Trying on clothes post-recovery

Like everything else in my life post-recovery, I have a complicated relationship with shopping.

Through mainstream media and fashion, we are sold the idea that a size zero or size two equates to happiness: the best clothes, the hottest men, etc. 

For awhile, I bought this idea, too.

I worked hard to lean out my normally size eight body. I always ate well and exercised hard, so I couldn't understand why my body naturally gravitated and felt comfortable at a size eight.

That's too big, I told myself.

As I fell down further of the path of restricting, the weight started to slip off my body. Fast.

One would think this would have made me happy, but I was more uncomfortable than ever before.

Trying on clothes, I wasn't sure what to do. I have always preferred my clothes to fit me loosely rather than tight. It's a combination of the fact that I live in Florida, and want lighter, and looser fit clothing in the heat, with the added factor that I have always been uncomfortable with my femininity. Having what I deemed a 'larger' body, i.e a bigger chest, bigger legs, etc. I didn't want to show that off. 

I was always sold the message of small, and to do what you can to make your body smaller, take up less space. 

Now that my frame was smaller, I thought I might try on smaller, tighter clothes. Having a distorted perception of my body, I thought I looked good and wanted to show it off. 

But I was still unhappy. 

My body started to feel like a shell. An overworked, under-nurtured shell. There was no longer anybody home. No one inside.

As I looked in the mirror trying on clothes, I would begin to get upset as bones replaced where skin once protected what was inside.

I looked away before the tears started to fall.

I was sold the idea that a size zero would make you happy, you would look your best, feel your best, etc. However, having strayed so far from where my body felt naturally comfortable, I was anxious all of the time. This wasn't my body. 

I would throw the clothes over my head quick enough to tell if it fit, than I would take it off just as fast and decide whether or not I would make the purchase. 

I need to have something that fit.

I was going through clothes fast, and I couldn't stop.

Even my underwear began to slide off my body inside my shorts. 

It was too big. Nothing fit.

It felt like a direct daggar to my heart to watch my moms face fall as she watched me go into the fitting room with the smallest women's size in the store, and come out with three fingers in the side of the jeans, demonstrating it was too big.

My mom cried, and I returned to the fitting room so I could, too.

When the doctors told me that it was no longer safe for me to exercise, I gathered up all of my activewear from my closet and hid it in a drawer in the corner of my room, that I knew I wouldn't open and have to come face-to-face with on a regular basis.

It hurt me to see them. It tempted me to see them. I wanted to exercise.

Living in South Florida and being dangerously underweight, I spent most of the year, and all of summer in over-sized sweaters. I was always cold. 

I will never forget the feeling of immense shame when my mom had to take me to the kids section of Walmart in order for me to find clothes that fit.

I was just released from the hospital and desperate to get out of my clothes from the hospital closet. I wanted to throw them away, and never think of them again.

My mom picked out a few T-Shirts, and long sleeves from the boys section in various colors, and two sweatshirts to keep me warm.

As we walked, I held up my underwear with one hand to keep it from sliding down into my pant leg.

I was embarrassed to admit to my mom that I needed underwear that fit me. Having to hold it up throughout the day was making me angry and filling me with shame that my body was disappearing more and more everyday.

I whispered to her, and without a second thought my mom went over to the girls section to look for a pair that might fit me.

A 21-year-old woman should not have to be shopping in the girls section for clothes, let alone for underwear.

As a group of hot guys my age passed, my mom held up a pair of Halloween underwear with cat ears on them,

"how about these honey?" 

I looked at the boys and in that moment hung my head and wanted to sob. This was anything but sexy.

My once curvy body has been diminished to that of a six-year-old girl, and to add shame to the already blazing fire, it had cat ears and glitter.

As my body healed and I began to recover, my body started to fall back to it's natural weight, where it functioned best and felt healthiest finding clothes that fit again became a source of stress.

Luckily for my budget, I hadn't thrown away my old clothes before I had gotten sick, but in some way, it felt like a loss as they started to become less and less loose on my body.

