My Best Day in Recovery

"What progress, you ask, have I made? I have begun to be a friend to myself." Hecato

          "I finally think I understand it now," my mom said. 

          She had just arrived for her daily hospital visit. I was tired and restless. I have been in this bed for at least the last four weeks, and I was craving sunshine. Every day she would arrive, I would ask her what it's like outside. Is it sunny? Does the weather feel nice? What's it like?
          I could watch the weather on the news, of course. But it wasn't the same as feeling the cool air kiss my skin, and looking up to the sky and squinting as the sun reflected in my eyes. The last time I've been outside was the brief moment I was rolled on the stretcher from my hospital room to the waiting ambulance and transported to a new hospital across town better suited to treating patients with eating disorders. 
          The window from my room had an obstructed view. I could tell if it was light or dark, but not much else. 
         As my depression worsened and rapidly manifested itself as an eating disorder and a severe fear of food and properly nourishing my body, I was desperately searching for the words to explain to my family what was happening to me.
          "I don't feel good," I said. "I'm not happy," "It hurts," "It's not my fault."
          "Just eat," they pleaded.
          My sister reminds me now the saddest thing I told her while I was deep in my struggle, searching for a way to explain to them what I was going through.
          "It's always been like this," I told her. "Just now how I felt on the inside is starting to show on the outside."
          My sister cried at the thought, finding it morbid. But to this day, I still think it's the truest explanation. 

          I remember the first day I felt I physically could not eat my lunch. It was not like me to skip a meal. Actually, in university, it was my favorite part of the day, because it allowed me a break from school and work, and just an hour of downtime to sit with my friends, or in front of the TV and enjoy a meal, without the pressure of thinking about anything else.
          I didn't feel hungry, but I knew I had to eat, as I had to head off to work in less than a half an hour. I was happy that the cafeteria was serving sweet potatoes that day, one of my favorite foods. I pulled my chair closer to the table, and looked down at the plate in front of me, and I cried. 
          I was stressed out and had a lot on my theoretical plate, and my mind. 
          I don't know how much of my reliance on food restriction was a conscious choice, or how much was just instinct, a feeling that I had control over some aspect of my life. But, at the time, it felt good that I didn't feel hungry. I felt superior over the demons I was fighting. I felt like I could have everything: classes I loved at school, work I was proud of and co-workers I was happy to work alongside, but I didn't need this. Maybe other people did, but I was sure I didn't. 
          
         
          "The part of your brain that is refusing to allow you to eat," my mom said, "that's not you, that's not my Brianna- that's the bad Brianna."
          This was something my mom pondered about before. I've been through a lot in the past four weeks of the hospital. I showed little progress and hadn't been able to gain any of the weight I lost back, but every now and again I would show signs of hope that I would get better. That was the hope my mom held on to- that maybe, just maybe, I would come out of this alive, with minimal long-term damage to my organs.

          The first day my mom arrived at the hospital, I didn't know she was coming. I had been admitted the night before, because my heart rate was dangerously low- in the 40's. I was almost immediately checked into the Intensive Care Unit to be monitored over night, because the situation would be dire if my HR were to drop any lower. 
           Nurses wrapped me in blankets hoping to preserve my body heat and avoid any further drop in HR. Before I fell asleep, the nurse asked me that in the event of an emergency, would I want the doctors to do everything they could to revive me and save my life. 
          I told her no, and signed my name on a "DNR." 
          I was 21 years old, labeled a 'fall risk', having my heart rate closely monitored, and told the nurses that if anything were to happen overnight, to let me die peacefully. This is what I wanted, I was sure. I signed my name on the line. 
          When I woke up in the morning, I was told my mom was on her way, a four hour drive from where she lived to the hospital. 
          The nurses said they didn't believe I was making decisions that were in my best interest, so my mom was now in charge of making all medical decisions for me, and she should be here within the hour.
          

          When my mom arrived at the hospital, she rushed to the side of my bed. I could see the worry in her eyes, but if I were to have seen mine, I don't think there would have been much reflected in them. They were empty, just like I was.
          She hugged me and kissed my forehead.
          "Why are you here?" I said. "You shouldn't have come."
         I was angry that the right to make decisions for myself were taken away, and I was taking it out on my mom, who only wanted to help me, who only wanted me to stay alive. 


          I had sent back several of my meals already at the hospital, and my nurses and doctors were quickly becoming fed up with me. I had already been diagnosed with delayed gastric emptying, so even a little quantity of food would make me feel so full that I felt physically ill. I felt like I couldn't take in any food, even if I had wanted to. 
          The doctors threatened a feeding tube.



         As visiting hours came to an end, my mom was getting ready to leave, and I grabbed her hand.
        "Mom, do you have to leave?" I pleaded with her. 
           Even though I initially questioned why she was there, she knew that wasn't coming from me. She knew it was the disorder lashing out at her, because she was trying to save my life, and the disease was doing everything in its power to attempt to take over my mind, and break down my body. 
          Knowing that I would probably get a feeding tube placed that night, I was scared. I didn't want to be alone. My concentration was poor, and I wasn't able to hold a full conversation, because I was tired all of the time, I wanted my mom's company and the safety she provided me that somehow, everything would turn out OK. 



          "It's like there's two Brianna's," my mom said, "There's the good Brianna, that's my sweet girl, that she cares for people and loves school and work and wants to live and beat this, and there's the bitch Brianna, the disorder that's trying to take your life."
          I was so relieved when my mom made this connection, that she showed signs of understanding what was taking place in my mind, why it wasn't as simple as "just eat" or "do something that makes you happy." What was going on in my mind was bigger than me, and I needed some help. After searching so desperately for months for the right words to explain what I was going through, what I was dealing with, and ending with both of us getting frustrated and upset, my mom was finally getting it. We were on the same page and would work to beat this together, whatever it took.


          When my mom had that change in mindset, I had one, too. I was willing to accept medication to get well, accepting that what I had been fighting for the majority of my life was bigger than me; it was bigger than natural remedies, it was bigger than going out in the sunlight, getting exercise and eating right, it was greater than anything I had tried to heal myself. It was beating me, and I wouldn't stand idly by and accept it. Now that my mom and I seemed to be on the same page, I didn't feel alone anymore. We both knew what we were up against. 



            I had always been reluctant about taking medication, because of the possible side effects. But at the point I was at, I figured, it couldn't possibly be any worse. I spent a lot of my day sleeping, laying in bed with my knees tucked into my chest and crying. I couldn't sit up and hold a conversation without losing focus, needing a nap, or wanting to cry. The hardest thing for me was losing my faith. Being a strong believer in Buddhism, I couldn't read the Buddhist texts I once loved, I questioned everything. 



          After about three days of regularly taking an antidepressant, I felt well enough to sit up in my bed and have a heart-to-heart conversation with my mom for the first time in probably three months. I was so happy. We went for a walk up and down the hallway in the hospital. Being on the same page, she understood how hard it was for me to get through a meal, and how when the nurse delivered my meal tray, I would black out, riddled with anxiety. She would try to distract me with conversation, but I just couldn't seem to get past how afraid I was by the amount of food that appeared on each tray. My mom remained patient, and she sat with me during each meal, ensuring me that she was there when things got difficult, and we talked through it. We took it day by day, meal by meal, and I couldn't have gotten through the rough patches without having her on my team. 

