I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 5

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

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers

read part 4 of my story here:

After placing the feeding tube, there was a fight between the ICU and the regular hospital floor. The regular floor wanted me to stay in ICU. My heart rate was no longer in the 30's, but still way below average. I would be a liability on the regular floor. The doctors in the ICU knew I didn't need to be there anymore. I looked around and saw older patients on breathing tubes, patients who had suffered life-threatening injuries and felt shame that I had brought myself here on my own doing. I was twenty-one confined to a hospital bed, wishing my life away while patients just two doors down were fighting for theirs. 

I was excited to be placed on the regular floor. The meals came later and less frequently, and I already felt less anxiety. The doctors no longer picked for me, and I would be given a menu, allowed to pick what I wanted. This was a strange concept for me, because looking at the menu, I didn't want anything. All of the options gave me anxiety. Half of the options were things I had never had before. For the past four years, I had had the same breakfast, lunch and dinner almost every day. I didn't know about options. Options gave me anxiety. 

On the regular hospital floor, I had a real bathroom. I was allowed to close the door 3/4 of the way. This new freedom was extremely liberating for me. I told the doctor that she didn't need to hold my hand or my heart rate monitor, because I was confident I wouldn't fall. 

I didn't have much trouble getting to the toilet myself, but it was tough to get up, with my legs now mostly bone. If the nurse asked if I needed help, I quickly yelled back no. I would do this myself. I leaned on the hand rail over the toilet, like an older patient and did it myself. 

I quickly frustrated the doctors on the regular hospital floor, too. When the nutritionist brought me my meals, I had 30 minutes to finish my plate. I wasn't allowed to use any food rituals, give any food away, or dispose of any of it. There was a camera in my room monitoring my progress. I often had my allergies and food aversions revisit, and offer my roommate portions of my plate. She was happy to accept seconds. 

My weight was still declining, despite being fed extra calories through the feeding tube. Now at 82 lbs, I was a liability to the hospital, and they didn't have the resources to treat me there. 

I was to be transferred to another hospital, one we were promised specialized in eating disorders. 

I was happy to be out of the hospital, sure I would be able to convince the new team of doctors to send me home to take care of myself. I was unhappy about their no technology rule. I would have to surrender both my phone and my laptop. How was I going to finish my homework? I was in the last semester of university, and while I was in the hospital, I had my pile of books on my bedside, so I could email my professors chapter outlines and creative writing pieces to go towards my final portfolio. Now, in the new place, my mom was limited to how many hours a day she would be able to visit me. 

I felt abandoned. 

I didn't want to go, but as my mom was in charge of making medical decisions for me, I didn't have a choice. It was either the hospital or residential treatment. 

I wasn't allowed to walk to the ambulance, even though I had proved I was capable. I was an athlete my entire life, now I didn't have the privilege to walk down the hall and into the ambulance. I was wheeled on a stretcher and I felt like I could melt away with embarrassment. I was capable, not a liability! 

When I arrived in the new hospital, I was given a hospital gown, underwear and socks. They made an exception for me to keep on my fleece sweater, because my weight was so low, I needed extra blankets to avoid my temperature dropping any further. 

Immediately, I felt like an exhibit in Ripley's Believe it or Not museum. Nurse after nurse came in asking me invasive questions throughout the day.

"Why are you scared to eat?"

"Are you afraid you will get fat?"

"Have you ever been fat?"

"Were you obese growing up?"

I felt vulnerable, embarrassed, and ashamed. I wanted to run, to hide my face in the blanket and melt away. 

One of my nurses felt it was a good time to confide in me about her own eating disorder, describing in vivid detail each behavior she used to maintain her slender figure. I was stressed out. I couldn't use behaviors while they were watching me. After I ate, they checked the garbage, under the sheets, and my drawers in case anything was thrown away. I wasn't allowed to use the bathroom for 30 minutes after finishing a meal, and my walking was limited to a few laps up and down the hallway each day. My body was surging with nervous energy and I hated this nurse and her skinny body. I hated that she was getting paid to make me fat and I hated that she wanted to talk to me so much. 

We quickly realized that this new facility wasn't fit for treating patients with eating disorders. It was a medical behavior unit. Here, they would be able to stabilize me medically, but not the underlying cause of the disorder. No acknowledgment of depression, no talking about eating disorders. The nurses would put a "!" sign on my door to remind them to weigh me each morning, with a disclaimer not to allow me to look at the scale and not to use numbers out loud or within ear shot of my room. The facility was primarily a psychiatric unit, where they would treat patients with schizophrenia and hold patients on baker act who were on suicide watch after an attempt.

My door would often be kept close, because of angry patients screaming down the hall, or my neighbor, who would run into my room if the door was open, convinced that I was her mother. 

