"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other."
Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention numbers.
read part one of my story here.
In May of last year, my weight reached its lowest point since middle school. I was 5'7" and 115 lbs. I have been in sports my entire life, so my set weight typically sits around 140-150 lbs.
In May of last year, my mom told me that I wasn't allowed to work out anymore until I put on some weight.
I laughed. Yeah, right. I thought. What was I going to do? Sit in my room and let myself go? I completed three or four more workouts, before I realized my mom was right. It wasn't only that I shouldn't workout, I couldn't workout.
My body was so tired, I could no longer make it through my 30 minute circuit workout. I couldn't bike more than two miles. I was sleeping in late and I was always exhausted.
I refused to listen to my body, so I pushed through my workouts. I went to boxing, anyway. I couldn't make it through the full hour class. Embarrassed, I would leave early, attributing the lack of stamina to asthma. I sat in my car and cried. I was exhausted, but I couldn't stop. I would try again tomorrow.
I was extremely relieved when school ended for the semester. Having time off from work, I was able to go home to New York to spend time with my dad and some childhood friends. I thought it would be just the restart I needed. At the airport I promised not to let this newly developed disorder stand in my way of experiencing being home. I will have bagels and pizza, I promised. I'm only there for two weeks, it won't kill me. But it might, I thought. I put my sunglasses on at the gate and cried thinking of how I used to ride my bike to the bagel store on Sunday and buy bagels for my family so we could enjoy breakfast together. I thought about my favorite slice of pizza, a stuffed ziti slice, that I would never be 'allowed' to eat again, and I cried. What if a friend asked me to meet for lunch? How would I tell them no?
Going home was not what I expected at all. I was extremely uncomfortable not having a place of my own, but instead staying with friends and relatives during the extent of my visit. The severe weight loss was causing me severe anxiety, and I didn't want to see anyone. What would they think? It was almost June, and I was cold all of the time. I hid under sweatshirts and sweatpants, hoping the extra padding would allow me to get comfortable enough to catch a few hours of sleep. My bones were now protruding, which made it difficult to find a position to sleep in that didn't hurt.
"Bri you look so good, what have you been doing?"
I gave an awkward laugh, and cried that night.
I didn't want anyone to do what I was doing, let alone anyone I loved. I was so anxious and depressed all of the time, that I was barely eating anything anymore. I was losing more weight every day even though I was just laying on the couch. I swore my body was betraying me and blowing up, but I was fading away more and more each day both physically and mentally.
I was trapped. And I didn't know how to ask for help.
I lost 25 lbs in the two weeks that I was in New York, and two weeks I was in California with my sister and my mom was growing more concerned.
At this point, it was beyond the mental 'fear' of food, and I felt like I physically couldn't put food in my mouth.
I was staying with my mom in hopes that her monitoring would 'snap me out of it,' and I would be able to 'just eat.'
I tried to pretend I didn't notice her crying every time I left my breakfast half eaten, or told her I wasn't hungry.
I cried, too, because I was mad at her for making me stay with her. I was gaining weight here, and she wouldn't let me workout.
I took advantage of our time at the pool, jumping in the water, and vigorously swimming laps, while she sunbathed, enjoying reading her book. I wondered how many calories swimming burned.
Despite my insistence that my legs were getting bigger, and my arms were growing jigglier, my mom swore that I had lost, yet again.
She was right.
I was now 5'7" and 104 lbs.
We told the doctor that we were going to find me treatment starting July, when our new insurance kicked in. She told my mom that I might not make it that long.
July was two weeks away.
The doctor officially diagnosed me as anorexia, to which I laughed, because, I was still convinced there was nothing wrong with me.
"I'm not anorexic, I'm depressed," I told her. "I'm sad, I can't eat."
"Just eat," she responded.
If I could, I would not be sitting there talking to her, now would I?
"Do you realize that you could die?" she asked. "You're too young to be doing this."
I didn't blink at her, and I did not react. This would be the first of many times I would have doctors warning me that I could die. I didn't care. Depression didn't let me. I was drowning, and I was numb.
She asked me if I would be willing to drink multiple boosts or protein shakes per day to get my weight up quickly, and I had a panic attack.
Weight? Quickly? = Fat? Hell no!
The doctor suggested that my mom bring me back to Tampa and find me treatment now, or I would surely end up in the hospital, or worse, dead.
Story continued in part 3...
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