Bringing your eating disorder on vacation

"Don't let your mind bully your body"

The first thing that comes to mind when I plan a vacation is: where am I going to go to the gym?

There have been too many instances where my eating disorder has gotten in the way of truly getting to experience new things, or enjoying old things with my friends and family; like passing up pizza and bagels in New York, refusing to go to restaurants with my sister in California, and opting for only salad at the all-inclusive buffet on a cruise. My eating disorder loves to vacation, despite the fact that she was never invited.

My family has a tradition to go on a cruise every year at Christmas.

This year was a 7-day cruise of the Caribbean.

Before we were set to depart, immense anxiety set in. I had a good routine going at the gym, and I depended on it to manage my depression. My mom said that she didn't want me going to the gym every day on the cruise, only days when we were at sea.

I didn't like that restriction.

She told me she didn't want me eating only salad.

I didn't like that restriction.

I didn't like the rules. My eating disorder hates rules. She hates knowing she's being watched, and likes to act in spite of rules. I was going to work out. And most likely, I was going to only eat healthy.

She was not invited, but like always, she threatened to stow away in my carry-on. She goes where I do, she reminded me. She did not need a formal invitation.

Sometimes rules can help.

I don't like to count the days of recovery, because every day is work.

When focused on recovery, making rules can be really beneficial in staying on track. For me, the rules were almost anti-rules. Every rule my eating disorder made, for example what foods were considered 'safe', or rules about working out, my recovery mindset would be the opposite.

I promised my mom that while we were on the cruise, I would only go to the gym on days we were at sea all day. When we were at port, we would be walking around and exploring for the majority of the day, so we would still be getting exercise. Plus, I didn't want to be tired or sore.

I told myself that I would not use food or exercise as an excuse to miss out on experience. If my mom or sister asked me to do something, I would do it. I would not skip anything, because I had to go to the gym.

When my mind challenged me, I reminded myself that indulging in a few meals I would not normally eat would not throw me off-track. Having dessert would not cause me to gain a significant amount of weight. Not working out for a few days would not throw off my progress. Vacation is meant to be enjoyed. I reminded myself that my diet and my gym would be there when I got back home. The things in front of me, like local beer, decadent desserts, homemade pastas were not always available to me.

New things

I have never known a vacation where my eating disorder was not along for the ride, so this trip felt truly special to me.

I tried the local beer at every port we stopped at. I had plantains in Dominican Republic. We went to a chocolate factory, where I had the best hot chocolate I ever tasted in my life. I bought two candy bars to bring home, that never made it home, because they were so good. I had rum at Casa de Bacardi in Puerto Rico. I had homemade pasta on the cruise three nights in a row.

We learned how to roll cigars in the Dominican Republic, and in the Bahamas I snorkeled for the first time in the bluest waters I've ever seen.

Of course in the back of my mind, old thoughts were always there. But, I didn't allow myself to act on them. I reminded myself as often as I needed to that these experiences were once-in-a-lifetime.

At the end of the trip, I felt happiness, because I did not allow food or exercise to get in the way of experience. I spent time with my mom and my sister, and I was not angry, or bitter about food or exercise. I wanted time and connection. I felt happy that I was unchained from the disorder for 7 days to truly experience new things, and at the end of the trip, I did not have feelings of guilt that I missed out, or I didn't do something that I wanted to do, and that my mom and sister did not feel burdened or as if they missed out because of my disorder.

Given that eating disorders thrive off rules, I think setting 'anti-rules' can be helpful for some in breaking disordered habits. For example: "I will only go to the gym when x, and if someone invites me to do something, I will not say no, because I feel like I have to go to the gym", or "I know vacation is only x days, so I will try local foods", "I am only home for so long, so I will eat my favorites with no guilt"

At the end of the day, I think there is more unhappiness brought from feelings of missing out and missed opportunities, than if you ate the cake, or had the beer.

