I didn't believe in self-talk, and then I tried it

 "How are you using the word when it comes to describing yourself? When you look at yourself in a mirror, do you like what you see, or do you judge your body and use all those symbols to tell yourself lies? Is it really true that you are too short or too tall, too heavy, or too thin? Is it really true that you're not perfect just the way you are?" 

 -Don Miguel Ruiz 

My therapist has been assigning me homework for the last six months, and for the last six months, I haven't done my homework.

"I'm serious. This week I want you to do it," she told me, trying to be encouraging.

For six months she's been trying to get me to write a list of affirmations I can tell myself.

"Not the cheesy ones," she clarified. "Things you can actually believe."

She said I didn't have to tell myself I would be a millionaire, that I am strong, and beautiful, and brave, or any of those popular affirmations you may see on Pinterest or embroidered on a kitchen towel.

"Just three things every day that you like about yourself," she said. 

I promised I'd do it, and laugh as I hung up, fully intending never to do that. 

It was less about the affirmation, but more about challenging negative self-talk and the lies I led myself to believe about myself, as they came up in my mind. 

The problem is, living with depression, you may know what you should do. You may know what will make you feel better, but because you have depression, you don't feel capable of doing any of those things. 

I'd rather watch paint dry, clip my toenails way too short, or cut the grass with kitchen scissors.

But say something nice about myself? It seemed too tough a task. 

As an empath through and through, I don't like to think too much about myself. I don't like to sit alone with my own thoughts. I have depression. It could be scary there. I rather talk about what's bothering you. I'll listen and help you! Yeah, that idea I like! 

But through breakups, pandemics, self-growth, and self-reflection, I'm realizing, that's not always an option. 

What happens when someone's not there to vent to me? Who's left? 

Me. 

Shit. 

Bueller?          Bueller?        Hello?        No?        *Sigh*        

Okay, number one. 

The day I finally completed my homework, I was really excited to start our therapy session.

"I did it!" I proudly told her, chest puffed out.

I listed off one thing after the other that I love about myself. 

When I was done, I smiled at her, waiting for my round of applause, for her to tell me she was proud of me for finally listening. 

It never came. 

"What?" I asked.

"None of those things are about you," she said.

"What?!" 

Each thing I had listed about myself involved another person, she told me. It wasn't truly, at it's core, me. 

Again, I was diverting the attention elsewhere, in order to not have to focus on myself.

Again, she gave me the same lecture about self-talk and affirmations.

I was mad. I could have sworn I nailed it. 

Another thing about living with depression, is you feel impulsive. You may know the thing that will make you feel better, something that is healthy that will lift your mood and remove you out of that dark place, but, because you have depression, your mindset is: 

"Sure I know what to do, but the healthy route may take 45 minutes, while the unhealthy option only takes five!" 

This to me is the "get what you pay for" mindset. If you go the route of a temporary release, like seeing an ex that treats you poorly, drinking, using a drug, sex, gambling, or any other short-term solution, you have to consider the long-term consequences of that choice. 

How will you feel in an hour? six hours? tomorrow?

Probably not good. You may feel more anxious, more depressed, crave comfort food, want to sleep more, etc. 

Depression doesn't allow you to think through those long-term consequences. Depression is a one-track mind that tells you, "I feel horrible, what can I do to feel better right this second?" and laughs when the negative affects of the short-term solution route start to kick in. 

The more I talked with my therapist and she reiterated the idea of affirmations and self-talk, I begun to practice it, without realizing it, which is probably the only way to get me to do something.

Coming home from a stressful day, whether it be from work or a fight with my ex, rather than reaching for a short-term solution, I would take the time to slow down and acknowledge, "hey, I don't feel so great right now, and what I want to do probably isn't what I should do." and rather than reach for the short-term solution and risk the negative affects, I'd lace up my rollerblades, put on my headphones and go for a skate, or have a cuddle with my cat, swim in the pool, color a picture, etc. and I would end up feeling better, for a longer period of time, than I would have if I had chosen the alternative route. 

When I'd settle in for the night and start feeling lonely, rather than text my ex, which I would likely later regret, I'd say, "you know what? I don't need to do that. That isn't the best option for me based on how I'm feeling," and put on a funny TV show and have a laugh instead. 

Self-talk is HARD! It's not easy to take the time, especially in the moment when your emotions are high and unpleasant to slow down, acknowledge that feeling, and choose a healthy option. But I promise you, you will feel better if you choose the healthy option. 