         From that moment when my mom proved to me she was starting to understand what I was going through, we encountered many challenges in my road to recovery, but I didn't feel as frustrated by setbacks, because I felt confident in knowing that I had a team of people on my side who were rooting for me and my recovery. I knew I had people counting on me to pull through. There were times when my mom would become frustrated by my lack of progress or if I experienced a setback. I had told her that for us, recovery would look a little like swimming as one vessel; if she could kick, I would try to move my arms as fast as I could. We were both tiring out, but ultimately, we were moving forward, and that's better than nothing in my eyes. 



          

Why recovery is worth it [to me]

"You have the power to say 'this is not how my story is going to end.'"

I remember my first time in treatment for my eating disorder, during group therapy, one girl stated that she hated her eating disorder, because of all the things it stole from her, and stops her from doing.

In my extreme hunger, and delusional glory, I pondered this, and genuinely didn't have any idea what she meant.

For years, I believed I could have everything, and also have the comfort of my eating disorder, my coping mechanism, my confidante. I could have the comfort without the sacrifice.

The girl continued to tell us that she missed riding her horses, something she used to love to do before she got sick. Now, she was too weak and wouldn't be able to go riding until she completed treatment.

Her sentiment would again cross my mind briefly, leading me to make up a list of my own inspirations to get recovered:

[Going off the best of my memory, June 2016, here were my reasons:]

-to find a pair of jeans that fit!

-to be strong enough to return to boxing

-to bike, hike, walk and swim again

-to join intramural soccer

-to be able to enjoy meals with people: when a friend, guy, or professor asks me for lunch, I can say yes

-to continue to do the job that I love

-to get to go on dates

-not to be tired all of the time

-not to be cold all of the time

-get to go to concerts again

-go to the bar with my friends

-to finish school and graduate on time 

-for my mom 

*Looking back at my original list now, I see the majority of my motivations for getting well were so I can go back to sports and athletic activities. This was part of the reason so many doctors were interested in my case, because I have been an athlete my entire life, and I would total seven weeks in the hospital, with the strength of a senor citizen. Also, looking back now, not one of the reasons I had put down were centered around my own personal health or happiness. 

However, now, I can say with certainty that the list has changed, and I am grateful for more. The things I am able to do now, I do so mindfully, knowing that just over six months ago I would have never imagined doing these activities: 

-Walking across campus several times a day with ease

-Graduating a semester early AND walking across stage to receive my diploma

-Making the dean's list, while I completed my final semester of coursework from my hospital bed

-Moving to California

-Walking to the beach

-Joining a kickball league

-Going on weekend trips

-Going to spin class

-Working out when I feel like it, without overdoing it

-Eating when I feel like it, and what I feel like (within reason)

-Enjoying writing again and doing it on a regular basis

-Going out with groups of friends without anxiety

-Working with dogs for work, standing on my feet all day

There are many beautiful and inspiring reasons to recover, you just have to ask yourself what's your why? and you will find it. Commit to it. It's worth it. 

If you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, visit www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/ to receive more resources.

How to deal with a relapse

"Part of recovery is relapse. I dust myself off and move forward again." 

One of the things that was hard for me to understand while I was in treatment for my eating disorder, is why we were learning tips similar to those given in AA.

"It's not helpful to me," I whined. "I don't have an addiction."

But, I do.

According to Karin Jasper, Ph.D., some professionals view anorexia as an addiction, because the sufferer has a 'dependence on starvation.' Both addictions are similar in the sense that there is often a "loss of control, preoccupation with the abused substance, and use of the substance."

In my case, and many others, this is absolutely true. Your disorder becomes your life: when and what you're going to eat, when you're going to move, how and for how long, where you're going to eat and where you're not.

A typical day for me looked like this:

Wake up at 7-7:30 a.m., lay in bed for 30 minutes to 45 minutes, if I was feeling a little ambitious and a little less depressed, I may practice some self-care by coloring before venturing into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. This was the same meal every day, without fail, regardless of how much time I did or did not have, because familiarity blocked out anxiety. I would either leave for school or work around 9 a.m., to get there by 10. This was the saddest part for me, because once I got there, I had trouble walking.

If I was at school, I parked in the parking garage, and only had to make it to the elevator down two floors, and around the corner into the back of my classroom. Walking up the incline in the parking garage took all of the lingering energy and strength I had in my body, and often left me upset. I loved school, and because of my disorder, I could hardly make it around campus. What should have been a ten minute walk across campus became a half hour hike. I was determined to finish out the school year, like I had planned. Because I was still in the depths of my disorder, I was also determined to make it up the four flights of steep steps to my classroom, even if it would make me an additional five minutes late. I had a step goal to worry about.

Sitting down in class was painful. With my bones sticking out in various places, sitting in a hard chair was uncomfortable, as was the air conditioning. I often couldn't focused, because I was so tired, focused on everything I needed to catch up on, how I couldn't wait to sleep, which workout I would do later, or what I would make for dinner, and hoping my roommate wasn't around when I had to cook.

After class, I would try to get to my car as quick as I could. Often, I was so hungry, and anxious, I would have a panic attack in my car (or in the middle of the parking garage) before making it onto the road. Once I was home, I showered (if I had the energy), put off dinner as long as possible, and did whatever homework I could manage to complete, before heading into bead around 8:30 p.m.

Having dealt with depression for most of my life, I am more aware of the signs of relapse than I am with my eating disorder, which can be very sneaky- the addiction makes it hard to see commonly used behaviors as a problem when you're using them.

However, despite how mindful I try to be, sometimes these relapses catch me off-guard, as it did this past weekend.

Here are a few ways that I try to combat bouts of relapse:

• Know your triggers- as I mentioned before in a previous post, it's very important to know the things that trigger you, so you can trace your relapse back to a source and work through it. This past weekend, I was able to trace my brief relapse with depression to two major triggers that I chose to avoid when they came up. Avoiding it rather than confronting it as soon as they surfaced resulted in a week and a half long bout of depression, where I didn't want to write, didn't want to answer calls from my family, and didn't feel like myself.
• Check your meds- If you are suffering from depression, an eating disorder, or any other mood or mental disorder, which you take medications for, you may need to check with your doctor if you need an adjustment on your dosage. It is very important to be honest and upfront with your doctor about the affects the medicine has on you, so she can ensure you are on the proper medication and proper dosage. Remember, this may take some trial and error on both ends, so try to have patience and be fair to yourself.
• Stop- It's natural when you feel triggered, to want to resort to what you know, which would be using behaviors. Instead, take time to use some of the tools you learned in treatment to change the negative behavior to a positive one. Call a friend, journal, take a walk, etc.
• Forgive, and start again- If you do have a slip up and have negative feelings or resort to using a behavior, it's important to be honest. Fess up to your doctor, a family member, a friend, whoever you feel comfortable talking to. This is a time you need to go easy on yourself, because there is something that triggered you to use those behaviors. Forgive yourself for using the behavior, look at what may have triggered you so you can be better prepared for next time the situation comes up, and get right back on the path of recovery. Do. Not. Delay.
• Remind yourself why you're here- When recovery starts to feel impossible, remind yourself why you're here, why you're fighting for it, why recovery is worth it, and ultimately, why you deserve it. 

