"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 two of my story here:
I was given an ultimatum. I drove myself to the hospital, just to prove to my mom that I didn't need to be there. I would be forced to wait there for hours, checked out, only to be sent home. I better bring a book.
I was admitted almost immediately to the Intensive Care Unit. My weight was now in the double digits and my heart rate was in the high 30's.
The feeling of not being able to 'physically eat' I was told was called delayed gastric emptying. My body was not getting enough food, so it was holding on to whatever nourishment it did get, refusing to release an ounce, even waste. The build up of waste was collecting in my body and blocking my stomach, which forced me to feel full all of the time.
I cried after being admitted. Not because I was scared of the incessant warnings of my body shutting down, or my heart stopping in the middle of the night, but because I had work the next day, and my phone was dead. I was scared of eating in the hospital, not being able to choose what they brought me or when I could eat.
Meals came frequently. Too frequently: 7:30, 4:30, 6:30. I sent back almost all of my trays in my five day stay. I faked allergies, told them the food was bad, and claimed I wasn't hungry.
Having restricted so long, I no longer felt hungry. My hunger cues were skewed and mostly gone. My doctors told me my body was feeding off the waste it was holding, and my internal organs, and if I didn't stop, they would start to shut down. My hair was falling out, I was cold all of the time, despite the 90 degree Florida heat, my skin had a tint of yellow, and I haven't had a real period in over a year.
Even being in the ICU, I found a way to manipulate the system. Having sent back so many meals, the doctors let me choose anything I wanted to eat, whatever I would be willing to eat. They were lenient with me, because they knew until I was able to release the waste my body was hoarding, I wouldn't be able to take in too much food. It would actually be dangerous, because I wouldn't release any of it.
The doctors said until I was able to use the bathroom, I would have to stay in ICU under monitoring. I was prescribed laxatives, magnesium citrate, and an enema to help. Nothing worked. The doctors were shocked.
I was given one more day, and if I wasn't able to go on my own, they would have to operate to remove the waste, leaving a permanent scar on my stomach.
It was almost as if my bowels heard the threat from my doctors loud and clear, and I was able to go on my own.
Having stayed in the ICU for almost a week, you don't have any shame at the end of the week. Besides using the bathroom, which was a makeshift pot located next to my bed, I was on bed rest. I 'showered' with wet wipes, and the doctors had to help change my gown, because of all of the wires I was hooked up to.
I was only twenty years old, encountering the same complications my 90 year old grandpa was just a few months prior.
I was released the same day, against the psychologist wishes. He was convinced if they released me to my home, and not a treatment center, I would go right back to my old habits.
He was damn right.
I was convinced I had to make up for the lost time that I was in the hospital. I had to lose the weight that I was sure they injected into my body through the IV. I was bloated everywhere and I felt disgusting.
Against doctor and school officials wishes, I declined further treatment. I was adamant against residential treatment, knowing that being in a facility for 30 days with no access to technology or the outside world would not help me in the slightest. Really, I didn't want to be monitored for every morsel I did or did not put in my mouth. I wanted to get better on my own. I did it before, surely I could do it again. I was determined to start and finish my final semester of university and walk across the stage for graduation.
My mom and I received an email prior to school starting that if I was determined to continue school against their warnings, we had to sign a waiver releasing the university of any liability, should anything happen to me on campus. Also, I wasn't allowed to attend the health center on campus for counseling, unless it was an emergency.
After four years of attending counseling with the same person, I felt extremely betrayed, but I was determined to prove her wrong.
I would finish the semester, then in December, I would enter treatment when I had more time.
To me, it was school first, work second, me last. Always last.
I had a panic attack my first day of school. I woke up two hours before my class to make breakfast and have my coffee. My morning routine always took me so long, because I always had to have the same breakfast, regardless of time constraints.
I was out of breath walking from my car in the parking garage, to the elevator to get to my class on the second floor. Then, I had 20 minutes to make it to my next class across campus. It took me 10 minutes longer than it normally would. I was jealous of the people speed walking past me, as I struggled to even make it at a snail crawl. I knew I should probably take the elevator up the three flights, but I wanted to work my legs- get in some extra steps, so I took the stairs.
It only took me three weeks, before I realized that I wouldn't be able to finish out the semester. I was panicked. I had already started, and I didn't want my mom to lose her money on tuition. It was my last semester before graduation and I didn't want to lose my job. I would get treatment in December, and push through.
It was a conversation I had with my mom that led me to be honest with myself on my evaluation of my health.
She went to bat for me to finish school, despite all of the doctors and professors warning her of the dangers, of how close I was to death. She was the only one who knew that if I gave up school, I would give up hope.
"Please don't prove them right," she pleaded.
It was after that second class, that I knew I wouldn't be able to make it to my next one, two hours later. It was only up one more flight of stairs and down the hall, but I felt like my legs were locking in place. I physically could not make it.
My professor had already asked me if everything was OK with me, so she suspected something was up. I had skipped her class before on a count of "I didn't feel well." With no shame left, it was the only time in my life I was OK with someone assuming I had the shits, rather than reveal the truth.
I broke down in her office, and she told me it would be OK to skip class, if I promised to go to the hospital right away and stay in touch with her. Knowing I couldn't walk back down the stairs and across campus to the parking garage, she pulled her car in front of the elevator, and drove me to my parking spot.
Sitting in my car trying to catch my breath, I went back and forth with whether or not I should actually go to the hospital, or if I should just go back to my apartment and take a nap.
How would she know, anyway?
Story continued in part 4...
No comments:
Post a Comment