Joining a gym post-recovery

"Recovery is something that you have to work on every single day and it's something that doesn't get a day off." -Demi Lovato

Early in my recovery, working out was my biggest fear. For me, exercise has always been a slippery slope, as I didn't know how to do it halfway, in a healthy way.

When I was in the thick of my eating disorder, I remember working out until I felt faint. I would go to the boxing gym on an empty stomach, throwing all of my weight at the bags as if my life depended on it. Because in my eyes at that point, it did. My mom was worried because of my weight, I might break a bone. But, I refused to take a day off.

I wanted to work harder than anyone else in the gym, never realizing that no one else was competing. I felt frustrated when my body refused to run on fumes, instead, forcing me to tap out of my workout early.

I felt there was no bigger failure. No bigger embarrassment than people thinking I couldn't make it through a workout.

I had rules when it came to the gym. Lots of them: what I would eat beforehand, how long I would stay, what muscles I would work, what to eat afterwards, or what not to eat.

Two years into my recovery, I had to admit that I'm still not positive how to workout healthy all of the time. I worked at three different gyms, never understanding what my mom meant when she said it was like an alcoholic working in a bar. I thought I could handle it. For me, it was like working in a bar. I could workout whenever and as often as I wanted. And I took full advantage.

I worked out six to seven days a week for an hour and a half to two hours. I was already in the gym for my shift, so it was very easy to work out for thirty minutes before and after work. I was already there, so I would feel guilt for not working out. Not using my time wisely.

When you have a history of exercise addiction, it's a very thin line between healthy behavior and obsession. That line was not often clear to me, especially since I was still trying to hide from my friends and family how much time I was actually spending in the gym.

Behaviors and habits from my eating disorder were still there, and I thought that I was on top of it, but I often acknowledged them, then ignored them.

A co-worker would comment on how much weight I lost... I would briefly worry that I was backtracking, then feel a sliver of pride that I was losing weight again.

When I moved to Florida, I was worried about not having access to a gym, and whether I would gain weight. My mom thought it would be best if I didn't join a gym right away, I thought it'd be best that I did, and not mention it.

But, I wanted to approach it in a healthy way. To do so, I would need rules. A lot of them. A different kind of rules. So, I asked for help. I asked my friends and family what negative behaviors they saw I had surrounding the gym, and made a base list of rules for me when I decided to work out:

• Never skip an invitation, because I have to go to the gym (regardless of how bad I might not want to go)
• If I'm tired/sick, etc., do not force myself to work out
• Do not spend longer than an hour and a half
• Do not use the gym as punishment for having ate/drank anything
• Practice intuitive exercise/ intuitive eating
• If I feel faint, go home, eat, re-hydrate and rest
• Do not step on the scale under any circumstance
• If I feel like I'm struggling with over-exercising, ask for help. Be honest about how long I'm spending in the gym
• Eat to fuel my body, refuel. 

For those looking to get back into a work out plan post-recovery, I would say it is definitely possible. Intuitive exercise is the best approach. Find a way to move your body that makes you feel happy (dancing, boxing, swimming, etc.) Moving is not a way to punish your body. Also, don't rush getting back to the gym. Allow your mind and body time to heal. Ask for help from your support system when and as often as you need it. And most importantly, be kind to yourself. Two years into recovery, I mess up often. When I am stressed, it is easier for me to over-exercise as a form of distraction. When I am hurt, upset, or any other negative emotion, I feel triggered easier, and head to the gym. You will mess up. It's OK. Hold yourself accountable, be honest, and start again. Ask yourself what triggered you, and find an additional method of comfort/distraction besides the gym to practice self- care. 

I Watched Insatiable Here's What They Got Wrong

I've been hearing a lot of mixed reviews about Netflix's new show 'Insatiable'. The premise of the series is the main girl is bullied for being overweight, and after getting into a fight where her jaw is wired shut for three months, she loses a significant amount of weight. Once she is viewed as skinny, she suddenly has the attention she craved from boys, and to her, all her problems are solved.