Don't wait until you are in that emotional state to think about what a healthy option is for you. Have three go-to things that make you feel genuinely happy: maybe it's working out, writing, taking a hot bath, lighting your favorite candle and putting on an album, drawing, coloring, whatever it may be. Have them in the bank and know what they are. 

And when you feel yourself start to get in that emotional place, stop. Take a moment to acknowledge the fact that you're in an emotional state, and what got you there. Acknowledge it for what it is, without blaming yourself, and dismiss the desire to reach for a short-term solution. This may be having a cup of tea instead of alcohol, putting your phone on airplane mode, or going for a walk to re-center yourself. 

It may take half an hour longer, but the effects will last way longer and you will feel stronger in your ability to choose that option for yourself.

You can do it.

I believe in you.

My thoughts on medication

"All the commercials on TV today are for antidepressants, for Prozac or Paxil. And they get you right away. "Are you sad? Do you get stressed, do you have anxiety?" "Yes, I have all those things! I'm alive!"- Ellen DeGeneres

-------------------------------

I used to be extremely anti-medication to treat depression. That's just the way it was in my house, and the way we were led to believe that taking medication for depression or anxiety would alter your personality, or numb your feelings to the point of living in a zombie-like state. 

A large part of what turned me off from the idea of taking medication, was that it was the first 'solution' offered to help me with my depression.

I was eight years old when my doctor first recommended a prescription. I don't remember exactly what the medication was. My parents had just announced their divorce, and my dad would be moving out of the family house. 

Of course I'm depressed, I thought. My dad is leaving!

As I got more and more passionate about writing, I wanted to stew in the pain that I was feeling. I can use this, I told myself. I'm sure there's other kids who are feeling like me, who feel they are alone in receiving this news. When you're a kid and your parents announce they're splitting, you feel like that is the end; like you will never be part of a family again and that's it. Things don't look hopeful. Add in some messy components, with the transition of starting middle school soon, it's naturally a very turbulent time.

Most of all, I didn't want to feel like I wasn't normal, like I had to depend on a little white pill in order to feel alive. Why couldn't I just be alive? At the time, I was hiding the fact that I was going to therapy from my friends. If they had asked what I was doing after school, I would just say that I had plans with my mom. I couldn't fathom my friends finding out I had to go to therapy, let alone take a pill for my happiness. When you're a kid, you worry about these things, how people perceive you. 

My mom thought I was much too young to go on medication, she didn't want me to have to rely on a pill, and she thought that as my body adjusted to it, I would have to take more and more to get the same affect. We had no real experience in the side affects of antidepressants, because people around us just didn't talk about it.

Having been diagnosed with depression from such a young age, I have tried every natural remedy there is. I incorporated tea into my diet, I was already vegetarian and regularly consumed large quantities of fruits and vegetables, I minimized processed foods, I exercised more than anyone I knew, I did yoga, meditation, I listened to calming music. But as soon as the activity was over, the sadness was still there, roaring like a wildfire. 

The thing about depression, my therapist told me one day, is the more you try to conquer it naturally, the more likely it is to come back, and the more severe it will be when it does, and the less time you will have between bouts. 

I was told this during my freshman year of college. I was having an extremely hard time being away from home for the first time and on my own, and had fallen deep back into the throes of my depression. I had a hard time getting up to shower, I didn't enjoy going to work, or exercising. Nothing seemed exciting to me. Life had begun to feel like a chore. 

I told the therapist my concerns, and fear of side affects. I was very in-tune with any changes to my body and how I was feeling, having managed my depression naturally for so long. But, she was persistent. And I agreed to try the lowest dose of Lexapro. 

The doctor warned me to give it some time for my body to adjust, but to take note of any adverse side affects I was experiencing. 

The first night, I woke up in the middle of the night with itchy skin. I felt like my arms and my back were burning. I walked to the sink and rubbed water up and down my arms and splashed it onto my back. 

The next day, I told the therapist it wasn't for me. 

She insisted that maybe that specific type wasn't the right fit, but to try another. 

I insisted my ability to conquer it on my own was greater than whatever concoction was inside that pill.

I didn't try another medication until the summer after my sophomore year of college. I was staying in my hometown for a few weeks, and my surroundings again were pretty new having not spent a long amount of time there in a few years.

I went to my family doctor and told him about the anxiety I was experiencing. Even in places I used to feel comfortable and with people I used to feel comfortable around, suddenly I'd become overwhelmed with anxiety.

My depression was not new, I had become more adept to dealing with it, but the constant bouts were causing me to lose hope of ever shaking it 'naturally'.