My mom helped me accept the fact when she said, 

"just remember, these clothes [referring to the smaller clothes I had purchased] were never supposed to fit your body."

Rather than becoming disheartened when the smaller sizes didn't fit, I took my mom's advice and stopped trying them on. They were never my clothes. That was never my body. 

I rounded them up in a bag for GoodWill, and donating them, almost as if disposing the evidence that they had ever existed in my closet. They were never intended to be mine.

When it came time to purchase new clothes, I reunited with my old enemies- the fitting room, and the mirror. 

I tried not to look at the sizes of clothes past the point of picking them off the rack. 

If they fit and I felt comfortable, I would buy them, if not I would simply return them to the rack and try again.

To this day, I hate trying on clothes, but I take a few steps to make it easier mentally on myself.

First, I try not to judge my body. Which is the most difficult of all. If I am feeling bloated, I opt not to go into the fitting room at all, knowing the disordered part of my brain will have a field day dissecting my flaws and reminding me of them. In relation with this, once I feel that disordered part of my brain start to pick, I take it as a sign that it is time to stop. Shopping is no longer fun, and it is time for me to call it a day and do another activity.

Second, I don't focus too much on the size. I choose the size that I feel most comfortable with, which is a larger, looser option, and if it doesn't fit, I don't berate myself on why I can't fit into that given number. Every store has a different cut of clothing, so in some stores, you may be a different size than in others. In some stores, the clothing runs small or runs large. 

Third, I'm trying to put in practice more to stop following trends and what I see in magazines, and stick with what I know I like and feel comfortable in, that way the pieces will have longevity for me, and will be a staple in my closet.

For me, I like activewear, leggings, shorts, and T-Shirts when I'm at home, when I'm working, I like a loose blouse with pants, or a dress and cardigan. Those are my staples and what I feel best in. It works for me, may not work for everyone else. It's not supposed to. That's why they call it personal style.

I think given my past of distorted body perception, trying on clothes will always be a source of stress for me. But, I'm slowly realizing that it doesn't have to be. There are steps to make it easier and a more pleasant experience. 

What is 'extreme hunger' and how to deal

Potential trigger warning: this post contains numbers as related to calories and may contain description of my own personal diet. This is not intended to be followed, and any individual should discuss with their doctor to determine what works best for their body. I am not a dietitian, psychiatrist, or any of the sort, just talk about my own personal experience in my anorexia recovery journey in hopes of helping others. 

According to EDinstitute.org, extreme hunger is a common experience for almost everyone recovering from any kind of eating disorder. During this time, you may want and will need far more than the Homodynamic Recovery Method intake guidelines suggest, and find yourself consuming anywhere from 6,000 to 10,000 calories in a single day.

Before I was released from the hospital, I made a promise to my doctors that if they discharged me, I would stick to any meal plan they gave me at home.

The numbers at the time scared me. I was still severely underweight and had to gain a significant amount to be in a safe, normal weight range for my height.

Although the numbers given to me scared me, my doctors encouraged me not to focus on the numbers, not to focus on the long-term in terms of how far I still had to go, but to take it day by day. My doctors had also told me that the more I ate, the more my body would start to trust me again, and I would actually become hungrier. My hunger cues would return, but I wasn't yet at the point where I could only rely on my hunger cues. Sometimes I would have to eat when I wasn't hungry, trusting that my body needed the fuel to repair and rebuild the damage that had been done.

My doctors never told me about extreme hunger.

That would be something I would learn first-hand, on my own, with no one to explain what was happening to me.

The first time I heard my stomach growl outside of the hospital, I cried.

I was scared of my hunger cues. I was scared to feel hungry, after becoming comfortable with feeling empty for so long.

My stomach growled almost immediately after my mom and I had finished breakfast.

She had plated my food for me, as we were at our hotel breakfast buffet, and she knew full well if I was left to decide for myself, the choice of what I should have to eat would paralyze me with anxiety.