The nurses were the least bit sympathetic to me, treating me more as a burden than a valid patient. 

"See, that's why you have the tube in your nose," one nurse said after aggressively adjusting the tube, before storming out of my room.

She was mad that I couldn't eat the meal that was sent up to me, yet again. She was tired of me sending meals back and asking for substitutions. She acted as if the feeding tube was a punishment. 

Unlike the other patients on the floor, I wasn't allowed to use the shower room, because of my IV, feeding tube, and heart rate monitor. Instead, each morning I was given a tub of water, a few washcloths, soap and hair wash to clean up, if I had the energy. 

I didn't.

I told the nurse that I would wait for my mom to come so she could help me, and she wouldn't have it. She wanted me to learn to do it myself. 

I cried out of frustration, because I couldn't bend to clean the bottom of my legs and I couldn't reach my back. 

I wasn't allowed to shave my legs, because we couldn't have razors in a psychiatric facility. I quickly began to miss these little signs of freedom: fresh air, water pressure from a shower head, and bare legs. I felt trapped in my own body.

My blood pressure was taken every few hours, so the nurse decided to just leave the arm cuff around my arm. It was a child's size, so no one else on the floor would be using it, anyway. 

I quickly developed a routine in the new hospital as well. The last meal of the day came anywhere from 4:30-5 p.m., so I would turn in for the night after I finished eating, exhausted from the stress of the meal. The nurses would wake me up at 9 p.m. for my medicine, blood pressure, and any other tests they required from me that day.

On average, I got about three or four shots each day. One every morning at 5 a.m. in my stomach to prevent infection. Barely having any belly fat, this one hurt more than any other. Certain nurses were not very skilled at giving this shot, so I still have the purple scars to remind me I never want to be here again.

The nurses thought it was funny how immune I became to the process of getting blood drawn or getting my blood pressure taken. 

After medicine, I would typically sleep through the night, and not wake up until the nurses woke me for breakfast. I was too sad to do anything else. 

When they came in my room for blood or blood pressure, it got to the point where I simply stopped waking up, instead just raising my arms in robotic motion, letting them take whatever they wanted, letting them poke me in whatever vein they deemed fit, which for them, was wherever they hadn't poked me, yet. 

I slept a lot, because there wasn't much else to do. I didn't want to walk my four laps a day, but when my mom came to visit, she made me. The nurses made me get out of the bed and sit up in my chair to eat my breakfast and start my homework, so they can make the bed. My philosophy was if I never left the bed, they would never have to make it. 

I hated leaving my bed, because when I did, I had to drag my IV bag, and feeding tube with me. The wheels they came on were much like when you get a wonky cart at the supermarket and only three of the wheels turn. It was frustrating, and I didn't have the strength or patience to pull it beside me and I often tripped over it, or got it stuck in the doorway. As hard as I tried, I couldn't imagine ever being disconnected from either. 

When my mom came to visit, we talked about school and the news. I missed school and I missed the news. 

Every time she mentioned the possibility of having to drop all or any of my classes for the semester, I couldn't take it. I loved going to school and I loved being a student and I was determined to graduate on time. Every day she came to visit I asked her to bring me my school books and the newspaper. 

While she was gone, I would read my books for school, and write my assignments by hand. I handed her my assignments, to which she would take them home and type them up to email to my professors. 

Having my mom come to visit me was the highlight of my day, because it helped me establish a routine. Being confined into this one room allowed me to appreciate the little things in my day. I wanted to know what the weather was like outside, and I wanted her to open the blinds in my room. At this point, the only time I had been outside in the past month had been when I was wheeled into the back of the ambulance. I missed fresh air and I missed seeing the sun. I wondered if it was raining and for how long. 

I tried to accomplish as much as I could before my mom came to visit in the afternoon. If I managed to sit in the chair for breakfast, clean up and brush my hair and teeth before she came, I called it a good day. 

I hated when my mom came before lunch, because having her in the room while I was trying to eat stressed me out. The doctors were marking percentage of how much of my plate I ate, and when I reached 75%, they would consider turning off my feeding tube. I hated seeing how hurt my mom was during meal time, although she tried hard to be supportive. She tried to distract me with conversation, but I couldn't keep my mind off of what was in front of me. When I saw the nurse carry in the tray at each meal, it was as if I blacked out. The anxiety washed over me and I felt like I was drowning in myself. I couldn't imagine completing 75% of my meal, and if the meal was wrong I threw a fit, which upset my mom, the nurses and the cafeteria workers. I didn't care. If they didn't change it, I wouldn't eat and that was fine for me. 

The day that my nurse said that I could take a shower, I was so excited. I hadn't had a real shower in a few weeks and I just wanted to clean my hair and feel the water run down my back. But, I wasn't allowed to go on my own. I could only take a shower if my IV was covered with plastic bags, and my mom helped me in the shower room.

