My first experience with therapy

"Talking to a therapist, I thought, was like taking your clothes off and then taking your skin off, and then having the other person say, "Would you mind opening up your rib cage so that we can start?" -Julie Schumacher

 I started middle school just after my parents announced they were getting divorced.

For awhile, my relationship with both of my parents was pretty much nonexistent, while I tried to figure out how I felt. Growing up, none of my friends parents were divorced, so I didn't ever consider it an option for my parents. Until it happened.

I don't remember who was in touch first: whether it was my mom with the school guidance counselor, or her with my mom. But somehow the pair ended up working together in attempt to get me to talk about my feelings.

"I don't want to."

"Brianna Kwasnik to the guidance office," I heard over the loudspeaker one day during class.

I rolled my eyes, and told my teacher I would go in between classes, as an excuse to get out of it.

I would have hall passes written for me and sent to my class to excuse me, but I would crumple them up and throw them in the trash.

The next day, one would came laminated. And I threw that out, too.

When I finally went to the guidance office, I stared back at the woman like she was speaking in a different language. She told me all of the things she was supposed to say to make me feel safe, like how her office was a safe space, and everything I said to her would stay between us.

I felt like I was wasting my time and hers, because I didn't feel like I was old enough to have any real problems. I didn't want to talk about my parents divorce, because than that would make it real, and I didn't want it to be real. When my parents first got divorced, it was a lot of back and forth with both my mom and dad trying to vent out their frustration with the other one, and me being the soundboard for those frustrations. I felt exhausted. I wanted to love them the same as I did when they lived in the house. I didn't want to think of them different or see them any less. I didn't want it to be real. But, I didn't want this stranger to know that. I didn't want anyone at school to know that. I didn't want anyone at school to know what was going on at home, it was none of their business, I thought.

I was really concerned about being seen walking out of the guidance counselor's office. I grew up with a stigma of sorts surrounding therapy, that talking to someone made you 'crazy' or weak, and I didn't want to be that, because I knew that wasn't who I was.

My dad was against it completely, and didn't want me talking to a stranger.

Eventually, I had warmed up to the idea, and when something would happen at home whether it be my dad talking poorly about my mom, or my dad not answering my phone call, or when he moved out of the house, I couldn't wait to tell someone about it and get it off my chest.

My school guidance counselor had sent my mom a list of therapists that I could see outside of school. I think her referral was a combination of not wanting to take me out of class anymore, and seeing how much my parent's divorce really affected my spirit and confused me.

It's always weird when you switch therapists, and you feel like another person knows your whole story, and this new person should just pick up where she left off. Like what do you mean I have to start from the beginning? Where do I begin? How far back do I go?

At first I did not want to talk to a new therapist. I never do, and usually spend the first two sessions having them prod me with questions and me giving generic one or two word answers, and nothing more. When I started going to counseling for the first time out of school, I had my mom sit in on every session. I wanted her there as extra support.

Once I felt comfortable enough to open up and talk about how I felt about what was going on with my parents divorce, it was like a faucet that wouldn't turn off. An hour came and went, and never in my life had felt shorter. Every week I didn't know I had so much to say.

The great thing about therapy, is that the person isn't there to judge you, but to help you make sense of a certain situation with an outside perspective.

If I was talking about my mom, maybe she would be able to help me see things from my mom's perspective. Maybe she would be able to give me advice on how to work things out with my mom. If I was talking about my dad, she might be able to point out a pattern in his behavior that I couldn't see.

In time, I was able to take her analytical skills, and when I would talk about things, I would share, then cut her off, already making my own inference about why things happened the way they did, or why I reacted in a certain way.

It quickly became a relief for me to get my feelings out and not have them pent up inside of me. I wasn't carrying around burdens that weren't mine to bear, and if they were mine to bear, I can put them down in her office, and move on. My therapist and my mom encouraged me that if a bad feeling came up that I wouldn't stew in it, I could open a journal, write about it in the moment and release those feelings on paper.

Between therapy once a week and writing in my journal, which I could do whenever I needed to, it felt like a purge. It felt like the feeling you get after an intense workout and the happy endorphins are released. You feel lighter, at ease.