She had plated my meal like the doctors had instructed her: a carb, a fat, and a protein, what they say every meal should look like. Plus, I needed a little extra in order to ensure I would gain during the week.

I was having problems with feeling overly full, because I was just starting to eat normally without my feeding tube, so eating a full meal and everything on my plate was extremely uncomfortable and unsettling for me.

It felt like so. much. food.

But, it wasn't.

This was how people ate breakfast everyday.

But coming out of such a prolonged period of restriction, I had to work up to being able to eat normal meals again.

In my lowest periods of restriction, I would sometimes eat as low as under 600 calories a day, and not replenish calories burned from my workout.

My doctors wouldn't give me the number of calories I was expected to eat for fear that it would scare me. Instead they told me I would be able to eyeball it and know if a component was missing, I should add it to my plate for a more complete meal.

Almost immediately when I started eating full meals again and had access to food that wasn't hospital food, my hunger was ravenous.

I still thought about food all of the time, I worried about what I was expected to eat next and when, and I thought about the foods I was afraid to eat, and those I called my "uncompromisables" the food I wouldn't even dare challenge myself to, it was just a no.

I started waking up in the middle of the night hungry.

At the time, having heard nothing about extreme hunger, I was really worried that after severe restriction, my body might swing to the other extreme and start bingeing. For me, this didn't seem too illogical, considering some of these foods have been "banned" from my diet for almost five years! Now I was expected to eat it, encouraged even!

But, I would wake up in the middle of the night anywhere from midnight to 2 a.m. hungry, but with a very specific craving. For the most part, I always wanted peanut butter sandwiches.

I could wake up in the middle of the night, have a sandwich, go rest my head on the pillow, and I'd be hungry again!

I would look at my stomach as if to scorn it, "you just had one!" I whispered.

In the beginning of my recovery I would pace back and forth next to my bed, maybe go get some water, and hope the feeling would pass.

I would not become overweight, I thought. I couldn't believe this was happening to me.

After being unable to fall back asleep for an hour, I would have one, even two more sandwiches until I felt satisfied enough to go to sleep.

In the morning I would wake up starving!

I couldn't wait to go down to breakfast.

I felt like my body was betraying my mind.

These were foods I had been scared of just three weeks prior, and now my body could demand five peanut butter sandwiches in one sitting.

Mealtime still gave me immense anxiety, I was still scared to eat, but now my body had the hunger cues. It was asking to be fed, and I seemingly had no option but to give in.

Extreme hunger can provoke more anxiety for the person experiencing it, because a lot of doctors and therapists, even friends I have encountered didn't understand or had never heard the term before!

At the time I had thought they had never heard the term, because maybe I had made it up or something of the sort, but, they had most likely never heard of it because they themselves haven't experienced an eating disorder or had known someone who had.

I've had people tell me that I was binging, that I was compulsively eating, sleep eating, etc. This had really upset me, because I had vocalized that this had been such a big fear of mine. But the way that I ruled out binging or compulsive eating, and all that, is because with binging, you feel as if you have no control over the amount of food you are taking in and it is a short period of time. I always tried to be very mindful, especially when extreme hunger was particularly rampant. I would ask myself 'what is it that I feel like I need/want right now?' 'how would this nourish me?'

For example, during my period of extreme hunger, which lasted probably three-four months, I mainly wanted peanut butter sandwiches. During my periods of restriction, I had completely eliminated fats from my diet, and rarely, if ever consumed bread.

As my doctor explained, fat is necessary for cell growth and for energy, and our brain is made up of fat. So, it only made sense that I was craving what my body needed for repair, having been without fats for so so long.

I had read up a lot about extreme hunger, and I tried my best to explain to my family what it was and what I was experiencing. My family was really supportive, I think they were just so happy to see me eating properly again. I told my mom, mainly, too, because sometimes, as much as I tried to embrace and accept what was happening, it was exhausting.