How I maintain my recovery

"You were sick, but now you're well again, and there's work to do."

-Vonnegut

 Anyone who has ever embarked on the road to recovery can tell you one thing: it's not easy. 

But anyone who has made it to the other side of recovery can promise you one thing: it's sure as hell worth it. 

Having been in recovery for almost five full months from my eating disorder, I can say with full confidence that it isn't easy, pretty, or a narrow road. But, I have never felt more alive and more excited about life than I do right now. A day I never thought I would know while in the depths of my disorder. 

Even months into recovery, recovery is still a conscious choice I need to make every day. I still slip. I still make mistakes. And sometimes when I'm stressed, I resorted to using behaviors. But, over the course of the last few months, I have learned how to better manage my disorder to maintain my recovery: 

Know your triggers: When I first got out of treatment, this was huge for me. I was uncomfortable with my body as it quickly and desperately was trying to get back to a normal weight, and I was triggered by almost everything around me. 

During this time, I couldn't hear anyone talk about food, ask about my food, hear about diet, numbers, workouts, or even see work out clothes. It was hard for me to see or hear people talking about working out while I wasn't allowed to exert any of my own energy. The majority of the clothes in my closet were workout clothes, and I went as far as having to hide them in a drawer under my bed, so I would not be triggered by seeing them, and attempt to workout.

Be vocal: Once you become aware of the things/topics that trigger you, tell the people around you. This is particularly important if you cannot avoid the situations. For example, you can avoid passing by a gym, or a vitamin store, however it is common for women to talk about food/diet/calories. If this is something that bothers you, try to divert the conversation in a different direction. If you feel comfortable enough, tell the person. "The topic of this conversation makes me uncomfortable, would you mind if we talked about something else?" or "It really upsets me when you mention x, y, z," "Would you mind not talking about numbers/calories/diets around me?"

Ask for help: Confide in the people closest to you whether it be a parent, sibling, friend, or teacher. From there, you can research treatment options in your area: therapy, out-patient, intensive outpatient program, or residential treatment. For some people, medication is instrumental in helping them maintain recovery. For me, I can say medication has saved my life. It was such an overwhelming and emotional relief when I started to feel well again, and it happened almost immediately. A therapist or your doctor can help you decide if this is the right option for you. Also, the books: "Breaking Vegan" by Jordan Younger and "The Goddess Revolution" by Mel Wells have helped me change my mindset around diet culture. For more resources, visit nationaleatingdisorders.org. 

Establish a 'recovery toolbox': Create a go-to list of things to resort to when you're feeling triggered. Instead of using behaviors, these are positive outlets to focus your energy on. For me, these things include: writing, reading, making a cup of tea, talking to someone I love, watching comedy, going for a walk, or doing an art project. 

Distract yourself : This tip is particularly helpful for those who have anxiety around mealtimes, or with exercise compulsion. If you are feeling anxious around meal times, try talking to someone while you shop/prepare/eat your meal. This helps to divert the focus on the food to your conversation. Meals are meant to be enjoyed and shared with those you love. Going out to eat is common for catching up with friends/meetings, etc. This is something that I still am working on myself and have come a long way. I used to have panic attacks before every dinner. I didn't know what and how much to make. It helps me to pre-plan my meals, so when the time comes, I know what I have to do. I also make the same thing for most meals (same breakfast, same lunch, etc.) so I have no anxiety around choices. Grocery shopping used to make me blackout with sensory overload. Now, it helps me a great deal to go shopping with one of my friends or my sister, who is aware of my anxiety. Now, we have fun looking at new products together, picking out groceries, and enjoying conversation. 

Practice intuitive eating/intuitive exercise: Intuitive means to use what one feels to be true. This might mean asking your body: 'What do I feel like eating this morning?' 'What do I feel I need/ would nourish my body best?' Is it Orange Juice? Have some. Do you want pancakes? Have some. There are no good or bad foods. Eat what your body is asking for and stop when you're full. It really can be that simple. Your body knows what it wants and needs and will stop when it has had enough, as long as you keep checking in. 

Intuitive exercise is also something that I am constantly working towards. For most of us, this means doing what feels good for your body. Hate running? Don't do it. Does the gym feel like torture? Don't go. Everything works differently for every body and people have different interests. For me personally, I hate running and the gym is boring. But, I love boxing and I like riding my bike. I look forward to doing these things for my body and they never feel like a chore. If your workout feels like a chore, it's not right for you. There is something that you will enjoy, and that may take exploring different activities. You will find it. Be patient. Be adventurous. 

Intuitive exercise also means not being too strict on your plan. If you had a long night before, it's alright to skip the gym. If your body is telling you it's too sore or too tired for today's workout, listen. 

Disclaimer: I am not claiming to be a doctor, therapist, or expert on recovery. I am simply sharing my first-hand experience and the things that worked best for me. If you feel that you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, consult your doctor or visit https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/ for more information. 

Recovery is tough, but so are you

"My recovery must come first so everything I love in life does not have to come last."

Graduating university with crippling anxiety and a co-existing debilitating eating disorder is one of my greatest and bravest accomplishments to-date. 

I'd like to say that the moment that I got out of the hospital, recovery from that point on was smooth sailing. 

But, that's not reality. 

Recovery is hard. And messy. And a daily choice. 

At this point, I didn't know what would make me want to choose recovery. I loved my family, my job, school, and my work, but for some reason, something inside still resented myself. My friends and family wanted recovery for me more than I did. It would never stick long-term, I thought. 

All of the affirmations that I had learned during treatment, which I once viewed as bullshit became my lifelines. 

Some things I can't change. I need to become familiar with my triggers and actively avoid them. I need to stop responding to negative energy. For once in my life I needed to allow myself to be selfish, and focus only on me. I needed to be surrounded by positive and supportive people. 

I was vulnerable and completely succeptible to triggers. At this point, everything triggered me. 

There could be no mention of numbers, calories, diets, food, workout plans, exercise, I couldn't wear workout clothes, or look at anyone who was, I couldn't drive down Bayshore Blvd. and see all of the people running, without the urge to jump out of my passenger side window and run alongside them. I couldn't have anyone comment on my food or my body, whether good or bad, I didn't want to be asked if I was working out or moving my body at all. I didn't want sympathy. I couldn't be in the grocery store. I couldn't eat any of the foods that I had used to punish my body during the height of my disorder and the depths of restriction. I couldn't look at other people's carts at the grocery store, without returning everything in mine, and opting for healthier options. I couldn't see anyone who was thinner than me without stressing out. I couldn't talk about my rollercoaster brain: one day devout to recovery, the other wanting to cut everyone out of my life who might promote my recovery.