People on Twitter voiced their concerns fast. Was the show perpetuating negative stereotypes about women? Was the show perpetuating the idea that only a skinny body is a good body? Was it glamorizing eating disorders?

My first concern was its target audience is young girls.

The show opens up by explaining that the main character has been dieting and struggling with food as early as eight years old. Unfortunately many kids in America do. 80% of ten-year-old's have a fear of getting fat.

I start to feel bad for her, because I can see her mom, as well as the bullies at school contribute to her negative perception of her body. The mom jokes that she's very serious about food, and says, "it can't be easy looking like that and having a mom like me."

This shows how if your mom, caretaker or someone close to you is always talking negatively about themselves, or has a disordered view of food, it can be passed on and picked up by the children around them. This was and still is one of my biggest fears about someday possibly having kids. I want to make sure she has a healthy perception about her body and a healthy view of food.

Before her jaw is wired shut, she is using unhealthy behaviors in attempts to lose weight, like skipping meals, obsessively counting steps, etc.

The girls in her family and her close friend seem to be competing with each other when it comes to food, and if one eats 'junk' food, they are seen as weak. I think women especially can work to actively support each other when it comes to healthy body image and view of food. We can work not to shame each other about our bodies and things we can't change, and instead lift each other up. If someone eats 'junk' food, it does not mean they're weak. Food is meant to be enjoyed, in moderation, of course. But if you want a treat, you're more than entitled. You don't have to 'earn' it.

After she loses the weight, things seem to magically fall into place for her, which is not the case at all.  I think this is an extremely dangerous idea to put in the mind of young girls. The size of your body will certainly not fix all of your problems if your perception and thoughts about your body and food are still unhealthy. The show fails to acknowledge the anxiety that can come as a result of losing that much weight in such a short amount of time. Just because her outside looks different doesn't mean her mental state around food and her body has changed, because she still has an immense fear of being fat, and she still views junk food as something 'bad' and puts herself above that.

I think the show perpetuates the idea that only skinny girls can be seen as desired in our culture.

"She was a beauty queen waiting to happen," one character said about her.

I think if one decides to watch the show, it's important to remember that eating disorders are one of the deadliest mental illnesses, and it is grossly under-treated, and not nearly talked about enough. Your worth has nothing to do about what your body looks like and the physical traits of your body. Your worth is defined by your character, and that doesn't change as your body does.

Overall, I do not think the show intended to do harm. I think it was an attempt at satire that fell short by perpetuating age-old stereotypes, rather than take a different stance or message.

If you or someone you know is struggling with disordered eating, visit nationaleatingdisorders.org

I Finally Watched 'To the Bone' Here's What They Got Right

It took me a year and a half, but it finally happened. I watched Netflix's "To The Bone", about a girl suffering from anorexia and her recovery journey.

When it was first released I was very fresh into recovery and triggered by nearly everything. I would say I was in recovery, but not really sure if I was ready to commit to it. I put on the movie, and in the first ten minutes, I cried and turned off the movie.

Here's what I'll say: it's a good movie. For those who don't have first-hand knowledge of eating disorders, it can be an educational and eye-opening film. The intended audience is probably not intended for those who have suffered. It is not intending to be triggering or make light of a serious, life-threatening disease.

If you feel uncomfortable by the movie, put it off until you are in more stable footing in your recovery. If you still have you heart or mind set on watching the film, watch it with someone you are comfortable with. Pause the movie if you are having a hard time with a particular scene and talk about how you're feeling and why you feel this way. This can also help the other person understand the way you think about certain scenarios.

Now that I can look at the film objectively and with my first-hand knowledge of what treatment was like for me, I can see what the film did right. And they have many things right.