She would encourage me to try eating more calorie-dense foods, so I wouldn't feel the need to take in a high volume, which scared me- the sheer quantity. However, it didn't seem to help. Sometimes after a day the scale would read a larger number, or my hunger cues just wouldn't rest, I would feel emotionally and physically exhausted, and need someone to talk me through.

I didn't share with everyone what I was experiencing, because as I mentioned, a lot of people who have never experienced eating disorders are not familiar with it. I felt embarrassed by the quantity of food I had to eat, but I knew it was essential for my recovery. My organs were showing signs of shutting down, and had begun to feed off of themselves I had been restricting for so long, so my body desperately craved these nutrients and in large quantities!

During this time, I mainly surrounded myself with my family and made my primary focus my recovery and getting to the weight I needed to be at.

I'm not trying to say that the process is easy- it most certainly is not. But, I put into practice some tips that made it a little bit easier for me.

• If you have been in a period of restriction for a long period of time, accept that extreme hunger is extremely possible for your body. Try to ask yourself what it is your body needs, or what it is you might want to nourish yourself [trying to throw away any previous food rules you might have followed].
• Understand that if you had lost a significant amount of weight, it will come back. This is not a bad thing and do not be scared of this. You are not gaining weight, necessarily. This is your body trying to get back to its natural, healthy state, where you can function best.
• Keeping that in mind, if your doctors/therapist, etc. needs to weigh you- don't look! Cover your eyes, step on the scale backwards, and don't be afraid to let them know not to talk numbers. You. are. not. a number. And there is no number goal in recovery. The numbers are for the doctors to worry about, not you. They will let you know when you're in a healthy range and if you start to slip below that. 
• A big thing for me during recovery was having restricted for so long, and loving shopping like I do, I had bought a lot of clothes that were not my normal size. When I started getting healthy again, these clothes no longer fit. Like I said above, know that this was never your size. This was never the healthy size you were intended to be. If knowing these clothes no longer fit will upset you, don't try them on, simply toss them into a donate pile, and don't give them a second thought.
• Explain to a few people close to you what it is you're going through so they'll be better able to understand and to help you when you hit rough patches.
• Do not compare what you're eating to what the people around you are eating. You are in recovery. Your body requires more than someone whose body has not experienced damage.
• Understand that the period of extreme hunger will not last forever, that it is temporary while your body rebuilds may help to reduce the anxiety you feel. It does not last forever. Your hunger cues will go back to normal.

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. 



          

Does 'recovered' ever truly mean recovered?

 Lao Tzu once said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,”

Me and my addictive personality have always thought that was a load of crap. I wanted to reach my destination now. I didn’t much care for the scenic route.

I’m slowly learning that it’s only when you can discipline yourself to slow down that you can truly appreciate the route you take.

I’ve also learned: slowing down is hard.

Almost exactly a year to the day that my recovery journey started, though involuntary, I chose to reflect on my progress.

Recovery is hard. It hurts. It’s messy and confusing and scary. It’s not beautiful, but at the same time, it is. It takes time. A lot of it. You will mess up, you might mess up a lot. But, that’s OK, too, that’s part of the journey and the lessons learned contributes to your growth.

Almost a year into recovery, I often wonder if ‘recovered’ ever really means recovered. Maybe it varies from person to person. Maybe for some, it’s possible to make it on to greener grass and relax there for a little while. For some, their footing in recovery is a little more solid.

Not for me.

My footing in my recovery constantly feels like I’m on wobbly ground, or as if I’m re-learning to walk again. Because I have. Literally. And I am. Figuratively. I always feel as if I’m one insult or comment about my body, or one triggering food or situation away from backpedaling. I am always on guard, and so is my body, refusing to let me restrict my way into nothingness for a second time.

My recovery journey started out of necessity, rather than by choice.

It was my second attempt. My second time being admitted in the ICU after a two month fight against it. The first go-round in the ICU, I was there for four days, and against some of the doctors best wishes, released back home. Against their professional advice, I chose to forego inpatient treatment, and instead focus on my upcoming graduation, just a few months away. The truth is, I wasn’t ready to choose recovery. Nobody else could choose it for me, regardless of how bad they may have wanted to.