The worst parts about recovery for me were: 

1) Accepting the fact that I couldn't exercise: 

          I tried. I have been active my whole life, just for fun. Soccer, basketball, track, boxing, biking, swimming, running, walking. I hopped on my bike, feeling rebellious for going against my mom and doctor's wishes. I used to ride 20 miles no problem, now, I could barely complete a mile. So I walked. I aimed for the 10,000 steps per day. Extreme hunger kicked in. My body didn't want to let go of anymore weight, and if I exercised, I had to eat double the calories to make up for what I burned. It made more sense to skip it entirely. It was hard enough to hit my calorie goal as it was.

2) Extreme Hunger: 

          This was the most physically, mentally and emotionally challenging part of recovery next to the weight returning. Extreme hunger is a common symptom for those recovering from any eating disorder or period of calorie restriction. With extreme hunger it is normal to consume between 6,000-10,000 calories in a single day. And boy did I. Even though I knew I needed the calories that I had deprived my body of for so long, I was still fighting it. I was terrified of it. I thought it would never end and I would never be able to stop eating. I wanted to just be normal around food, have a normal portion. I swore now I'd listen to the dietitian and have a protein, carb and fat, and not just a protein and vegetable if it would just go away forever. 

3) What do I wear?

          My clothes don't fit. But, I know deep down, they were never meant to. I had a panic attack the first time I tried to slip on the size 0 Old Navy boyfriend jeans that were once too big on me, and I couldn't manage to get them over my knees. My regular size is a size 8, but losing the label felt like a loss of control for me. It was the only time I was a size 0 in my life, and probably (and hopefully) the only time I will be again. To avoid future anxiety, I threw away all of the clothes I wore when I was sick, before ever trying them on. All of the child size clothes, all of the crop tops and sleeveless blouses- gone. Why put myself through that when I knew what the outcome would be? My mom took me shopping to buy clothes in my regular size. She was thrilled, and I tried to avoid the mirror, choosing clothes strictly off her opinion and whether or not the high waist promised to conceal my growing belly. 

I'd like to say that after being released from the hospital, I never relapsed. But, that would be a lie. 

I found myself thinking a lot about my time in the hospital and the routine I had developed there: 7:30 breakfast, 12:30 lunch, 5:00 dinner, group therapy throughout the day, work on homework during breaks, and 9:00 snack and medicine. I found myself missing my routine. I wanted to be back there- but, why?

Having been so numb while I was in the hospital, I was processing the entire experience for the first time. And I felt bad for that girl who was trapped in those four walls- confined to an IV. I felt bad for the girl whose routine became waking up to getting blood drawn and pressure taken, getting shots in the stomach to prevent infection, and offered pills like they were tic tacs. I felt bad for all of the CT scans, echocardiograms, ultrasounds, and X-Rays, where she didn't blink, becoming so indifferent to the process. I didn't know that girl, and I didn't want to be her. Not anymore.

My triggers sometimes still catch me by surprise, though not as often as they used to

Now, I'm better prepared, and the people around me are more aware and quick to call out my behaviors. 

I share my story not to gain empathy or sad stares for myself, but I share to raise awareness for the others who struggle. Every man or woman who has struggled with an eating disorder who has ever felt confused or scared or silenced or trapped. I share for the sufferers who feel silenced, out of fear of the consequences of what would happen if they revealed their deepest secret. I share for those who are scared to leave their disorder behind. Like a bad relationship, it's time to quit it. It's time to speak up and be fearless in despite of the threats the demons might make. 

This is a new chapter and only you can choose how you want to define it. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 6

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other." 

read part 5 of my story here:  

Walking out of the hospital felt as if I was just released from prison. I felt like I was out on parole, any move I made, any decision had the capability of sending me right back upstairs. It terrified me, but also provided a sense of comfort. The hospital was all I knew for the last six weeks. I felt comfortable there. I had a routine, I had friends, and I was being monitored. 

Leaving the hospital, I also felt terrified. It was a new found freedom that I didn't yet trust myself to have. It was a few days before Halloween, and I asked my mom if she thought I might be able to meet some friends to celebrate. 

She didn't think so. I may have been 21 now, but I hadn't yet had a drink, and with my weight still extremely low, she didn't want me to go out drinking. She didn't want me to go out unattended. 

I asked if I could go back to school.

She didn't think so, either. If I did, she would drive me. She didn't feel comfortable letting me drive my car, in case something happened while I was driving, or if I got tired walking around campus. If I wanted, she would drop me off at school and work. I felt frustrated. I felt like a baby getting dropped off at school by her mother with a packed lunch box and a kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a bright red lipstick mark to conceal my blushing face. 

I didn't think so. I wanted to do it on my own.

I asked if we could go to the mall, so I could practice walking for longer distances.

It was out of the question.

On the way home, we stopped at Walmart to pick me up some clothes that would fit. Nothing in my closet fit on my body the way it was supposed to, and even now, my underwear was sliding off my backside, down to my ankles.

I wanted desperately to get out of my hospital-issued clothes and to throw them away in the trash. I wanted this behind me, but part of me wanted to go back upstairs. I wanted to go back to my meetings, and I wanted the routine they had provided me. 

In Walmart, my mom bought me some fuzzy pajama pants, new slippers, a few t-Shirts and some new underwear. 

We shopped in the boys section for t-Shirts. They were cheaper, and I was officially a 'fat boy.' I slipped into a boys youth size XL and still had some wiggle room. My mom was horrified, and my brain felt glorified, that maybe I could fit into a smaller size. 

She moved along to the girls section to pick me up some underwear. The only options available were Halloween-themed, with puppys or bats with wings on the side. 

"How about these?" she asked me as she held them up way up high, as a group of boys my age passed, trying to conceal their laughs. 

"I don't think she'd like those," I said quick in defense- horrified. 

There was still part of my brain that felt really proud of fitting in these child sizes. Once having an athletic body, with a firm backside, and a larger chest, I now was flat all around. The hospital had placed padded patches on my lower back so that I was able to sit down. My bones were sticking out of my lower back in between where my dimples lay and there was no support in my butt. There was no butt, just bone. I needed these stickers so I wouldn't bruise laying on my back, or sitting in a chair. 

Walking around Walmart, I needed to hold on to my moms arm, and the shopping cart for support. I hadn't walked that long in over a month and my legs felt like they were starting to lock. I was worried my mom might have to put me in the seat of the cart, if we didn't leave soon.

Being in the store for the first time in months filled me with crippling anxiety. I hated grocery shopping in the first place, and having so many options terrified me. 

I was taught to shop the outer parts of the grocery store for the healthiest food, and my mom wouldn't allow me to get only fruits and vegetables. She said I needed to make a meal. I needed all components, like our dietitian taught us. I cried the whole trip. I didn't know how to cook, I didn't know what I would even want. All of the foods in the inner aisle scared me. 

She convinced me to challenge myself, but it was too much too soon. In the hospital, I picked my meals, but I had a few meals I was comfortable with. I had egg whites and cheerios every morning, greek yogurt for snacks, baked fish and vegetables for lunch, and a veggie burger salad or PBJ for dinner. I didn't know anything else. I didn't want to know anything else. I liked not having options, because it limited the anxiety surrounding meal time. 