-People don't know how to confront the sufferer- this is frequently the case and people have different approaches which can be anger, giving up as a result of frustration, or trying to shock them into recovery. In the beginning, Ellen's step mom is upset seeing her body and the number on the scale. She takes a picture of her body and shows her what she looks like, asking her if she thinks it's beautiful. (often times, which was also the case in my own experience, the person suffering will have a skewed vision of what their body actually looks like), however, trying to guilt-trip them into recovery is not beneficial.

The sister says "I don't really get it just eat." She says she doesn't get to have a sister and every time she looks at pictures of the two, she remembers when she was sick. The sister believes her eating disorder was a conscious choice, as she asks her "every time I ask you why you do this I get some stupid, non answer."

A lot of people who don't have knowledge of eating disorders do not understand the internal struggle or how it came to be and will beg, plead, and maybe yell "just eat!" This is frustrating for both parties, as "just eat" is not a viable solution.

Her mom bought her a hamburger cake that says "eat up, Ellen" telling her it's supposed to be funny. This was a 'joke' that used to cause me to freak out, too, because people just didn't seem to understand!

-The sufferer doesn't comprehend the seriousness of the problem: Ellen uses humor to diffuse the situation, which was a coping mechanism I relied heavily on, too, to get the attention off of myself. Her step mom asks her "are you proud of yourself?" to which she responds "I'm maintaining".  Even if you're maintaining your body weight, your weight is not at a healthy level. You cannot see the damage that was done to your organs and the nutrients you may be missing (electrolytes, potassium, etc.).

-Parents/ caretakers feel guilt: Most likely an eating disorder cannot be attributed to one problem or cause, but likely a series of influences that accumulated overtime. Parents often feel guilt of "how did they not see things were getting so bad?" or "how can we not have stopped this from happening?" The mom feels helpless, saying "I don't know what to do, she's dying right in front of us." This is how my mom felt with me, too. Unfortunately, it is something the sufferer needs to confront, and be ready and willing to accept help to get better.

-Isolation: The sufferer will often avoid social situations that involve food/alcohol to stick to their strict food rules, and as a result will spend a lot of time alone. Depression/anxiety can also lead the person to avoid outings.

-Eating disorders don't discriminate: in the treatment center there was a man, a woman of color, a young girl, and a pregnant woman. It can happen to anybody.

-Talking about food/numbers is triggering: in treatment, patients aren't allowed to discuss food, weight, numbers with each other and parents and doctors are encouraged to avoid this type of talk as well. Ellen sent another patient into a panic when she told her how many calories were in each bag of her feeding tube. When I had my feeding tube, another patient said "damn, they're really feeding you, huh?" and from that point on I would "forget" to re-plug my feeding tube after going to the bathroom, I would encourage doctors to turn it off for a period of time, or to slow down the rate of feed.

-Restricting food messes with your body: After an extended time of restriction, you can lose your period. You can start to grow extra hair on your body, as your bodies way to try to keep warm. After your body has fed off the fat tissue, it will go to feeding off muscle, than organ tissue.

-Food rules: The sufferer might have a strict set of rules surrounding what they will/will not eat, the times they will/will not eat, who they will eat with, where and how. These rules most likely will not make sense to anyone else, but to the one suffering they seem perfectly valid and justified at the time.

-More often than not, getting to the root of the problem is not black/white: 
"How do you do it? Eat? I get all panicky thinking about it"- Ellen
"Feel the fear, do it anyway."
"Aren't you scared you aren't going to be able to stop?" - Ellen
"I'm not going to lie... I'm really fucking hungry"
"Whenever I can't sleep I draw food"

This was a big concern of mine as well when I was first recovering. I was so scared that my body would go from one extreme to the other, and that once I started taking in food again, I wouldn't be able to stop. This was not the case at all. My body would crave the things it was missing, if I was tuning in and fully listening to it. I wondered why I would crave things like peanut butter, and my dietitian told me our brains are mostly composed of fats, and my body was deprived of it for so long, my body is telling me that's what it desperately needs to start to heal.

