"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...
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