She took me down the snack aisle, and I was on the verge of a panic attack. I couldn't avoid reading all of the labels: picking up an item, studying the back, then throwing it back on the shelf like the box was on fire. 

"I don't know how it tastes," I told her, "I never had this. I don't know what I want. I don't want anything from here."

There was no protein. Mostly fat or carbohydrates. I didn't want anything from this aisle, I didn't understand why anyone would. 

We left the store, frustrated, she was mad that I couldn't find anything for dinner, and threatened me with takeout. 

"No, mom! You're trying to do too much, too soon, you're stressing me out!"

When we got back to the hotel, I checked the pantries and the refrigerator, out of habit. I had always done this when I got to my mom, dad, or sisters house. I was curious to see what other people bought at the store, but I couldn't help but judge what they picked.

"Too much sodium, too many carbs, too much fat, so processed..."

Before the hospital, my diet consisted of maybe ten items that I deemed 'clean' or 'safe,' if I was being generous. 

My mom offered me foods that I had loved prior to the development of this eating disorder, and I became very angry with her.

"Why would you buy pickles? There is SO much sodium in them. Not worth it," I shouted. 

I used to eat a jar of pickles, no problem, angry if one of my family members took it upon themselves to have one.

"I got your favorite poptarts," she said quietly. 

"Why would you buy that?" I asked with disgust, "I hadn't eaten those since I was a kid."

I felt above eating poptarts. I looked at them as dirty. There were so many calories and so many carbs for such a little pastry, and it did nothing for you. It didn't make you full, it didn't have any protein, so why would anyone eat it?

"You used to love them." 

I wanted to take a shower, and get away from her, and as far away from the kitchen as I could.

I was scared of my mom and I was scared to be home, convinced that I would gain the 60 lbs I had lost, back overnight. I was stressed out with options, and I was stressed out without having a routine. I should be in group, right now...

Not knowing what else to say, my mom became very good at making comments to try to scare me into eating food that I was scared of. I took it as an insult, although well-intended. She took it as if I kept not eating, I would need help getting in the shower for the rest of my life. 

Stubborn, I was determined to do it myself, but who the fuck made the shower wall so damn high? Were they always this high? My hospital room didn't have a shower wall, so I was able to do it myself. 

I thought about first standing on top of the toilet, than onto the side and over the shower wall, so I could do it myself. My legs were already so tired from walking around Walmart for almost an hour.

"Mom- please just help me" I yelled out- defeated. 

I was emotionally exhausted after being released, but I was determined to get right back to work. I had my laptop now, so I could check my emails. I had one from my professor containing my midterm. It was a take home and I was allotted 24 hours to complete it and send it back. 

I knew the answer right away, so I got to work. 

Having no food in the hotel room that I or my mom could eat, she asked if I would go out to dinner. 

Pizza was out of the question. 

I tried to get her to go to Publix so I could pick up a salad or a salad roll, wrapped in rice paper. 

It was out of the question. I wasn't allowed to have salad, but something more calorie dense.

I was pissed.

She stopped in front of a Chinese buffet, somewhere we used to love going together back home in New York. After she would get home from work, she would ask if I wanted to go. I would say yes, even if I had already eaten what I considered dinner. 

 I threw a tantrum in the car: "I hate Chinese food!" "There's nothing I can eat here," "I'm not getting out of the car!" 

It was 90 degrees and I still had on my fleece sweater, but I was willing to sit in the hot car, if it meant I didn't have to go into the buffet.

"Too much, too soon!" I cried "Why are you doing this to me?" "What kind of person takes an anorexic to a buffet, seriously?"

She convinced me to try a little bit of everything they offered-just to see what I liked. She tried to get me away from the salad bar, but there wasn't a chance in hell that was happening. It was the only thing I deemed clean in the entire place. 

I ended up having three plates: sushi, coconut shrimp, plantains, french fries, and a few bites of dessert. 

Although I was making progress, I couldn't bring myself to make conversation, or even look at my mom. I stared down at my plate as if it were the enemy, and in my head, I was singing "Eye of the Tiger." 

I had brought my mom so much pain in the past few weeks, I wanted to make her happy. 

She would be going home soon, and I would be left to my old ways. One meal wouldn't kill me. 

I felt like I had failed my disorder by eating at the buffet, and enjoying it. I thought about what my dietitian told me that I once thought was impossible, that food was meant to be enjoyable. It was the most I had eaten in probably a year, and for the first time I could remember having a meal and enjoying it. 

I hated the full feeling in my stomach. I hated the way a full belly made it look round. I hated the after taste of all the food I had ate. 

When we got back to the hotel, I went to my bed and cried. I was determined to start fresh tomorrow. I couldn't wait to have the meals I was comfortable with. 

My mom came in my room and told me how proud she was of me. I was mad at her pride- didn't she care that I was losing control? What would she think if I became a binge eater? Is that what she wanted? How could she be so happy when I was feeling so sad? She told me it was the happiest she has been since she got to town.

I asked her if she could extend her stay.

Earlier in the day, I begged her to bring me back to my apartment. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be on my own. In my own bed. I wanted to make my own meals. Do my own shopping. I wanted to be trusted, but I didn't trust myself. Not yet. 

She was supposed to leave within the next few days and I knew deep down I wasn't ready to be on my own.

"Please, mom, I need you to stay. If you leave now, I know I will go back to my old ways. I'm scared." 

I didn't want her to feel like I was threatening her. That if she left, I would get sicker. But I knew somehow that I would. I needed to be monitored and I needed to be accountable. I wasn't in control yet. I didn't know how to make my own choices 

She was happy to oblige and happy that I was so honest with myself and her for knowing I needed her to stay. 

She set me up in my apartment by taking me grocery shopping, and cleaning up the kitchen and my room so I would have a comfortable transition back home.

One of the main things that has helped me through recovery, was my body taking over against my brain's pushback. It's called Extreme Hunger. At the time, I thought it was a made up phenomena, something binge eaters coined to make them feel less shame abut the volume of food they ate. 

Extreme Hunger is common for those recovering from anorexia. Having suffered organ damage for so long from calorie restriction and deprivation, extreme hunger kicks in to help repair the damage done to your organs, and help put back on weight. 

A quick Google search said it would not be uncommon during periods of extreme hunger to consume up to 10,000 calories in a day.

I almost fainted.

That was probably more than I had consumed in the last two months. 

Unlike before where I felt like I couldn't physically eat, now it felt like I couldn't physically stop eating. I felt shame every time I got up to get another snack. What kind of anorexic was I? Where had all my control gone? Would I swing to the other side, and now develop binge eating disorder? Would all of this food make my weight spiral out of control?

I felt embarrassed every time I got up to get another snack, like my mom, or anyone around me would question why I was eating again.

My hunger cues were starting to come back, and they came back with a vengeance. They terrified me. I didn't trust my body and it didn't trust me. 

Besides consuming larger quantities during the day, my body would wake me up in the middle of the night, requiring more energy to repair all the damage I had done. 