My doctor prescribed me a fairly large dose of Prozac. I was not hopeful, but I felt desperate to give anything a shot at feeling normal and comfortable again inside my own body. I would give it a longer shot for the side affects to wear off and even out.

About two or three weeks on the medicine, it was the first time I ever truly contemplated suicide.

I remember first losing track of time. I was laying in my bed with no motivation to get up, just staring at the wall. I felt hopeless that my life would always look like this and it would always be an up and down battle of bout between feeling sort of 'OK' and feeling restrained to my bed, buried by my depression.

After becoming afraid of the thoughts the medicine produced in terms of wanting to take my own life, I called my doctor and immediately went off the medicine. I decided it was just something that didn't seem to work for me.

I did fairly well managing my depression through a combination of writing, drinking tea, limiting alcohol intake, and exercising regularly.

However, my depression resurfaced during my senior year of college in a way that I did not recognize.

Suddenly, it became hard to eat. I felt like physically I could not sit down and eat a meal. I was too sad to take the time to slow down and have that time for myself. I became afraid of the food that I knew would properly nourish my busy days. I was scared of what would keep me alive.

In September of 2016, I was admitted to ICU for the second time with severe depression and anorexia. My heart rate was in the high 30s, and I signed a 'DNR' because I did not want to live anymore.

My doctors had asked me if I wanted to speak with a therapist, but I declined. I didn't think there was any way that they could help me. Just like the doctors had done, I had wrote myself off as being a lost cause. They recommended trying an antidepressant or an anti anxiety medicine, but I declined, because of how my body had reacted in the past.

Eventually, it became so overwhelming, where I was not able to properly take in food, or concentrate long enough to hold a full conversation, that I turned the corner and was willing to try anything one more time to give me a shot at life.

My doctors started me on a low dose of antidepressants, one I have never tried or heard of before. I had told them my previous history with medication, and she told me she had a high success rate for this one. I felt hopeful and trusted her.

Two days after I started the medication, I felt like a cloud was lifted from my thoughts. Things had turned from a dark shade of gray to a mild one. I was able to sit up in my bed and greet my mom. I was able to focus on our conversation and I felt like I wanted to talk. I wanted the company. Things were going in the right direction.

The medicine had helped me get my will back and slowly I began to care less about the food I was putting in my body. My brain was no longer rejecting it for whatever reason it could come up with to avoid the food. My brain wasn't preventing my life source.

I've been on the same medication now for over two years, and sometimes I am in awe of how my life looks like today. Having dealt with depression for so long, I didn't think it was possible for me to feel genuine happiness and feel comfortable in my own skin and my body. I think back to these low times and I feel grateful for those people that did not let me give up.

I have people ask me how I managed to get my depression under control, like there is a one-size-fits-all approach. Believe me, I know how disheartening it can be to feel like there is no hope. I know how frustrating it can be to try natural approach after natural approach and not see the results that you had hoped for. I know how scary it can be to try a medication that you have an adverse reaction to, or does not work well enough for you.

Treatment is a lot, a lot of trial and error. And ultimately, patience. First, decide what you want as a treatment approach is a very personal thing. If you believe your specific instance may require and benefit from medication, do your research and talk to your doctor. In talking to a doctor, I would question any doctor who jumps to prescribe you medicine before fully understanding your diagnosis and your situation. Are you in a particular time of stress? (moving, break up, loss of a family member, starting school, etc.) These may not require medication, but could benefit from journaling, or eating more fruits and vegetables, moving your body with exercise, talk therapy, etc.

I would recommend keeping a journal throughout your treatment to document how your mood changes with each treatment approach. This is the best way to find out what works for you and what didn't, and go back to the drawing board.

Remember: what works for one person will not work for everyone. Some people will benefit from a low dose of medication, and others may need a higher dose of a different medication. 

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. 



          

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.

Things never to say to someone recovering from an eating disorder

Something I've noticed not a lot of people have experience with is talking to someone recovering from an eating disorder. 

Once people know, they may feel awkward, unsure of how to talk to someone, but knowing they want to be supportive. 

I've encountered doctors, family members and friends who did not know how to talk to me regarding my recovery from anorexia. I've had some speak out in ignorance, comment how my body was growing: I got my hips/butt/boobs back, which to me, is not a compliment. It's surface level and insincere. To me, it would mean more if they had said something like how proud they were to see me enjoying the activities that I used to, how happy they were to see me writing again, etc. I've had some family members who threw their hands up in the air in frustration, 'unsure of what to tell me,' annoyed, I would respond, 'say nothing!' Letting it linger as the elephant in the room. 