Like anything else, everyone's experience is different, but I'd say therapy is always worth a shot. It's important to research therapists in your area- see if they take your insurance, maybe you prefer a female therapist over a male, or the other way around. If you're currently in school, see your guidance counselor or school therapist, most colleges include therapy in the school insurance plan- use it to your advantage! And most importantly, develop your own opinion on the topic and don't pay any mind to what other people think. If someone is putting down the idea of therapy, they could just not have a lot of experience with it or know a lot about it. If it helps you, that's all that matters.

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

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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. 

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. 

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.

How to deal with a relapse

"Part of recovery is relapse. I dust myself off and move forward again." 

One of the things that was hard for me to understand while I was in treatment for my eating disorder, is why we were learning tips similar to those given in AA.

"It's not helpful to me," I whined. "I don't have an addiction."

But, I do.

According to Karin Jasper, Ph.D., some professionals view anorexia as an addiction, because the sufferer has a 'dependence on starvation.' Both addictions are similar in the sense that there is often a "loss of control, preoccupation with the abused substance, and use of the substance."

In my case, and many others, this is absolutely true. Your disorder becomes your life: when and what you're going to eat, when you're going to move, how and for how long, where you're going to eat and where you're not.

A typical day for me looked like this:

Wake up at 7-7:30 a.m., lay in bed for 30 minutes to 45 minutes, if I was feeling a little ambitious and a little less depressed, I may practice some self-care by coloring before venturing into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. This was the same meal every day, without fail, regardless of how much time I did or did not have, because familiarity blocked out anxiety. I would either leave for school or work around 9 a.m., to get there by 10. This was the saddest part for me, because once I got there, I had trouble walking.

If I was at school, I parked in the parking garage, and only had to make it to the elevator down two floors, and around the corner into the back of my classroom. Walking up the incline in the parking garage took all of the lingering energy and strength I had in my body, and often left me upset. I loved school, and because of my disorder, I could hardly make it around campus. What should have been a ten minute walk across campus became a half hour hike. I was determined to finish out the school year, like I had planned. Because I was still in the depths of my disorder, I was also determined to make it up the four flights of steep steps to my classroom, even if it would make me an additional five minutes late. I had a step goal to worry about.

Sitting down in class was painful. With my bones sticking out in various places, sitting in a hard chair was uncomfortable, as was the air conditioning. I often couldn't focused, because I was so tired, focused on everything I needed to catch up on, how I couldn't wait to sleep, which workout I would do later, or what I would make for dinner, and hoping my roommate wasn't around when I had to cook.

After class, I would try to get to my car as quick as I could. Often, I was so hungry, and anxious, I would have a panic attack in my car (or in the middle of the parking garage) before making it onto the road. Once I was home, I showered (if I had the energy), put off dinner as long as possible, and did whatever homework I could manage to complete, before heading into bead around 8:30 p.m.

Having dealt with depression for most of my life, I am more aware of the signs of relapse than I am with my eating disorder, which can be very sneaky- the addiction makes it hard to see commonly used behaviors as a problem when you're using them.

However, despite how mindful I try to be, sometimes these relapses catch me off-guard, as it did this past weekend.

Here are a few ways that I try to combat bouts of relapse:

• Know your triggers- as I mentioned before in a previous post, it's very important to know the things that trigger you, so you can trace your relapse back to a source and work through it. This past weekend, I was able to trace my brief relapse with depression to two major triggers that I chose to avoid when they came up. Avoiding it rather than confronting it as soon as they surfaced resulted in a week and a half long bout of depression, where I didn't want to write, didn't want to answer calls from my family, and didn't feel like myself.
• Check your meds- If you are suffering from depression, an eating disorder, or any other mood or mental disorder, which you take medications for, you may need to check with your doctor if you need an adjustment on your dosage. It is very important to be honest and upfront with your doctor about the affects the medicine has on you, so she can ensure you are on the proper medication and proper dosage. Remember, this may take some trial and error on both ends, so try to have patience and be fair to yourself.
• Stop- It's natural when you feel triggered, to want to resort to what you know, which would be using behaviors. Instead, take time to use some of the tools you learned in treatment to change the negative behavior to a positive one. Call a friend, journal, take a walk, etc.
• Forgive, and start again- If you do have a slip up and have negative feelings or resort to using a behavior, it's important to be honest. Fess up to your doctor, a family member, a friend, whoever you feel comfortable talking to. This is a time you need to go easy on yourself, because there is something that triggered you to use those behaviors. Forgive yourself for using the behavior, look at what may have triggered you so you can be better prepared for next time the situation comes up, and get right back on the path of recovery. Do. Not. Delay.
• Remind yourself why you're here- When recovery starts to feel impossible, remind yourself why you're here, why you're fighting for it, why recovery is worth it, and ultimately, why you deserve it. 