I would eat up to four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at one time, I would finish the ice cream in the freezer, something I wouldn't dare eat, even before my eating disorder. I didn't know what was going on. I was embarrassed to even ask if it was a normal occurrence.

I wanted to go back to school, but I was so terrified of what my classmates and professors would say. 

I imagined people asking where I had been all of this time, why I was allowed to miss so much class and still be welcomed back in the classroom setting. I imagined people giving me strange looks wondering where I had gone that I had gained so much weight. 

I tried not to be so full of myself. 

I stayed at home to do my homework and work remotely for about a week until I couldn't take it anymore. 

My first day back at school, I felt so much anxiety. I had only been in these classes a few weeks, before I was admitted to the hospital. I hoped I could remember where everything was. 

Was I in the right class? Is this the right time? Am I caught up? Did I remember to do the reading? 

Surprisingly, the transition was fairly easy. My professors and classmates were extremely welcoming and kind to me, very willing to catch me up to pace. 

I met individually with each of my professors to make sure I was caught up and to see what else I would have to do to ensure I would meet the deadline for December graduation. 

I had a 12-page paper in politics, a presentation, two short stories and revisions for fiction writing, and a full portfolio to develop for creative non fiction. 

They didn't say it, but I think my professors underestimated my ability to get these things done in time, but they were willing to let me try. I had a month. 

I knew it would be challenging, but I was determined to get everything done, and return back to work. I couldn't wait to be back in the newsroom. I had checked on the status of a few of my stories while in the hospital, to which my boss replied I should log out of my email and let myself relax. 

I felt extreme pride being able to get all of the work done. I started with one class at a time. I completed all of the work that was owed, than having finished all of those assignments, I moved onto the next class. 

I loved seeing the grades roll in, surprised to see A's on assignments. I was up on the reading, because I had all of my textbooks in the hospital. 

Professors reassured me it would be fine if I withdrew due to medical reasons, and my mom told me she wouldn't be mad if I got C's. I didn't drop out and I didn't get C's. I was determined this would happen. 

I was so excited to get the email confirmation that I would be graduating, not only in December, but a semester early than originally anticipated. To get A's on my final assignments made all of the suffering to me feel worth it. I had my drive back, and that to me was more important than anything else. 

I made Dean's list this semester, and I know it was because of my mom's unwavering patience with me. She brought me my books, supplied me new notebooks and pens, when necessary. And sat by my side listening to my frustrations and my dreams, and encourage my determination. When I wrote out an assignment by hand, she would type it up and send it to my professors, reassuring them that I was on the right track, that despite their concerns for my health, I was getting my work done, and it was keeping me healthy, giving me incentive to fight harder than anything else would. 

Initially, I never wanted to walk at graduation. I had severe anxiety and I never liked being in front of a crowd. I hated anything that would draw attention to me. 

Having achieved what no one thought I would, I was hellbent on walking across that stage with pride. 

I wanted to do it for my mom. It was her graduation as much as it was mine. I wanted to walk for us. For all we have been through. I wanted to literally walk through the otherside of what we had come to known as hell. 

Having her drive four hours to see me make a ten second walk across stage meant the world to me. 

Four weeks prior, I would not have had the strength to make it across the stage at all. I was gaining weight regularly, and though I had some hard days, for the most part I was OK with it. She helped me be. 

We cried the morning of graduation. I had woken up early, though I hadn't even slept. I was too excited and it felt like the nervousness you get before the first day of school. But it was my last. 

After I put on my gown and cap, my mom gave me a gift. One of the most special gifts I had received in my entire life. 

She put my Nanny's favorite heart necklace around my neck and said she wanted me to have it, and my Nanny would, too. She wanted her to be with us today and have her close to my heart. 

The whole day felt like a dream. There was so much excitement, laughter, and positive memories made. 

I had my family and everyone that was important with me and it meant the world to me to have them there for support. It meant the world to me that I could be with them again, that I could make them proud for once. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 5

"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 of numbers

read part 4 of my story here:

After placing the feeding tube, there was a fight between the ICU and the regular hospital floor. The regular floor wanted me to stay in ICU. My heart rate was no longer in the 30's, but still way below average. I would be a liability on the regular floor. The doctors in the ICU knew I didn't need to be there anymore. I looked around and saw older patients on breathing tubes, patients who had suffered life-threatening injuries and felt shame that I had brought myself here on my own doing. I was twenty-one confined to a hospital bed, wishing my life away while patients just two doors down were fighting for theirs. 

I was excited to be placed on the regular floor. The meals came later and less frequently, and I already felt less anxiety. The doctors no longer picked for me, and I would be given a menu, allowed to pick what I wanted. This was a strange concept for me, because looking at the menu, I didn't want anything. All of the options gave me anxiety. Half of the options were things I had never had before. For the past four years, I had had the same breakfast, lunch and dinner almost every day. I didn't know about options. Options gave me anxiety. 

On the regular hospital floor, I had a real bathroom. I was allowed to close the door 3/4 of the way. This new freedom was extremely liberating for me. I told the doctor that she didn't need to hold my hand or my heart rate monitor, because I was confident I wouldn't fall. 

I didn't have much trouble getting to the toilet myself, but it was tough to get up, with my legs now mostly bone. If the nurse asked if I needed help, I quickly yelled back no. I would do this myself. I leaned on the hand rail over the toilet, like an older patient and did it myself. 

I quickly frustrated the doctors on the regular hospital floor, too. When the nutritionist brought me my meals, I had 30 minutes to finish my plate. I wasn't allowed to use any food rituals, give any food away, or dispose of any of it. There was a camera in my room monitoring my progress. I often had my allergies and food aversions revisit, and offer my roommate portions of my plate. She was happy to accept seconds. 

My weight was still declining, despite being fed extra calories through the feeding tube. Now at 82 lbs, I was a liability to the hospital, and they didn't have the resources to treat me there. 

I was to be transferred to another hospital, one we were promised specialized in eating disorders. 

I was happy to be out of the hospital, sure I would be able to convince the new team of doctors to send me home to take care of myself. I was unhappy about their no technology rule. I would have to surrender both my phone and my laptop. How was I going to finish my homework? I was in the last semester of university, and while I was in the hospital, I had my pile of books on my bedside, so I could email my professors chapter outlines and creative writing pieces to go towards my final portfolio. Now, in the new place, my mom was limited to how many hours a day she would be able to visit me. 

I felt abandoned. 

I didn't want to go, but as my mom was in charge of making medical decisions for me, I didn't have a choice. It was either the hospital or residential treatment. 

I wasn't allowed to walk to the ambulance, even though I had proved I was capable. I was an athlete my entire life, now I didn't have the privilege to walk down the hall and into the ambulance. I was wheeled on a stretcher and I felt like I could melt away with embarrassment. I was capable, not a liability! 

When I arrived in the new hospital, I was given a hospital gown, underwear and socks. They made an exception for me to keep on my fleece sweater, because my weight was so low, I needed extra blankets to avoid my temperature dropping any further. 