Having returned to campus against doctors and school officials wishes, I wasn’t allowed to seek treatment on campus, unless it was an absolute emergency. With my mom living on the other side of the state, we often stayed in touch throughout the day over text message.

Knowing that my mom took a chance on me, understanding how much school meant to me, and how badly I wanted to finish my schooling when I was supposed to, I was also sure that I was always honest with her.

I told her when I was tired, if I was having trouble walking, if I felt faint, if I was upset, and I admit when I made mistakes and cut corners.

One day at a time, one meal at a time, that’s what they told me. This wasn’t going to be easy.

I sang “Eye of the Tiger” to myself any time I had a particularly challenging moment surrounding meal time. I called my mom or sister while I was cooking or sitting down to eat, in hopes of alleviating the chance for a panic attack.

My second go-round in the ICU, I was on my way to my second class of the day at university, and feeling rather exhausted. At 21-years-old, I could barely make the seven minute trek across campus, without every muscle in my body feeling sore. I texted my mom, unsure if I would make it to my classroom.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I cried.

It felt like the muscles in my legs were abandoning me, suddenly we were on different pages, and they weren’t wearing my team colors.

Through the insistence of one of my kind, and patient professors, she told me that she would allow for me to miss that days class if I agreed to take myself to the hospital.

I thought about telling her that I did, and they chose not to admit me, and instead go home and go to bed early. I would try again tomorrow. But, for some reason, this time felt different, I wasn’t fully confident that I would see tomorrow, if I didn’t get help now.

I still wasn’t ready to choose recovery, but at minimum, I would need to be stabilized and have my electrolytes checked.

I was admitted to the ICU almost immediately, where I would spend the next week on bed rest, hooked up to various IV’s and fluids, and have a feeding tube inserted in my nose for the first time.

Sometimes when I’m feeling unstable in my position in recovery, I recall the pain of having three nurses crowd over my bed, wiggling the feeding tube down my nose, and how it burned as it curled in my stomach.

They had to readjust the tube three times after an X-Ray showed it was tangled in my stomach.

After a week, I was transferred to a medical unit, where I lived for six weeks.

Doctor after doctor told me about the toll eating disorders have on your body, and how serious my case was.

“If you were to leave here right now,” my doctor said, “you will not live, do you understand?”

I might have rolled my eyes, because I’ve heard it before.

The doctor had told me due to my limited intake of food, my organs started to feed off themselves, and were refusing to release waste.

“Just because you’re here,” one doctor said, “you can still die,” he said, “you are certainly not in the clear.”

I told my mom to ask him to go, because I thought he was being mean to me.

Even when I didn’t have a release date in sight, and doctors told me it may be months, I never felt sad, or scared, or much of anything, really. The only thing I cared about was school.

I wished I could work and complete school, without having to do any of the hard stuff.

Recovery was painful, and I still wasn’t ready to choose it.

I still cringe looking back at the journal they gave me during this time.

It was supposed to be used as a form of therapy, I guess, to get out my feelings, but instead, I logged what meals I ate and what percentage, trying to get around how much they made me eat. I wrote down new ‘food rules’ for when they finally discharged me, and I wrote how I couldn’t wait to get back to eating how I normally ate, how I couldn’t wait to be able to walk around the mall.

It’s been almost a year since I entered the hospital for what I would like to say was the final time. But like I said, recovery is not perfect, it’s not easy, and sometimes you mess up.

For me, my eating disorder is an addiction that resurfaces when my depression does, in times when I’m feeling stressed, or lonely. I’m addicted to the feeling of emptiness, it masks itself as a form of comfort, although I know it’s not, I have nothing else.

The beginning stages of recovery were hard. H A R D. hard. Hard.

Having lost over 60 lbs, meant I had to gain that weight back. And it came back faster than I was prepared for.

