I can feel his grip tightening on my heart like handcuffs. Please, no. Please. For so long he was my only comfort and companion. I hated him, but what choice did he give me? He became my savior. He told me lies I believed, he hands them out like candy. Tasty little bites and morsels that melt on my tongue like snow.

My heart hurts. My very being wants to disappear. I have taught him the best punishments, and in turn he has taught me how to implement them.

I know that people are out there looking for me. Isn’t that how it always goes?  A missing girl, taken suddenly. Leads and hints to her whereabouts. Will she ever be found, and if so will she ever be the same? I know about the posters and the reward. I bet my picture is being broadcast on all of the websites and TV stations. I want to be free, you have to believe me. I have to believe me. I’m still here.

I’m still here.

(An open letter) To the one who is afraid

I know how scared you are. I’ve been there too. So many people have, you just might not realize it. I know how you hate to ask for help, or even admit that you need it. You try so hard to keep your head above the water, but I see the waves coming from my vantage point. I see them building momentum and getting ready to crash over you and pull you under. You say no one can help you. Your feet have long ago lost the ability to feel the sandy bottom of this body of water- you’ve been treading for so, so long. There is a raft out there, and it will carry you back to shore. I’m on it. I know. Please, can’t you see?

I know how scary doctors are. We all know they are going to set you on a journey that is long and treacherous. But listen, if you follow the prompts and heed their advice, you will reach a better place. How can I make you see this though? I know in your heart of hearts you believe there is hope, but you don’t see how to get to the point where you can find the strength to fight this beast. You will Google different methods, even look up treatment centers, which set your heart to beating like a bass drum. But in your search history, you know there is still a hit for the nutritional information at that restaurant you went to last week, and you tell yourself you have it all under control, you can stop this silly game whenever you want to.

How many secrets do you hold? What horrors and darkness abides in that soul of yours? Will you ever let anyone in? I see you falling, falling. You go back. Back to the moment you decided to end it all. Back to the razors and fingernails. In your minds eye I know you are seeing the raging water and feeling fearful of the hungry river. I know. But please stop and listen. Hear the voices of those who love you. Stop lying and saying you are “doing better”. Know that within you lays a great strength, and that the will you have to die, is the will you will now use to live.

Hear the stories of hope and recovery, and don’t discount them. Don’t hate me when I say one day that could be you. One day, that could be you. You must believe and hold on to hope, in whatever form that takes. Seek out the help of those who really care. Put down stubbornness, fear, loathing, and self-hatred. Look in the mirror and see the little girl you used to be. Remember how easy it was to be her. You can’t go back, but you can heal. Heal for her, for you. And heal for those who love you. I know you are afraid, but take courage, dear heart. This is not a one-way road. You can begin the journey back to health, one step at a time.

A day in the life

Wake from a night full of vivid dreams. Usually something along the lines of someone you love leaving you, or a nightmare about your previous place of employment. Lay in bed and check in with your stomach. Are you hungry? Breakfast is coming either way. If it’s a morning when you have to work, you usually stay in bed until the last possible minute, soaking up the warmth and comfort of your bed.

Get up and shuffle to the bathroom. Look in the mirror and groan at the state of your hair. It’s a tangled mess, sticking up every which way. Brush your hair, use the toilet. Pick up your beauty blender sponge and your make up compact and swirl it around. Find your trusty eyeliner and make a quick, efficient sweep around your sleepy eyes.

Peek into your closet and choose a shirt. Probably something with long sleeves, just in case you get chilly. Maybe choose a new pair of jeans or leggings and socks. Change, and put on your glasses. By this time you have turned on your iPod and begun listening to a podcast. It keeps your mind churning with ideas for recovery. Gallop downstairs and gather your purse, book, Kindle, keys (breakfast, if you’re working). Sweep a look around to make sure you have everything.

Walk out the door, pull it shut behind you, rattling the windows. Compulsively check the mailbox. You never know when a piece of mail might appear. What magazine might show up today? Maybe it will only be bills and junk mail. Or maybe a letter!

Walk to your car, hitting the unlock button constantly, over and over. Get inside and start it up, noting that you will need to go get gas soon. Sigh. Gas. You keep putting it off, but you know when you do finally go get some, you will pull up beside pump 6, what has become “your pump” in a way. Back up, turn up your podcast, switch to “drive” and pull out of the driveway. Today you could be on your way to work, or your parents house for breakfast. If you go to your parents, you will greet your family and dog, and set about making French toast. If you go to work, you will…go to work! After eating breakfast, think about lunch.Then try to steer your thoughts somewhere else for a while. And then debate about having coffee, though it sounds good coffee usually makes you feel sick. Not worth the risk today.

