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.