Immediately, I felt like an exhibit in Ripley's Believe it or Not museum. Nurse after nurse came in asking me invasive questions throughout the day.

"Why are you scared to eat?"

"Are you afraid you will get fat?"

"Have you ever been fat?"

"Were you obese growing up?"

I felt vulnerable, embarrassed, and ashamed. I wanted to run, to hide my face in the blanket and melt away. 

One of my nurses felt it was a good time to confide in me about her own eating disorder, describing in vivid detail each behavior she used to maintain her slender figure. I was stressed out. I couldn't use behaviors while they were watching me. After I ate, they checked the garbage, under the sheets, and my drawers in case anything was thrown away. I wasn't allowed to use the bathroom for 30 minutes after finishing a meal, and my walking was limited to a few laps up and down the hallway each day. My body was surging with nervous energy and I hated this nurse and her skinny body. I hated that she was getting paid to make me fat and I hated that she wanted to talk to me so much. 

We quickly realized that this new facility wasn't fit for treating patients with eating disorders. It was a medical behavior unit. Here, they would be able to stabilize me medically, but not the underlying cause of the disorder. No acknowledgment of depression, no talking about eating disorders. The nurses would put a "!" sign on my door to remind them to weigh me each morning, with a disclaimer not to allow me to look at the scale and not to use numbers out loud or within ear shot of my room. The facility was primarily a psychiatric unit, where they would treat patients with schizophrenia and hold patients on baker act who were on suicide watch after an attempt.

My door would often be kept close, because of angry patients screaming down the hall, or my neighbor, who would run into my room if the door was open, convinced that I was her mother. 

The nurses were the least bit sympathetic to me, treating me more as a burden than a valid patient. 

"See, that's why you have the tube in your nose," one nurse said after aggressively adjusting the tube, before storming out of my room.

She was mad that I couldn't eat the meal that was sent up to me, yet again. She was tired of me sending meals back and asking for substitutions. She acted as if the feeding tube was a punishment. 

Unlike the other patients on the floor, I wasn't allowed to use the shower room, because of my IV, feeding tube, and heart rate monitor. Instead, each morning I was given a tub of water, a few washcloths, soap and hair wash to clean up, if I had the energy. 

I didn't.

I told the nurse that I would wait for my mom to come so she could help me, and she wouldn't have it. She wanted me to learn to do it myself. 

I cried out of frustration, because I couldn't bend to clean the bottom of my legs and I couldn't reach my back. 

I wasn't allowed to shave my legs, because we couldn't have razors in a psychiatric facility. I quickly began to miss these little signs of freedom: fresh air, water pressure from a shower head, and bare legs. I felt trapped in my own body.

My blood pressure was taken every few hours, so the nurse decided to just leave the arm cuff around my arm. It was a child's size, so no one else on the floor would be using it, anyway. 

I quickly developed a routine in the new hospital as well. The last meal of the day came anywhere from 4:30-5 p.m., so I would turn in for the night after I finished eating, exhausted from the stress of the meal. The nurses would wake me up at 9 p.m. for my medicine, blood pressure, and any other tests they required from me that day.

On average, I got about three or four shots each day. One every morning at 5 a.m. in my stomach to prevent infection. Barely having any belly fat, this one hurt more than any other. Certain nurses were not very skilled at giving this shot, so I still have the purple scars to remind me I never want to be here again.

The nurses thought it was funny how immune I became to the process of getting blood drawn or getting my blood pressure taken. 

After medicine, I would typically sleep through the night, and not wake up until the nurses woke me for breakfast. I was too sad to do anything else. 

When they came in my room for blood or blood pressure, it got to the point where I simply stopped waking up, instead just raising my arms in robotic motion, letting them take whatever they wanted, letting them poke me in whatever vein they deemed fit, which for them, was wherever they hadn't poked me, yet. 

I slept a lot, because there wasn't much else to do. I didn't want to walk my four laps a day, but when my mom came to visit, she made me. The nurses made me get out of the bed and sit up in my chair to eat my breakfast and start my homework, so they can make the bed. My philosophy was if I never left the bed, they would never have to make it. 

I hated leaving my bed, because when I did, I had to drag my IV bag, and feeding tube with me. The wheels they came on were much like when you get a wonky cart at the supermarket and only three of the wheels turn. It was frustrating, and I didn't have the strength or patience to pull it beside me and I often tripped over it, or got it stuck in the doorway. As hard as I tried, I couldn't imagine ever being disconnected from either. 

When my mom came to visit, we talked about school and the news. I missed school and I missed the news. 

Every time she mentioned the possibility of having to drop all or any of my classes for the semester, I couldn't take it. I loved going to school and I loved being a student and I was determined to graduate on time. Every day she came to visit I asked her to bring me my school books and the newspaper. 

While she was gone, I would read my books for school, and write my assignments by hand. I handed her my assignments, to which she would take them home and type them up to email to my professors. 

Having my mom come to visit me was the highlight of my day, because it helped me establish a routine. Being confined into this one room allowed me to appreciate the little things in my day. I wanted to know what the weather was like outside, and I wanted her to open the blinds in my room. At this point, the only time I had been outside in the past month had been when I was wheeled into the back of the ambulance. I missed fresh air and I missed seeing the sun. I wondered if it was raining and for how long. 

I tried to accomplish as much as I could before my mom came to visit in the afternoon. If I managed to sit in the chair for breakfast, clean up and brush my hair and teeth before she came, I called it a good day. 

I hated when my mom came before lunch, because having her in the room while I was trying to eat stressed me out. The doctors were marking percentage of how much of my plate I ate, and when I reached 75%, they would consider turning off my feeding tube. I hated seeing how hurt my mom was during meal time, although she tried hard to be supportive. She tried to distract me with conversation, but I couldn't keep my mind off of what was in front of me. When I saw the nurse carry in the tray at each meal, it was as if I blacked out. The anxiety washed over me and I felt like I was drowning in myself. I couldn't imagine completing 75% of my meal, and if the meal was wrong I threw a fit, which upset my mom, the nurses and the cafeteria workers. I didn't care. If they didn't change it, I wouldn't eat and that was fine for me. 

The day that my nurse said that I could take a shower, I was so excited. I hadn't had a real shower in a few weeks and I just wanted to clean my hair and feel the water run down my back. But, I wasn't allowed to go on my own. I could only take a shower if my IV was covered with plastic bags, and my mom helped me in the shower room.

Despite my excitement, I felt immense shame. Despite how many times the nurses had helped me change my hospital gowns, I was afraid to take off the gown in front of my mother. I knew how much she cried when she saw my body. I closed my eyes and pretended I didn't see her holding back tears as she came face to face with my ribs, that were poking dangerously out of my body. She gently moved the washcloth over my shoulders, careful not to hurt me, because my shoulder blades now protruded out of my back. I held on to the shower rail, careful not to fall, because I hadn't stood that long in a long time, but I wasn't ready to step out of the steady stream of water the shower head provided. 

There were so many doctors assigned to my case, that we often got contradicting information. Several times I was promised discharge in coming days, which got my hopes up and never came. In my head I prepared of what I would do when I got home, who I would see, and how my transition home would be. 