Early afternoon now. Get home, sometimes after running errands. Check the mailbox again. Sometimes you get nothing in the mail, which is always disappointing. You love mail. Go inside and take off your coat and shoes. Time for lunch. What will you have? Lunch is always the hardest for you. Your fridge has options, but ed has opinions. Lately you’ve been eating a lot of the same stuff. You pour out some ranch dip and grab some baby carrots. You reach to the top of the fridge and pull down a bag of pita chips (so good!). You decide to have some crackers and cheese also. M&M ‘s will be your “fun food”. Try not to think about calories. If you do, tel yourself calories are irrelevant. You sit down and eat, usually while looking at a magazine or reading a book. You try to be mindful, but sometimes that hurts you more than it helps.

Lunch is over, so you pick up the book you’re reading and read and read and read. If you get sleepy sometimes you start to drift off as you read. If you’re tired enough, you’ll fall asleep for a while. Sometimes in the afternoons you take care of your plants and terrariums. Other times you organize and clean. Sometimes you intentionally take a nap. If it’s a nice day, you can be found reading outside. Wonder what you will have for dinner.

Dinner is usually with your husband, but sometimes your parents. Either way, you know you will be eating enough, and ed won’t be quite as loud. There’s always a little anxiety around food, but usually not as intense as it used to be. And every night you have dessert, which is always delicious. In the evenings you watch TV, read, browse Instagram and Pinterest. Sometimes you do yoga for a 20 minute session. You find that being mindful of your breathing is so very calming. Honestly though? You’re already thinking of your bedtime snack.

It’s almost 11:00 and time for bed. Sometime before this you have had a snack of some kind. Usually a granola bar (or two!). You brush your teeth and wash your face, lamenting over a pimple or two. Take your pills. Remember that iron supplement you always forget. Get in bed and read for an hour or so, or whenever you start to drift off. Turn over and fall asleep.

The food myth

Conversation is important. Especially when it comes to tough topics. I’ve found that simply talking about a problem instead of holding it all in and stewing over it helps me immensely, both mentally and emotionally. When I write about eating disorders, what is the first thought you have about someone who has one? Even I will admit that I automatically think: food. They have issues eating too little or eating too much. But underneath those food insecurities lies so much more.

For some, it is sexual abuse. For others it is fear of sexuality. One person might have a few wires crossed in their brain, or connections that are disconnected. But what if you were told that there is hardly ever a simple answer? I remember being very engrossed in my eating habits,and what was and was not going in my mouth, and yet my parents talked to me about my emotional state. They had noticed I wasn’t my usual happy self. In fact I was often irritable, and never seemed to want to participate in family outings or the like. The truth is, I was restricting. I started to lower my caloric intake and exercise more, and in turn my mood plummeted. I was depressed. And down the road, I became anxious, even more introverted than I normally was, and terribly afraid of social interactions. The simplest tasks seemed like a nightmare to me.

Sometimes those who have an eating disorder are told to “just eat more” or that they could benefit from “eating more ice cream”. Trust me, I had these thoughts too. If I could only eat more, if I could stop my obsessive exercising, if I could just be happy. It’s not that simple and it’s not just “about the food”. It’s really not about shoving calories down your throat and trying to be OK with it. No, someone with a mental illness; any kind of mental illness, must put in the work and effort. It’s not easy. It is often a full-time job that leaves you exhausted at the end of the day…but if you want to live a life that is “normal” and “healthy”, you have to put in the time. For yourself. And if you can’t only do it for yourself, do it for those who love you. I have found that seeking out healthy habits and recovery can’t happen for me if I’m not actively doing it for myself. I can feel guilty and horrible about making my family miserable for me, but it’s not enough. I have to want it for myself. I have to value myself enough to work on the hard stuff. Because at the end of the day, I am the one who has to be all right with who I am, and what I am doing. These are the reasons why I resisted inpatient. I was seeking out treatment and the doctor told me I had to go inpatient. In her notes, I believe her words were “we will not let her slip through the cracks again”. I told her no, I wouldn’t go. I know part of my reasoning was fear and ed, but lots of it was me. Knowing that if I wasn’t choosing inpatient, I wouldn’t put in the work. I’d eat the food, because I’d have to. But once I reached the weight that their little charts and scales approved, I would be released and go right back to old habits. Mentally I just wouldn’t be there. Nevertheless, this doctor was sure that I wasn’t able to do this alone. I think she thought there was some weird family dynamic going on (of course she would think that, obviously if a mother lets her child starve almost to death, she’s not a fit parent. Um hmmm.). But I was an adult at this point, so things got a little sticky. Oh, did I say a little? I meant a lot. Anyway- I still think I made the right decision at that juncture to fight authority and speak up for what I thought would benefit me. And look at me now. Look. At. Me. Now.