-You can't force someone into treatment- You can, but if they're not ready to accept recovery into their life, then treatment will only be 30 days, their electrolytes and nutrient levels will be stabilized, then most likely they will return home and revert back to their old habits. What you can do is be a friend, be patient, listen, try to understand to the best of your ability, and if you can't listen with empathy to your friend and ask them what you can do to help.


If you or someone you know is struggling with an eating disorder, you can visit nationaleatingdisorders.org for more information and resources.

Intuitive Eating

"If you don't love it, don't eat it. And if you love it, savor it."

-Evelyn Tribole, Intuitive Eating: A Revolutionary Program That Works 

During my time in recovery, and much while I was suffering with disordered eating habits, I heard a lot about the intuitive eating approach. 

What sounds simple in theory, tuning into your body to ask "what do I really want?" "what will satisfy me?" and "am I full yet?" seemed like an impossible feat for me. 

It came to me as a rude wake up call one morning, when I realized I would be late for school...again. 

In the depths of my disorder, I spent every morning trying to do a small act of self-care before I got started on my sometimes 10-12 hour days. This for me usually meant coloring or writing in my journal. In hindsight, this was very much not an act of self-care, but rather a way for me to waste time, so I could use "lack of time" as an excuse not to eat breakfast before heading out to school or work. 

I spent a lot of time trying to push back meals as long as I could, because the simple act of sitting down for a meal brought me so much anxiety: what would I eat? How much? When? Where? I couldn't get through the grocery store without a panic attack, if I wanted a snack or a drink I would run into the kitchen like a thief in the night, grab what I needed and run back to my room. 

The first step I took towards intuitive eating was taking inventory of what I was actually eating. This was alarming to me, as I could count the amount of foods I would eat on one hand. I realized that the foods that I was eating and was willing to eat, weren't foods that I actually liked. I was eating them for their nutritional content on the label, or lack-thereof, considering everything I had conditioned myself to eat was low-cal, low-fat, low-carb, or all of the above. I was scared to eat anything of substance.

I made a list of foods I liked before my disorder started, foods I might be willing to try, and foods that I definitely wasn't ready for right now.

It became a fun exercise for me, because for the longest time, I couldn't remember when I ate food for enjoyment. I asked my mom if she could remember how I used to eat, back when I didn't have any rules, and I begged her to help me eat normal. My mom and my doctors helped me to remember things that I enjoyed eating as a kid, which became my new favorite, the classic peanut butter and jelly- something I hadn't had probably in ten years!

To make mealtimes easier, I stuck to making the same meal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner everyday. Which I know now, is still not intuitive eating. The problem was, I was told since I was in recovery and early into it, I wouldn't be able to trust my hunger cues, as they likely no longer existed. So I had to eat even when I wasn't hungry, because my body needed it to heal. This felt like punishment, like force feeding. I still did not enjoy mealtime. I hated the act of sitting down to have my "required" meal. 

I could have made it a lot easier on myself at the time if I had actually been intuitive. "what do I feel like having?" "Do I want a sandwich, maybe a pasta dish?" "What will satisfy my hunger?" 

One of my biggest fears during recovery is that I would go from one extreme to the other, and never be able to stop eating. I thought if I asked my body what it wanted, it would tell me it wanted chips, and cookies, and ice cream, and burgers, and it would just have a party in my stomach- I wasn't willing or ready to give up my rigid healthy rules.

Knowing what I know now, I can see how I was in no way, shape or form ready to take on the practice of intuitive eating. I think the concept of intuitive eating might seem impossible and might actually be for those recovering from an eating disorder or disordered eating habits. However, I think it's something beautiful to strive for, an end goal that will reduce anxiety around mealtimes and the act of eating. 

It took me over a year to be able to tune into my body and ask what I want, to have a craving come up and listen to it. I still make mistakes and resort to where I'm comfortable, which is strict healthy eating, but every time I am able to tune into my body, and give it what and how much it wants, I feel so proud. 