With my body refusing to trust me or let me restrict, my depression seemed to search for other ways to find that ‘comfort,’ other forms of self-harm for it to rear it’s ugly head and try to convince me that the beast was in control.

Recovery is messy. Sometimes that beast won. More often than I’d like to admit.

I’ve messed up, and weighed myself, knowing full well that I would not like the result. I’ve told doctors that I could handle the number, that I wouldn’t be upset and that they should tell me, ‘so I could be sure I was healthy,’ I lied, knowing I would use it against myself later. I stepped on scales at other people’s homes, because I wasn’t allowed to have one in mine, and hold it against myself later.

I’ve messed up, and restricted when I was feeling stressed.

I’ve messed up, and read labels, knowing that once I knew, it wasn’t something I could just unknow.

I’ve messed up, and worked out longer than I should have, than I knew my body could handle at the time.

I’ve messed up, and took more than I was prescribed.

I’ve messed up, and spent a few days in the hospital.

I’ve messed up, and never deleted the apps that track how many steps I take, or how many miles I bike.

Those apps send me ‘friendly reminders’ when I haven’t been as active as the previous day, or I haven’t burned as many calories as I did last week.

Those memos still send me into a frenzy.

“Why are you tracking your steps?” my mom asked. “You shouldn’t be tracking your miles, this is not a job,” she reminded me.

Quickly I became defensive, feeling the need to justify why my step count is so high, or why I feel like I need to ride X amount of miles X times per week.

My mom is very keen to my disordered behaviors, and not shy about calling them out.

I know she’s right.

I can recognize when my behavior is disordered, too. But I can’t stop. That’s part of the addiction.

It’s a challenge with myself in a battle against myself. It’s a numbers game. For someone who hates math, I get a little high off seeing the number higher than it was the last time I was on my bike, or the last time I went for a walk, because I can’t be trusted to jump on the scale and see what that number tries to deem my fate.

It’s a numbers game and nobody wins, but I’m addicted.

I still feel the need to excuse myself from conversation when I hear beautiful women, whom I admire talk negatively about themselves.

I feel that emptiness when I hear these women talk about their perceived flaws, or how much weight they think they need to lose, or what ‘magic diet’ they think will finally work for them. It’s not the kind of emptiness I’m attracted to, and I excuse myself from the conversation.

I still don’t know why I don’t allow myself the same courtesy when I start talking negatively about myself.

I’ve messed up more times than once, but like Lao Tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

I may have taken a lot of steps, but this journey is far from over.

In fact, it’s still only just beginning. 

How my mom supported me during recovery

"There are only four words that mean so much more than I love you, and those words are: I'm here for you." 

My mom was a prominent role in my recovery from my eating disorder and is a prominent role in my continuing battle against depression. 

When I first started showing signs of relapse with my eating disorder, everyone close to our family urged that my mom take action fast. They told her if anyone could, she would be the only one able to pull me out of the darkness, and away from my demons. 

No pressure, right?

My mom was all too familiar with my cycles of depression. I would become moody, withdraw from those around me, and slowly drop out of things that I loved to be a part of: I would stop writing entirely, have trouble getting up and ready for work, start skipping a class here and there, and so forth. 

When things got really bad, I started losing weight. Fast. 

Before the start of my last semester of university, school officials, and my doctors told my mom that in their professional opinion, it would be best for me to take a semester off from college. 

I was adamant that that would never happen. 

School is and has always been one thing that brought me immense pride. I love to learn. 

My mom went against what "professionals" were saying, because she knows her daughter. She knew that if I were forced to give up school, I would have nothing to fight for. School kept my mind occupied, and kept me from further withdrawing into my dark state of depression. 

With her help, I started my last semester of university, like I was supposed to. 

I was determined to prove the doctors and the professionals wrong, and show them that I was strong and well enough to finish out the semester. 

I would worry about treatment later. 

That plan worked out alright for approximately one month. After class one day I had 20 minutes to get to my next class across campus. I knew the strength in my body was declining, but viewed it as something that was frustrating rather than an actual problem. Halfway across campus, and five minutes late, I was covered in sweat, and breaking down in tears. 