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. 

Recovery is tough, but so are you

"My recovery must come first so everything I love in life does not have to come last."

Graduating university with crippling anxiety and a co-existing debilitating eating disorder is one of my greatest and bravest accomplishments to-date. 

I'd like to say that the moment that I got out of the hospital, recovery from that point on was smooth sailing. 

But, that's not reality. 

Recovery is hard. And messy. And a daily choice. 

At this point, I didn't know what would make me want to choose recovery. I loved my family, my job, school, and my work, but for some reason, something inside still resented myself. My friends and family wanted recovery for me more than I did. It would never stick long-term, I thought. 

All of the affirmations that I had learned during treatment, which I once viewed as bullshit became my lifelines. 

Some things I can't change. I need to become familiar with my triggers and actively avoid them. I need to stop responding to negative energy. For once in my life I needed to allow myself to be selfish, and focus only on me. I needed to be surrounded by positive and supportive people. 

I was vulnerable and completely succeptible to triggers. At this point, everything triggered me. 

There could be no mention of numbers, calories, diets, food, workout plans, exercise, I couldn't wear workout clothes, or look at anyone who was, I couldn't drive down Bayshore Blvd. and see all of the people running, without the urge to jump out of my passenger side window and run alongside them. I couldn't have anyone comment on my food or my body, whether good or bad, I didn't want to be asked if I was working out or moving my body at all. I didn't want sympathy. I couldn't be in the grocery store. I couldn't eat any of the foods that I had used to punish my body during the height of my disorder and the depths of restriction. I couldn't look at other people's carts at the grocery store, without returning everything in mine, and opting for healthier options. I couldn't see anyone who was thinner than me without stressing out. I couldn't talk about my rollercoaster brain: one day devout to recovery, the other wanting to cut everyone out of my life who might promote my recovery.

The worst parts about recovery for me were: 

1) Accepting the fact that I couldn't exercise: 

          I tried. I have been active my whole life, just for fun. Soccer, basketball, track, boxing, biking, swimming, running, walking. I hopped on my bike, feeling rebellious for going against my mom and doctor's wishes. I used to ride 20 miles no problem, now, I could barely complete a mile. So I walked. I aimed for the 10,000 steps per day. Extreme hunger kicked in. My body didn't want to let go of anymore weight, and if I exercised, I had to eat double the calories to make up for what I burned. It made more sense to skip it entirely. It was hard enough to hit my calorie goal as it was.

2) Extreme Hunger: 

          This was the most physically, mentally and emotionally challenging part of recovery next to the weight returning. Extreme hunger is a common symptom for those recovering from any eating disorder or period of calorie restriction. With extreme hunger it is normal to consume between 6,000-10,000 calories in a single day. And boy did I. Even though I knew I needed the calories that I had deprived my body of for so long, I was still fighting it. I was terrified of it. I thought it would never end and I would never be able to stop eating. I wanted to just be normal around food, have a normal portion. I swore now I'd listen to the dietitian and have a protein, carb and fat, and not just a protein and vegetable if it would just go away forever. 

3) What do I wear?

          My clothes don't fit. But, I know deep down, they were never meant to. I had a panic attack the first time I tried to slip on the size 0 Old Navy boyfriend jeans that were once too big on me, and I couldn't manage to get them over my knees. My regular size is a size 8, but losing the label felt like a loss of control for me. It was the only time I was a size 0 in my life, and probably (and hopefully) the only time I will be again. To avoid future anxiety, I threw away all of the clothes I wore when I was sick, before ever trying them on. All of the child size clothes, all of the crop tops and sleeveless blouses- gone. Why put myself through that when I knew what the outcome would be? My mom took me shopping to buy clothes in my regular size. She was thrilled, and I tried to avoid the mirror, choosing clothes strictly off her opinion and whether or not the high waist promised to conceal my growing belly. 