During my disordered patterns, going out for an ice cream was never a possibility on my mind- I just didn't do it. I would say I was allergic, I didn't like it, or I just didn't eat it. Now, to me there is nothing better than being able to go to the store during the heat wave in Los Angeles and treat myself to an ice cream cone- something I haven't enjoyed since I was a kid!

I feel so proud every single time I am able to remember to tune into my body and ask what might satisfy it best. Like after the gym, recognizing I am hungry, and asking my body what it wants after it carried me through a nice long workout, and best of all, listening. 

And to answer the question, and settle my fears, your body will not only crave treats. After a weekend of indulging, my body will crave a salad for balance. On a hot summer day, I will crave watermelon, or something light, over a hot meal. 

Listen and trust your body, it's on your side.

Intuitive Exercise

"The mother of excess is not joy but joylessness."-Frederich Nietzsche

 I'm sure we're all familiar with the quote how too much of a good thing can be a bad thing, right?

For people who have experienced 'black-and-white thinking', also known as the 'all-or-nothing attitude or mindset', we have a hard time wrapping our minds around this concept. If it's good for you, wouldn't the more you do it be better?

Wrong.

This was my opinion on exercise. Slowly, my obsession developed from a harmless three times a week, if I could fit it in my schedule, to a no-excuses seven times a week regimen. I didn't take days off, I didn't rest, and did whatever I had to do to make my workout happen.

As my obsession with exercise developed, so did my obsession with following what I thought was a clean diet, which turned out to be extremely and dangerously low in calories.

For someone who was obsessed with fitness and obsessed with feeling progress in every area,I definitely wasn't succeeding. I remember feeling too tired to complete my workouts- having to take a knee while my trainer had tried to convince me I had the ability to keep going. I felt defeat, shame, and weakness. I often felt lightheaded from not eating enough to fuel my workouts, or feeling too full because I took in too much after a period of restriction. I remember pushing my body to the brink of exhaustion in order to complete a workout and hit an unrealistic quota which I set myself. I would walk out in the middle of an exercise class and sit in my car and cry, waiting out the period where I felt faint or dehydrated, whatever it was that stopped me from continuing.

When I was pushing myself and my body, the workouts no longer felt as if they were giving me a release of those 'happy endorphins' which caused people to work out in the first place. I felt pressure and stress, like if I didn't perform at a certain level, I had somehow failed. But, I often failed to realize as much as I valued fitness in my life, I was not and am not an athlete in training for anything. I am a regular person, who enjoys working out, because I like it and it feels good.

When I first learned about the concept of Intuitive Exercise (working out how and when it feels good for your body) I thought it was a nice idea in theory, but given my background, I just didn't think it would ever be possible for me.

I had developed strict rules around being in the gym: the days I'd go, the exercises I would perform, how long I'd be there, etc. I couldn't imagine simply doing nothing.

A week after I was discharged from the hospital, I tried to go for a bike ride, despite my doctor telling me to remain on bed rest. I only wanted to see if I could ride a mile, but felt as if I was barely moving. My legs weren't cooperating with me.

After realizing how mean and unforgiving I had been to my body for all it had gotten me through, I took almost a year off of serious exercise. It was extremely hard for me, but I knew it was what I had to do to start healing my mindset around exercise and my relationship with food.

I learned to appreciate things about myself that weren't related to my body, and how to feel accomplished about things that didn't have to do with my workout, my ability to 'stick to my diet' or things of that nature.

When I decided to start up in the gym again, I was extremely nervous, unsure if I was ready, and unsure if I would be able to properly manage a routine without overdoing it again.

Disclaimer: I am still and will always be working on this as it takes a lot of practice, self-reassurance, ability to forgive yourself and patience. Sometimes you will mess up, and that's OK, that's part of the process.