I knew I wasn't well, but I was determined. I couldn't fathom the thought of giving up school. 

And then I thought of my mom. 

I thought of everything she put on the line for me, because she knew how important school was to me. 

And I kept walking. 

I made it through my next class, and had two hours to kill until the next. 

I walked up to my professors office, and broke down crying. 

"I can't go to class," I told her. "I need to go back to the hospital."

I told her everything, because I had previously skipped class, claiming that my stomach hurt and I needed to go home right away.

My professor was extremely encouraging and said that if I promised to drive myself to the hospital right then, that she would excuse me from class. 

I thought about driving home instead, and telling her that they didn't need to admit me. 

Then I thought about my mom. And I thought about how long it would take me to walk to my car. How I couldn't walk up five flights of stairs to get to my car. I was only 21. I thought about my heart and how I could barely feel it beating. I thought about my mom and how she tried to hide the fact that she was crying every time we hung up the phone. I thought about the fact that she told me she was scared that the last time she saw me would be the last time she would ever see me. 

I drove myself to the hospital.

And I was admitted right away. 

Not long after I was admitted into the Intensive Care Unit of the hospital, my mom drove four hours across state to be by my side. 

She had no choice. 

Due to the disorder, the doctors declared me unfit to make decisions that were in my own interest. 

I don't know if I will ever forgive myself for the first words I said to my mom after she made that drive. 

"Why are you here?" 

The part of my brain that was consumed by the eating disorder wanted her to leave. That part of my brain was trying to consume the part that was still healthy. The part of my brain that called my mom every morning to catch her up on the things that happened in the last 18 hours since we last spoke. That part of my brain had been working for years to take over and shrink me into nothing. That part of my brain knew that my mom would make decisions to make me well again, and that part of my brain was pissed. 

During the last year, my mom put her life on hold for many weeks to sit by my side in the hospital. 

During that time, she had to hear countless doctors tell her that if I were to be released right then, I would most likely die. They told her of the possible permanent damage I did to my heart and my liver. 

During that time my mom had to be a bystander to the disorder. She was by my side as I refused meal after meal, making up rules as to why I couldn't eat them, or why I couldn't drink this or that, and why I wouldn't take the medicine the doctors were bringing me. 

During that time, my mom kept her composure as I cried, I asked her to leave, or I refused to talk to her. 

Regardless of what I said, my mom was able to distinguish the part of my brain that was the disorder trying to take over, and the part of my brain that begged her to stay longer at the end of the day. And she came back to visit me in the hospital every day for six weeks. She brought me the newspaper, emails from professors and friends, and sat by my side, encouraging me to write, and forcing me to get out of bed and take walks, and wash my hair every day. 

My mom offered conversation as distraction during meal times, because she knew how stressed out it made me. She calmed my fears and talked me through them as I attempted to finish meals like I once did without hesitation. 

During this time, she tried never to let me see her cry. 

My mom came back day after day, regardless of what my mood was like, regardless if I didn't feel like talking, or if I was tired, and wanted to sleep during our entire visit. 

During this time, she had to help me do things a mom shouldn't have to help their 21 year old daughters do. 

She helped me stretch my legs when I couldn't hold them up on my own. She helped me walk laps up and down the hallway, as I worked to regain my strength, she helped me get in and out of the shower, standing close-by, just in case I fell. 

During this time, my mom still knew how important school was to me. She brought me my books, pens, and paper every day to work on my homework. 

At the end of the day, she would take home my work, type it up and mail it to my professors. 

We kept in contact like this throughout the semester, so we could ensure I would graduate on time. 

I made dean's list that semester. 

During this time, my mom never gave up on me. 

To this day, I know I can call my mom, and tell her my struggles and we will talk through them together. She lets me know to raise any red flags as soon as I can, if I feel myself sliding backwards, and she checks in with my sister. 

I am so grateful for my mom and her unwavering love and patience with me during this time. 

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.