I was terrified to be home, knowing left to my own devices, I wouldn't know how to change my behavior. I had accomplished many difficult things in my life, I couldn't understand why I found it so impossible to feed myself a proper balanced dinner. I couldn't understand what had went wrong in my brain to make myself hate my own existence so much. 

After a broken promise of discharge, I learned it was possible to be sued for rights to your own body. That week I was taken to mental health court, where the hospital would go to the magistrate and ask them to keep me for up to six months against my will in order to properly care for me. The hospital was convinced, if left to my own devices, I would go back to my old habits and eventually end up dead. They were damn right, if they sent me home, I would restrict twelve times harder to regain all of the 'progress' I was convinced I had lost. 

I lost in court. 

Although I would be getting my feeding tube removed, because I had proved I could consistently finish meals voluntarily, I would be staying another week on the psych floor. 

Here, treatment would be focused more on my depression. 

Having lost in mental health court, I didn't leave my bed for two days. I was more depressed than ever. It was a week before Halloween, and I wanted to go home so badly. I wanted to return to school. I wanted to go to classes in person. I wanted to go to the bar with my friends and go on dates. I wanted to go for a walk and experience the sun beating down on my back. I wanted to inhale deeply and fill my lungs with fresh air. I wanted to be off the IV, have the feeding tube out of my nose, and I wanted to go back to my old habits.

I was terrified of changing floors. I had a routine here and I had my own TV. My mom was allowed to stay for half the day, where now she would only be allowed to stay two.

I felt abandoned. 

I was convinced I did not need to be on the psych floor, just because I had an eating disorder.

I was right, and again I felt like an exhibit.

The treatment on the psych floor was geared more towards addiction and I had trouble relating lessons learned in group therapy to my own life. It all felt like BS to me and I felt like a prisoner. 

The other patients were hyper-concerned with my condition, but I made friends quickly, because I was always super willing to give away my dessert and milk, and anything else somebody might have wanted off my tray.

I had a week of eight hours of group therapy, before I would be released into my mom's care.

The first step out of the hospital in six weeks felt like I was released from prison. I felt as if I could have gotten high off the first deep inhale of fresh air, a little pleasure that had suddenly become so significant. Air. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 4

"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 of numbers

read part three of my story here:

I was admitted to the ICU for the second time at 5'7" and 86 lbs. I was brought up in a wheelchair, and almost immediately placed on bed rest. The doctors wrapped my wrist with a bright yellow bracelet labeled "high fall risk."

I had a call button to call the nurses every time I needed to get up from bed to use the bathroom. When the nurse came in, she would untangle me from my IV and all of the wires that I was hooked up to and undo the circulation leg wraps, which were used to prevent blood clots, since I wasn't moving around. 

My heart rate, again was in the high 30's and I needed to be closely monitored until they could stabilize me. 

The first night in ICU I slept with six hospital blankets, and a heating blanket that read 114 degrees Fahrenheit, because my body temperature was several points below average. 

Having sent several meals back and asking for swaps, and for friends to bring me things that I swore I would be willing to eat, foods that I deemed 'safe' to my diet, the doctors on my case declared me medically incompetent to make my own decisions that were in the best interest of my health. 

They were concerned, when asked if God forbid anything happen with my heart if they should take all measures to save my life and at twenty-one, I told them "no, DNR." 

I was depressed, I didn't care. I was numb to the warnings. I was becoming smaller and smaller, until the demon swallowed me whole.

Part of my brain was still the overachiever, perfectionist who wanted to be at work, wanted to be at school, and wanted to participate in all the activities I once loved, especially life. I felt sad when my friends came to visit to tell me stories about their classes, nights at the bar, and blind dates they went on. I was twenty-one. I wanted to go to the bar. I wanted to be out drinking whiskey, rather than cooped up in the hospital, drinking laxative soda. I wanted to go on dates, but I didn't want any man to see me like this. I didn't want anyone to see me like this. 

The disordered part of my brain felt great sense of accomplishment when I stepped on the scale and watched the number decline. I wondered how low it could go. My brain felt like it was on a high. I felt like I could sustain on no food, just gum and seltzer water and diet soda. I wished I could do all of the things I loved without worrying about the stress of having to eat. 

The next morning, my mom had drove four miles to be by my side, and start making decisions for me. When I woke up and saw her there, I was pissed. 

"Why did you come?" I asked. "You should just go home." 

I was scared having her there. She was going to make me gain weight. They were trying to force me into recovery and it wasn't fair. I wasn't ready to choose recovery. I still wasn't happy.  

When the psychologist came in that day, I begged for medicine, something I had always been against. 

"I can't live like this anymore," I told her. "It's as if I'm already dead. My spirit is gone." 

During this entire struggle, the biggest loss for me was losing my sense of faith. I loved studying Buddhism, I felt it filled my spirit more than anything else. It helped me to remain calm, not to take things in life so seriously, to be a better daughter, a better friend, and a better sister, and helped me learn to act, not react. Suddenly, everything I read in the books felt like bullshit. I could read it, but I didn't believe it anymore. It seemed impossible that such philosophies could be applicable to my life. 

The nutritionist at the hospital threatened that if I didn't start eating, they would have to insert a feeding tube. I was in the hospital for five days, and I was losing weight by being in bed. I was 84 lbs and I still couldn't walk on my own. I couldn't take more than a few steps to the portable toilet placed next to my bed, and even then, I needed help getting up so I didn't fall. 

When I was stabilized, I was placed on the regular hospital floor, where I would get a feeding tube placed. I couldn't avoid it anymore. I had made every excuse. Every time the doctors made a threat, I promised I would eat all of my food, knowing that eating such a high volume was physically impossible for me at this point. I promised to drink boosts, but again, I couldn't drink as many as I would need to to even maintain my weight. 

I had heard of people who pulled out their feeding tubes, and I was sure that's what I would do once the doctors and my mom had left me alone. Until they placed it. I was told to drink soda from a straw as two doctors leaned over my bed strategically sliding the tube up my nose and down my throat. It felt like a sun burn sensation sliding down my throat, burning more and more on the way down. Considering my luck, the tube had to be replaced two more times before they had it right, because the end was coiling in my stomach, which would cause it to clog. 

The doctors gave me a Xanax so that I would stop crying and thrashing and hopefully be able to get some sleep that night. After having the tube pulled all the way out, back down, then back up and wiggled around inside my nose and around my stomach, I vowed I would never touch it, even if I had to leave it in forever. I never wanted that pain ever again.

With the feeding tube now in place, I still wasn't taking anybody seriously, although I was embarrassed of my appearance. 

I asked the nurses for a face mask, so my mom wouldn't have to see me with the tube in my nose when she came in the next day. When I put it on, we were all laughing, because I was still talking. I told the nurse that the nutritionist said the tube didn't have to be turned on tomorrow night [not true.] So I would go to bed having enjoyed my sugar free jello, one day less of having liquid calories poured down my throat. I was still manipulating, numb to the warnings of what could happen.

Story continued in part 5...