My point is- food is not the issue. Not the whole issue. It’s love, control, fear, insecurity, anxiety, hatred, guilt, shame. There is almost always an underlying issue, even if you don’t want to acknowledge it, or can’t acknowledge it. I know I didn’t realize how all of my problems were related. For example: I used to have horrible back pain. I would lay in bed and I couldn’t get comfortable. That’s gone now. I don’t know what I thought it was. (Hello! Anybody home? Obviously if you’re dying your body is going to hurt.) As is my social anxiety (am I really going to have a mental breakdown if I talk to that person?). Control is often a huge issue for those with an eating disorder. I was in denial about this for a long time, but I see now it’s true. I wanted control. If I couldn’t control what was going into my body, then I would hate myself and want to die. Fact. So I learned my limits and put up safety nets and became so fearful of anything that threatened those. I’m still learning to give up control, but it’s coming along. Anxiety also played an enormous role in my eating problems. If you’re anxious about everything, and especially food, how are you going to make smart, rational decisions? You’re not. I still think of my anxiety as a shameful thing, because it presented itself in the most immature and weird ways. Racing thoughts was only one of the symptoms I experienced as an anxious person. Having anxiety around the thing that you have to face all the time in recovery isn’t helpful, but medicine is. A medicine that agrees with you and helps slow down those parts of your anxious mind is sometimes key to a successful mind change. I know antidepressants have helped me immensely.

So you see, food isn’t the be all and end all. It is a part of an eating disorder, obviously, but it is not a cure. Yes, mom I see now. It is medicine. It is. But it won’t completely take away the disease. There are many components to recovery, most of them mental. So be compassionate with yourself, and those around you. You never know what they are going through.

Shark week…month

Yes, I’m going there. Why? Because one of the reasons why I write this blog is the hope that someday, my experiences can help someone else, and it’s also very therapeutic for me to vent. Maybe this isn’t relevant, maybe you’re disgusted by my bluntness. Sorry, not sorry, but it’s time for me, personally, to end the silence. Because really, I caused much of my own grief. By not asking questions. By being ashamed of my own body and it’s needs. By being afraid. I’m still afraid. So afraid. But reality causes me to face my problems. So here goes.

I have been bleeding for the past month. It sucks. It really does. Thankfully, I haven’t been cramping until recently. So, you might already know that one of the reasons why I started exercising more, and ultimately why I fell into the hole that is an eating disorder, is because I hated my period. I thought “hey, I’ve read about athletes who exercise so much they lose their menstrual cycle, that sounds amazing”. In theory, yes. In practice…well, let’s just say it worked and I was happy on that front, but my life was ruined in the process. I got depressed, lost way too much weight, lost my friends, lost the trust of my family. I lost so much for this one thing. It’s so silly looking back, at how much I was willing to sacrifice just so I wouldn’t have a period. 

Granted, my period was a nightmare. It was painful and heavy and horrible and I felt all alone, mostly because of my own stupidity. I’m not placing the blame on anyone…I just didn’t know how to deal with myself. I felt dirty. 

In my family, it wasn’t typical to go to the doctor. I can recall several instances when my younger sisters went; strep throat, stitches, oh, and then that time my eardrum ruptured. There was that. I also ended up in the hospital around the time I was 11 or 12 with Ecoli-157. But the point is, even though no one ever said anything, I picked up the cue that for the most part, we dealt with things ourselves and just waited them out. So I was prepared to have to do this in my current situation. I couldn’t take it though. And then you know what happened.

Jump forward about ten years and here I am, muddling through recovery with the knowledge that sooner or later, my body would pick up where I forced it to leave off. It did, in January. I was (barely) excited, because I knew this meant I was getting better and healthier on the inside, but I am so fearful. It’s literally like a phobia for me. So I called my doctor up and told her nurse what was going on. I got an appointment and went to see my doctor a few days later.

My doctor told me my options, and warned me I would have to be patient, and let my body do its thing. Ok, I could do that. So here I am, about a month and a half later, and I’m on birth control to get my hormones and bleeding under control. And here is the venting part…

Guys. I have been bleeding for a month. I have a phobia. This is like someone being afraid of spiders, and then being forced to carry a spider with them everywhere they go for a month. I’m not being dramatic here. (Ok, maybe just a tidge, but seriously.) 

So where do I go from here? I keep living. I find things to laugh about, such as the pharmacist who is male, and counseled me on taking the pill. I sleep a lot, because I’m so tired. I keep eating, even though I know how to make this stop. And I hope I get a short break before it is time for the placebo.

Is there anyone else out there that wants to vent about their trials and tribulations in the messy world of womanhood? Obviously you’re not alone. And hey, here’s your opportunity to share and be anonymous if you like! Oh! And one more thing, menophobia is real. I’m not totally crazy…yet.