I'd like to say that after being released from the hospital, I never relapsed. But, that would be a lie. 

I found myself thinking a lot about my time in the hospital and the routine I had developed there: 7:30 breakfast, 12:30 lunch, 5:00 dinner, group therapy throughout the day, work on homework during breaks, and 9:00 snack and medicine. I found myself missing my routine. I wanted to be back there- but, why?

Having been so numb while I was in the hospital, I was processing the entire experience for the first time. And I felt bad for that girl who was trapped in those four walls- confined to an IV. I felt bad for the girl whose routine became waking up to getting blood drawn and pressure taken, getting shots in the stomach to prevent infection, and offered pills like they were tic tacs. I felt bad for all of the CT scans, echocardiograms, ultrasounds, and X-Rays, where she didn't blink, becoming so indifferent to the process. I didn't know that girl, and I didn't want to be her. Not anymore.

My triggers sometimes still catch me by surprise, though not as often as they used to

Now, I'm better prepared, and the people around me are more aware and quick to call out my behaviors. 

I share my story not to gain empathy or sad stares for myself, but I share to raise awareness for the others who struggle. Every man or woman who has struggled with an eating disorder who has ever felt confused or scared or silenced or trapped. I share for the sufferers who feel silenced, out of fear of the consequences of what would happen if they revealed their deepest secret. I share for those who are scared to leave their disorder behind. Like a bad relationship, it's time to quit it. It's time to speak up and be fearless in despite of the threats the demons might make. 

This is a new chapter and only you can choose how you want to define it. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 6

"The mind and the body are not separate. What affects one, affects the other." 

read part 5 of my story here:  

Walking out of the hospital felt as if I was just released from prison. I felt like I was out on parole, any move I made, any decision had the capability of sending me right back upstairs. It terrified me, but also provided a sense of comfort. The hospital was all I knew for the last six weeks. I felt comfortable there. I had a routine, I had friends, and I was being monitored. 

Leaving the hospital, I also felt terrified. It was a new found freedom that I didn't yet trust myself to have. It was a few days before Halloween, and I asked my mom if she thought I might be able to meet some friends to celebrate. 

She didn't think so. I may have been 21 now, but I hadn't yet had a drink, and with my weight still extremely low, she didn't want me to go out drinking. She didn't want me to go out unattended. 

I asked if I could go back to school.

She didn't think so, either. If I did, she would drive me. She didn't feel comfortable letting me drive my car, in case something happened while I was driving, or if I got tired walking around campus. If I wanted, she would drop me off at school and work. I felt frustrated. I felt like a baby getting dropped off at school by her mother with a packed lunch box and a kiss on the cheek, leaving behind a bright red lipstick mark to conceal my blushing face. 

I didn't think so. I wanted to do it on my own.

I asked if we could go to the mall, so I could practice walking for longer distances.

It was out of the question.

On the way home, we stopped at Walmart to pick me up some clothes that would fit. Nothing in my closet fit on my body the way it was supposed to, and even now, my underwear was sliding off my backside, down to my ankles.

I wanted desperately to get out of my hospital-issued clothes and to throw them away in the trash. I wanted this behind me, but part of me wanted to go back upstairs. I wanted to go back to my meetings, and I wanted the routine they had provided me. 

In Walmart, my mom bought me some fuzzy pajama pants, new slippers, a few t-Shirts and some new underwear. 

We shopped in the boys section for t-Shirts. They were cheaper, and I was officially a 'fat boy.' I slipped into a boys youth size XL and still had some wiggle room. My mom was horrified, and my brain felt glorified, that maybe I could fit into a smaller size. 

She moved along to the girls section to pick me up some underwear. The only options available were Halloween-themed, with puppys or bats with wings on the side. 

"How about these?" she asked me as she held them up way up high, as a group of boys my age passed, trying to conceal their laughs. 