In committing myself to the gym, I also knew that if I wanted to work out, I had to properly fuel my body to do so. I believe intuitive eating goes hand-in-hand with intuitive exercise, but for me I had to set a few rules. If I wanted to do a more intense workout, I had to fuel myself before and after. Our bodies are like cars and cannot function properly if we don't give it the gas we need to run. I would not count calories, but I would have a minimum. I knew I had to eat all of my meals and snacks, and if I felt like eating extra, that's great. Food is like science. In order to run properly, we need a certain amount, and in order to feel well at the gym, we can't eat too close to when we intend to be moving our body and allow time for digestion.

Going into the gym for the first time, I had already made a promise with myself that I wouldn't step on the scale or ever use that as a determining factor of my journey, as I know it would cause me problems.

I didn't want to compare myself to anyone else in the gym, their ability, or what they were working on, I simply wanted to appreciate the fact that I was there and I was able to move my body at all.

The key to intuitive exercise is being in tune with your body and ask yourself what you feel like doing, what movements will make you feel fulfilled that day? I think the most damaging thing someone can do when going into the gym, is forcing themselves to commit to an exercise you don't like. If you hate running, and put 30 minutes on the treadmill timer, you're going to be miserable starring at the clock for 30 minutes, and you're going to dread coming back. Instead, if you love dancing, see if your gym offers a Zumba class. It's a great way to meet like-minded people, and have fun while you're moving you're body, and you'll be doing it in a way that doesn't feel like a chore.

For me personally, I enjoy boxing, and working out my legs, so I like the stair master, the bike, and things of that nature, so when I go to the gym I have fun.

I also think another thing that can be damaging for someone who is recovering from an eating disorder is committing to a workout plan right off the bat. For example, dedicating a day to a specific area to workout. (ex: Monday= arms, Wednesday= legs, Friday= full body). Say you're really tired after work on a Wednesday, you're going to dread thinking about having to do a leg workout when you don't really have the energy to spare.

Before you get into the gym, take into account how you feel. Do you have extra energy? Are you a little more tired? Ask yourself what kind of movement will make your body feel good. Maybe it's some light stretching, maybe it's a cardio kind of day, or maybe it's a day to lift some weights.

Trusting your body that it knows what's in your best interest feels really empowering. I used to not trust my own intuition, and force things on myself. However, I've been learning to trust that my body will let me know how long it feels like working out- some days it's just shy of two hours, and other days it's not much more than 20 minutes. And that's OK, our energy levels will be different each day.

Treating your body like it's on your side and you're on the same team as your mind is a great feeling and goes a long way in healing your relationship with food and exercise. It will take time, practice, and patience, but the progress you make will feel like a great accomplishment when it comes.

How to deal with diet culture and triggering comments

"I don't care if you think your body is beautiful. Your body is not your power. I want you to not hate it, so you can go out and do meaningful things with your life." -Summer Innanen

I remember being just about two weeks out of the hospital, and still very unsure about my place in recovery, and if I truly had even wanted it yet. I was out to dinner with my mom, uncle and his girlfriend, something I had been reluctant about in the first place. I hated going out to dinner. I hated the uncertainty of not knowing the nutrition of my meal, and not knowing everything that went into it. Add the fear of liquid calories to the mix, and it's a recipe for overwhelming anxiety. At least it always was for me.

I had always had a fear of eating in front of people I wasn't comfortable with. Even though our company was my uncle and his girlfriend, I had not really talked about what I had went through the previous few months, and I felt like they would be judging what I ordered, how my body looked, etc.

Just looking at the menu gave me anxiety, but I ordered a vodka diet to ease my nerves a little bit. After I ordered, my uncle's girlfriend began to talk about how she had lost so much weight, how her pants didn't fit, how she had to see doctors, and how my uncle was pushing her to eat, but she just couldn't seem to find her appetite.

I grabbed my mom's arm and looked at her wide-eyed. Is she kidding me? I thought. As she went on and on, I whispered in my mom's ear that I was upset and that I knew I wouldn't be able to eat dinner tonight.