Throughout my recovery and to this day, I am often uncomfortable in my recovering body and accepting my regained appetite. However, at the same time, I am determined to educate those who are unsure on how to talk to those recovering. It is not a topic to be avoided entirely, but one to be understood. One that requires a little bit of patience and a little bit of empathy. 

I've asked my Instagram followers to add their input on the topic of what not to say to someone recovering from an eating disorder:

[On what to eat]: 

• "Just eat."- If it were that simple, no one would have an eating disorder. Telling someone with an eating disorder, or a history of disordered eating to 'just eat' is like telling someone with depression to 'just smile,' or someone with cancer to 'just be well.' Also, for someone with a history of disordered eating, there is a lot of anxiety surrounding meal times, a little patience and empathy goes a long way. Practice it. 

• "You should eat x...."- We know what we should eat, we know what we actually want to eat. The problem is the little voice in our head that is spewing us lies that we are fat, not good enough, etc. and the little voice that feeds us 'rules' about what types of foods are 'good' or 'bad' for us blurs what we should and should not do, resulting in a panic.
  
•  "I eat x..." "I follow x meal plan/diet"- For lack of better words, I don't care and neither does anyone else. A diet is something very personal, projecting your beliefs surrounding nutrition is rude and unnecessary. Every body is different, and every person requires different things. I had one therapist who supposedly specialized in eating disorders rave to me about her low-carb diet, and all of the components. While she thought she was being helpful, I found her to be extremely triggering, because I would constantly compare what she told me was in her diet to my self-mad 'rules' about my own diet.
  
•  "What is that?" - Questions that seem normal to those who have not experienced disordered eating feel like personal attacks to someone who has. Asking simple questions like 'what is that?' 'what are you eating?' can invoke a lot of anxiety. When I was recovering, if someone asked about anything on my plate, I would make it a point not to eat the thing they were asking about and throw it away. Meal times caused a lot of anxiety for me, so someone making innocent conversation with me about my food felt like added pressure, and I couldn't go through with eating it. Once it was questioned, in my mind, the food was 'bad.'
  
•  "That's a lot of protein/fat/carbs"- Again, someone who is recovering has different needs than someone who did not have a past of disordered eating. For me, this was eating a load of carbs, because my body was trying to gain back the weight it had lost, and while I was sick, I refused to eat any carb that was not natural (fruit/vegetable), and banned off fats altogether.  
  
•  "Did you finish that?"- *See above* A person recovering has different needs. Meaning, they will need more calories than people who don't have a disordered eating past. Out of treatment, they recommend three snacks per day along with three meals. This alone can cause anxiety for someone recovering, especially if the people they are around are not eating as often as they are. It's best to be supportive, and not comment on food, if you can help it.
  
• "Save some for me," "You're eating me out of house and home" [hahaha]: Food 'jokes' to someone recovering are not and will never be funny. Not at all. Like I said, food is something that causes major anxiety, especially the amount, if someone had a past history of restricting. It is common for someone recovering to experience extreme hunger, where it is normal to eat 5,000+ calories per day to repair the damage they have done to their bodies. This makes the sufferer extremely uncomfortable and it is best to be supportive. Try saying things like: 'You're recovering,' 'Your body is working to repair the damage that has been done.' 'Listen to your body.'
•  "That's a lot of food for someone so little"- Just don't make this comment ever. To anyone. Recovering or not. How much food someone is eating is none of your business. Every body is different and requires different things to run efficiently. In this case, just mind your business. What works for you, might not work for someone else. 

And more... 

In general, if you know someone is recovering from a past of disordered eating, it is best to not discuss food with them. What may be innocent to someone without a history of eating disorder, may interpret in the sufferers mind differently. What may seem innocent to you, may turn into a 'food rule' for them. It's best to avoid it entirely and focus on conversation about work/your day/plans for the weekend, etc. Anything not involving food/exercise. 

[On body]:

"You were never fat" : Eating disorders are not always about appearance, but sometimes a poor self-esteem/depression, which was the case for me. Instead, try saying something about how much the persons friendship means to you, how you appreciate his/her ability to always make you laugh, how loyal of a friend they are. A body is merely an outer shell to hold who we really are. People do not hangout with other people, because their body looks a certain way. If they do, these are not people you need in your life.

"You look so healthy" : This is another one of those statements that may sound innocent, or even encouraging to someone who has not had a history of eating disorder, but to someone who suffered from an eating disorder/poor body image, the evil voice in their head that holds the disorder near and dear translates healthy to mean fat.