"I don't think she'd like those," I said quick in defense- horrified. 

There was still part of my brain that felt really proud of fitting in these child sizes. Once having an athletic body, with a firm backside, and a larger chest, I now was flat all around. The hospital had placed padded patches on my lower back so that I was able to sit down. My bones were sticking out of my lower back in between where my dimples lay and there was no support in my butt. There was no butt, just bone. I needed these stickers so I wouldn't bruise laying on my back, or sitting in a chair. 

Walking around Walmart, I needed to hold on to my moms arm, and the shopping cart for support. I hadn't walked that long in over a month and my legs felt like they were starting to lock. I was worried my mom might have to put me in the seat of the cart, if we didn't leave soon.

Being in the store for the first time in months filled me with crippling anxiety. I hated grocery shopping in the first place, and having so many options terrified me. 

I was taught to shop the outer parts of the grocery store for the healthiest food, and my mom wouldn't allow me to get only fruits and vegetables. She said I needed to make a meal. I needed all components, like our dietitian taught us. I cried the whole trip. I didn't know how to cook, I didn't know what I would even want. All of the foods in the inner aisle scared me. 

She convinced me to challenge myself, but it was too much too soon. In the hospital, I picked my meals, but I had a few meals I was comfortable with. I had egg whites and cheerios every morning, greek yogurt for snacks, baked fish and vegetables for lunch, and a veggie burger salad or PBJ for dinner. I didn't know anything else. I didn't want to know anything else. I liked not having options, because it limited the anxiety surrounding meal time. 

She took me down the snack aisle, and I was on the verge of a panic attack. I couldn't avoid reading all of the labels: picking up an item, studying the back, then throwing it back on the shelf like the box was on fire. 

"I don't know how it tastes," I told her, "I never had this. I don't know what I want. I don't want anything from here."

There was no protein. Mostly fat or carbohydrates. I didn't want anything from this aisle, I didn't understand why anyone would. 

We left the store, frustrated, she was mad that I couldn't find anything for dinner, and threatened me with takeout. 

"No, mom! You're trying to do too much, too soon, you're stressing me out!"

When we got back to the hotel, I checked the pantries and the refrigerator, out of habit. I had always done this when I got to my mom, dad, or sisters house. I was curious to see what other people bought at the store, but I couldn't help but judge what they picked.

"Too much sodium, too many carbs, too much fat, so processed..."

Before the hospital, my diet consisted of maybe ten items that I deemed 'clean' or 'safe,' if I was being generous. 

My mom offered me foods that I had loved prior to the development of this eating disorder, and I became very angry with her.

"Why would you buy pickles? There is SO much sodium in them. Not worth it," I shouted. 

I used to eat a jar of pickles, no problem, angry if one of my family members took it upon themselves to have one.

"I got your favorite poptarts," she said quietly. 

"Why would you buy that?" I asked with disgust, "I hadn't eaten those since I was a kid."

I felt above eating poptarts. I looked at them as dirty. There were so many calories and so many carbs for such a little pastry, and it did nothing for you. It didn't make you full, it didn't have any protein, so why would anyone eat it?

"You used to love them." 

I wanted to take a shower, and get away from her, and as far away from the kitchen as I could.

I was scared of my mom and I was scared to be home, convinced that I would gain the 60 lbs I had lost, back overnight. I was stressed out with options, and I was stressed out without having a routine. I should be in group, right now...

Not knowing what else to say, my mom became very good at making comments to try to scare me into eating food that I was scared of. I took it as an insult, although well-intended. She took it as if I kept not eating, I would need help getting in the shower for the rest of my life. 

Stubborn, I was determined to do it myself, but who the fuck made the shower wall so damn high? Were they always this high? My hospital room didn't have a shower wall, so I was able to do it myself. 

I thought about first standing on top of the toilet, than onto the side and over the shower wall, so I could do it myself. My legs were already so tired from walking around Walmart for almost an hour.

"Mom- please just help me" I yelled out- defeated. 

I was emotionally exhausted after being released, but I was determined to get right back to work. I had my laptop now, so I could check my emails. I had one from my professor containing my midterm. It was a take home and I was allotted 24 hours to complete it and send it back. 