My mom had told me that unfortunately I will never be able to avoid diet talk, especially with women and I would have to get used to hearing that kind of talk at the table. I knew she was probably right, but also knew that I was extremely sensitive and in a vulnerable place.

Dealing with diet culture is hard. It's extremely intrusive on something that is such a personal decision and unique to each person. Not every diet will work for every body.

In order to be able to possibly avoid or reduce these triggers, it is important to note what triggers you. A journal can be a very helpful tool to note how you felt by certain things and keep track of progress.

For me, when I was very early in recovery, I seemed to be triggered by everything, which I assume would be common for most people starting their journey. I couldn't see or wear work out clothes, I couldn't work out, hear about anyone working out, hear about diets, or even what people were choosing to eat, without comparing it to what I had to eat. I couldn't read about diet or fitness. I couldn't hear comments about my changing and healing body.

An important step for me was to clear my feeds. I un-followed any accounts on social media related to food or fitness, whether 'good' or 'bad'. I was already thinking about it all of the time, I didn't want to think about it any more. I replaced my feed with positive quotes and happy pictures of animals or landscape. I unsubscribed to health magazines that came in monthly toting a new fad diet or quick fix.

Two of the biggest things for me during this sensitive time were: clothes and my body and other people.

As my body began to heal, I started not to be able to fit into certain clothes in my closet. I cried to my mom, and she reassured me that my body was never meant to fit in these clothes, anyhow. That when I fit into those sizes, my body was very sick and so was my mind. To avoid further frustration, I didn't let these clothes linger in my closet. I knew what clothes were the sizes that were not meant for me, and I removed them from my closet and placed them in a bin to donate to Goodwill.

I had always preferred clothes that fit loosely on me, because I had never been comfortable with showing off my body, so that is what I reverted back to. I wore what I felt comfortable in and I believe everyone should do the same to feel confident in their wardrobe. Trends don't matter if they don't make you happy.

Another big concern for me was that people would notice my body and comment.

"You have an ass now!"

"Your face/chest looks really full."

"You look healthy" (I don't know why this always seemed to be the worst one. In our disordered minds we equate healthy to mean 'fat' which is NOT the case, and certainly, not what the person meant at all. If you choose to respond to this you can simply say 'thank you' or 'I FEEL healthy (if that's true).)

During this time, it might help to know that no one who wasn't a close family member or friend ever commented on my body, besides saying that I looked healthy or well. During my recovery, my mom was my biggest supporter and aid in helping me cope with triggers and helping others understand which topics to avoid.

I would always tell my mom when I felt triggered or uncomfortable by something. My mom had told relatives to please not comment on my body or the food that was on my plate in advance to seeing me. She also reminded them not to discuss diet or weight in terms of themselves, which was a big help for me.

Sometimes, it seemed people couldn't help themselves and would make a comment saying I looked fuller or X body part grew, to which I asked them 'please do not comment about my body, as this makes me uncomfortable' or 'this is still a sensitive area for me, and I would appreciate if we could talk about something else.'

Overall, the things that made the most impact for me during this time was having open communication. I had my mom, who had grown to understand how my brain was working and what I was going through. I was able to talk openly with her about what was on my mind, and what was bothering me, and in turn, she was able to convey that to the people around us to help them better understand how to talk to me and listen with compassion. If  I felt comfortable enough, I would also take it upon myself to politely ask someone if they wouldn't mind steering the conversation in a different direction. As I am further along in recovery, this is something that has become easier and I don't mind telling people things that I have learned during my course of treatment. And lastly, if something is triggering to you, don't pour salt on that wound. I know sometimes with our disordered minds we might keep something around that we know is tempting to us thinking we will be un-bothered by it. However, then we get in a depressed or down mood, and we use that thing as an excuse to justify our bad behaviors. It is best to eliminate the potential trigger, before it becomes a problem.

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. 



          

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.