"You're getting your butt/boobs back" : I got this one a lot while I was recovering. Before I got sick, I had a very athletic/muscular body. However, I was very uncomfortable with my recovering body, as I was unable to workout during this time. What would be a compliment to some, upset me to no end. I never took this as a compliment, rather an insult. I am not my body. Anyone can have a 'nice body,' but what about my ability to write? What about my determination at work? Compliment me on something I actually worked for, something unique to me. That means more to me than surface level compliments ever will. 

Have you lost weight?/At least you're starting to gain weight back/ How much do you weigh now?/ I weigh X...: Don't ask questions about weight. Good or bad. Numbers should be off limits, especially for someone recovering from an eating disorder. People with a history with eating disorders often have a distorted body image perception, so they will likely always assume they are gaining weight, even if they're not. To regain a healthy view on their bodies, they should avoid weighing themselves in the first place. 

I had several doctors that would shout out my new weight across the hospital, because they were so happy to see that I gained. For my disorder, this made me feel like a failure. I didn't want to hear the number, let alone have it shouted across the room. This often led to me having a panic attack in the parking lot inside my car, vowing to rely on behaviors to go face-to-face with that scale next week. If you have to be weighed for medical reasons, it's best to face the other way, look up at the ceiling, or ask the doctor to cover the numbers, which is what mine eventually had to do. 

• Another thing that may be off-limits for someone recovering from a history of disordered eating is exercise. : For me, at least, when I was recovering and unable to exercise myself, I would become very angry hearing anyone talk about their workout, seeing a women's health magazine, or anything of the sort. I wanted to move my body, and I would misplace my frustration on anyone who could do so in a healthy manner. 

Note: This list is subjective, based on my first-hand experience and opinions, along with some tips added from my Instagram followers input. Each case is different. If you are unsure of how to talk to a friend or loved one recovering from an eating disorder, it's best to ask them, "What topics are off-limits for you?" "Is it OK that I talk about this?" The best thing you can do as a friend is be supportive, patient, and empathetic to their unique situation. 

           

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. 

One Size Does Not Fit All

If you've walked through any major retailer in the mall lately, you may have noticed the increase in "one size fits all" labels making an appearance inside the seams of many of our favorite brands. You know, the brands that typically have a celebrity ambassador, and overly sexualized print ads.

Upon first glance, that tag can cause anxiety in many people. "What if" tends to be our first thought. "What if 'one size fits all' means 'all, except me?'" 

Credit: Rachele Cateyes

These are not clothes you want to buy. 

You want to buy clothes that make you feel good about your body, whatever size you are right now. You want clothes that make you feel like the confident being that you are. Why are we still supporting brands that are trying to trick us into believing that in order to fit into their labels, we first need to change something about our appearance? Until this happens, the ads mock, we cannot possibly expect to look good in the clothes. 

These are clothes I will not buy. Or try on for that matter. 

Recently, I have started shopping small, from local designers [Esty], or thrift shops. On one shopping adventure on the gypsy junQue bus, I noticed the designer I was shopping from had all of the labels cut out of her clothes. 

Initially, I thought it was a mistake, and I was a little annoyed:

How was I supposed to know whether or not the clothes were going to fit me or not? 

Little did I know, the owner of the boutique, Elke Lockert, had intentionally cut out the size labels on all of her clothes to promote body positivity and divert our attention and preoccupations with the size of our waists and hips, and back to the craftsmanship of the clothing. 

"I've worn a size 4, and I've worn a 3XL," said Lockert. "If it fits, it fits. If it doesn't, something else will. You shouldn't have to look at a tag and think, 'I can't fit in it, because I've been programmed to think I'm a certain size." 

Credit: Pretty Pear Bride

About two weeks after this initial encounter with no labels, I was browsing a local thrift shop, and noticed there were no labels in the shirts. Rather than feeling similar irritation, I felt a sense of calm. 

I didn't feel the need to know the size, and I liked not knowing. 

I didn't have anxiety attached to a number, because it didn't matter what it was. 

If I liked the shirt, I would try it on, and if it fit, I would buy it. If it didn't, I would put it back on the rack, without giving it a second thought and avoiding the disappointment or shame which is often involved in trying on clothes when we make ourselves hyper-aware of labels.

Who cares what the label says? We are the only ones that know what it says on the inside of our jeans, or on the tag of our shirts. We are the only ones that hold the power to let that number either dictate or destroy us. Don't let it. That number does not give, or takeaway our worth.

Our character is what gives us our worth: our kindness, our heart, our sense of wonder and creativity, our sense of humor, and our loyalty to our friends and family.

This is what matters.