I knew the answer right away, so I got to work. 

Having no food in the hotel room that I or my mom could eat, she asked if I would go out to dinner. 

Pizza was out of the question. 

I tried to get her to go to Publix so I could pick up a salad or a salad roll, wrapped in rice paper. 

It was out of the question. I wasn't allowed to have salad, but something more calorie dense.

I was pissed.

She stopped in front of a Chinese buffet, somewhere we used to love going together back home in New York. After she would get home from work, she would ask if I wanted to go. I would say yes, even if I had already eaten what I considered dinner. 

 I threw a tantrum in the car: "I hate Chinese food!" "There's nothing I can eat here," "I'm not getting out of the car!" 

It was 90 degrees and I still had on my fleece sweater, but I was willing to sit in the hot car, if it meant I didn't have to go into the buffet.

"Too much, too soon!" I cried "Why are you doing this to me?" "What kind of person takes an anorexic to a buffet, seriously?"

She convinced me to try a little bit of everything they offered-just to see what I liked. She tried to get me away from the salad bar, but there wasn't a chance in hell that was happening. It was the only thing I deemed clean in the entire place. 

I ended up having three plates: sushi, coconut shrimp, plantains, french fries, and a few bites of dessert. 

Although I was making progress, I couldn't bring myself to make conversation, or even look at my mom. I stared down at my plate as if it were the enemy, and in my head, I was singing "Eye of the Tiger." 

I had brought my mom so much pain in the past few weeks, I wanted to make her happy. 

She would be going home soon, and I would be left to my old ways. One meal wouldn't kill me. 

I felt like I had failed my disorder by eating at the buffet, and enjoying it. I thought about what my dietitian told me that I once thought was impossible, that food was meant to be enjoyable. It was the most I had eaten in probably a year, and for the first time I could remember having a meal and enjoying it. 

I hated the full feeling in my stomach. I hated the way a full belly made it look round. I hated the after taste of all the food I had ate. 

When we got back to the hotel, I went to my bed and cried. I was determined to start fresh tomorrow. I couldn't wait to have the meals I was comfortable with. 

My mom came in my room and told me how proud she was of me. I was mad at her pride- didn't she care that I was losing control? What would she think if I became a binge eater? Is that what she wanted? How could she be so happy when I was feeling so sad? She told me it was the happiest she has been since she got to town.

I asked her if she could extend her stay.

Earlier in the day, I begged her to bring me back to my apartment. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be on my own. In my own bed. I wanted to make my own meals. Do my own shopping. I wanted to be trusted, but I didn't trust myself. Not yet. 

She was supposed to leave within the next few days and I knew deep down I wasn't ready to be on my own.

"Please, mom, I need you to stay. If you leave now, I know I will go back to my old ways. I'm scared." 

I didn't want her to feel like I was threatening her. That if she left, I would get sicker. But I knew somehow that I would. I needed to be monitored and I needed to be accountable. I wasn't in control yet. I didn't know how to make my own choices 

She was happy to oblige and happy that I was so honest with myself and her for knowing I needed her to stay. 

She set me up in my apartment by taking me grocery shopping, and cleaning up the kitchen and my room so I would have a comfortable transition back home.

One of the main things that has helped me through recovery, was my body taking over against my brain's pushback. It's called Extreme Hunger. At the time, I thought it was a made up phenomena, something binge eaters coined to make them feel less shame abut the volume of food they ate. 

Extreme Hunger is common for those recovering from anorexia. Having suffered organ damage for so long from calorie restriction and deprivation, extreme hunger kicks in to help repair the damage done to your organs, and help put back on weight. 

A quick Google search said it would not be uncommon during periods of extreme hunger to consume up to 10,000 calories in a day.

I almost fainted.

That was probably more than I had consumed in the last two months. 

Unlike before where I felt like I couldn't physically eat, now it felt like I couldn't physically stop eating. I felt shame every time I got up to get another snack. What kind of anorexic was I? Where had all my control gone? Would I swing to the other side, and now develop binge eating disorder? Would all of this food make my weight spiral out of control?

I felt embarrassed every time I got up to get another snack, like my mom, or anyone around me would question why I was eating again.

My hunger cues were starting to come back, and they came back with a vengeance. They terrified me. I didn't trust my body and it didn't trust me. 

Besides consuming larger quantities during the day, my body would wake me up in the middle of the night, requiring more energy to repair all the damage I had done. 

I would eat up to four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at one time, I would finish the ice cream in the freezer, something I wouldn't dare eat, even before my eating disorder. I didn't know what was going on. I was embarrassed to even ask if it was a normal occurrence.

I wanted to go back to school, but I was so terrified of what my classmates and professors would say. 

I imagined people asking where I had been all of this time, why I was allowed to miss so much class and still be welcomed back in the classroom setting. I imagined people giving me strange looks wondering where I had gone that I had gained so much weight. 

I tried not to be so full of myself. 

I stayed at home to do my homework and work remotely for about a week until I couldn't take it anymore. 

My first day back at school, I felt so much anxiety. I had only been in these classes a few weeks, before I was admitted to the hospital. I hoped I could remember where everything was. 

Was I in the right class? Is this the right time? Am I caught up? Did I remember to do the reading? 

Surprisingly, the transition was fairly easy. My professors and classmates were extremely welcoming and kind to me, very willing to catch me up to pace. 

I met individually with each of my professors to make sure I was caught up and to see what else I would have to do to ensure I would meet the deadline for December graduation. 

I had a 12-page paper in politics, a presentation, two short stories and revisions for fiction writing, and a full portfolio to develop for creative non fiction. 

They didn't say it, but I think my professors underestimated my ability to get these things done in time, but they were willing to let me try. I had a month. 

I knew it would be challenging, but I was determined to get everything done, and return back to work. I couldn't wait to be back in the newsroom. I had checked on the status of a few of my stories while in the hospital, to which my boss replied I should log out of my email and let myself relax. 

I felt extreme pride being able to get all of the work done. I started with one class at a time. I completed all of the work that was owed, than having finished all of those assignments, I moved onto the next class. 

I loved seeing the grades roll in, surprised to see A's on assignments. I was up on the reading, because I had all of my textbooks in the hospital. 

Professors reassured me it would be fine if I withdrew due to medical reasons, and my mom told me she wouldn't be mad if I got C's. I didn't drop out and I didn't get C's. I was determined this would happen. 

I was so excited to get the email confirmation that I would be graduating, not only in December, but a semester early than originally anticipated. To get A's on my final assignments made all of the suffering to me feel worth it. I had my drive back, and that to me was more important than anything else. 

I made Dean's list this semester, and I know it was because of my mom's unwavering patience with me. She brought me my books, supplied me new notebooks and pens, when necessary. And sat by my side listening to my frustrations and my dreams, and encourage my determination. When I wrote out an assignment by hand, she would type it up and send it to my professors, reassuring them that I was on the right track, that despite their concerns for my health, I was getting my work done, and it was keeping me healthy, giving me incentive to fight harder than anything else would. 

Initially, I never wanted to walk at graduation. I had severe anxiety and I never liked being in front of a crowd. I hated anything that would draw attention to me. 

Having achieved what no one thought I would, I was hellbent on walking across that stage with pride. 

I wanted to do it for my mom. It was her graduation as much as it was mine. I wanted to walk for us. For all we have been through. I wanted to literally walk through the otherside of what we had come to known as hell. 

Having her drive four hours to see me make a ten second walk across stage meant the world to me. 

Four weeks prior, I would not have had the strength to make it across the stage at all. I was gaining weight regularly, and though I had some hard days, for the most part I was OK with it. She helped me be. 

We cried the morning of graduation. I had woken up early, though I hadn't even slept. I was too excited and it felt like the nervousness you get before the first day of school. But it was my last. 

After I put on my gown and cap, my mom gave me a gift. One of the most special gifts I had received in my entire life. 

She put my Nanny's favorite heart necklace around my neck and said she wanted me to have it, and my Nanny would, too. She wanted her to be with us today and have her close to my heart. 

The whole day felt like a dream. There was so much excitement, laughter, and positive memories made. 

I had my family and everyone that was important with me and it meant the world to me to have them there for support. It meant the world to me that I could be with them again, that I could make them proud for once.