Despite my excitement, I felt immense shame. Despite how many times the nurses had helped me change my hospital gowns, I was afraid to take off the gown in front of my mother. I knew how much she cried when she saw my body. I closed my eyes and pretended I didn't see her holding back tears as she came face to face with my ribs, that were poking dangerously out of my body. She gently moved the washcloth over my shoulders, careful not to hurt me, because my shoulder blades now protruded out of my back. I held on to the shower rail, careful not to fall, because I hadn't stood that long in a long time, but I wasn't ready to step out of the steady stream of water the shower head provided. 

There were so many doctors assigned to my case, that we often got contradicting information. Several times I was promised discharge in coming days, which got my hopes up and never came. In my head I prepared of what I would do when I got home, who I would see, and how my transition home would be. 

I was terrified to be home, knowing left to my own devices, I wouldn't know how to change my behavior. I had accomplished many difficult things in my life, I couldn't understand why I found it so impossible to feed myself a proper balanced dinner. I couldn't understand what had went wrong in my brain to make myself hate my own existence so much. 

After a broken promise of discharge, I learned it was possible to be sued for rights to your own body. That week I was taken to mental health court, where the hospital would go to the magistrate and ask them to keep me for up to six months against my will in order to properly care for me. The hospital was convinced, if left to my own devices, I would go back to my old habits and eventually end up dead. They were damn right, if they sent me home, I would restrict twelve times harder to regain all of the 'progress' I was convinced I had lost. 

I lost in court. 

Although I would be getting my feeding tube removed, because I had proved I could consistently finish meals voluntarily, I would be staying another week on the psych floor. 

Here, treatment would be focused more on my depression. 

Having lost in mental health court, I didn't leave my bed for two days. I was more depressed than ever. It was a week before Halloween, and I wanted to go home so badly. I wanted to return to school. I wanted to go to classes in person. I wanted to go to the bar with my friends and go on dates. I wanted to go for a walk and experience the sun beating down on my back. I wanted to inhale deeply and fill my lungs with fresh air. I wanted to be off the IV, have the feeding tube out of my nose, and I wanted to go back to my old habits.

I was terrified of changing floors. I had a routine here and I had my own TV. My mom was allowed to stay for half the day, where now she would only be allowed to stay two.

I felt abandoned. 

I was convinced I did not need to be on the psych floor, just because I had an eating disorder.

I was right, and again I felt like an exhibit.

The treatment on the psych floor was geared more towards addiction and I had trouble relating lessons learned in group therapy to my own life. It all felt like BS to me and I felt like a prisoner. 

The other patients were hyper-concerned with my condition, but I made friends quickly, because I was always super willing to give away my dessert and milk, and anything else somebody might have wanted off my tray.

I had a week of eight hours of group therapy, before I would be released into my mom's care.

The first step out of the hospital in six weeks felt like I was released from prison. I felt as if I could have gotten high off the first deep inhale of fresh air, a little pleasure that had suddenly become so significant. Air. 

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 4

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

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers

read part three of my story here:

I was admitted to the ICU for the second time at 5'7" and 86 lbs. I was brought up in a wheelchair, and almost immediately placed on bed rest. The doctors wrapped my wrist with a bright yellow bracelet labeled "high fall risk."

I had a call button to call the nurses every time I needed to get up from bed to use the bathroom. When the nurse came in, she would untangle me from my IV and all of the wires that I was hooked up to and undo the circulation leg wraps, which were used to prevent blood clots, since I wasn't moving around. 

My heart rate, again was in the high 30's and I needed to be closely monitored until they could stabilize me. 

The first night in ICU I slept with six hospital blankets, and a heating blanket that read 114 degrees Fahrenheit, because my body temperature was several points below average. 

Having sent several meals back and asking for swaps, and for friends to bring me things that I swore I would be willing to eat, foods that I deemed 'safe' to my diet, the doctors on my case declared me medically incompetent to make my own decisions that were in the best interest of my health. 

They were concerned, when asked if God forbid anything happen with my heart if they should take all measures to save my life and at twenty-one, I told them "no, DNR." 

I was depressed, I didn't care. I was numb to the warnings. I was becoming smaller and smaller, until the demon swallowed me whole.

Part of my brain was still the overachiever, perfectionist who wanted to be at work, wanted to be at school, and wanted to participate in all the activities I once loved, especially life. I felt sad when my friends came to visit to tell me stories about their classes, nights at the bar, and blind dates they went on. I was twenty-one. I wanted to go to the bar. I wanted to be out drinking whiskey, rather than cooped up in the hospital, drinking laxative soda. I wanted to go on dates, but I didn't want any man to see me like this. I didn't want anyone to see me like this. 

The disordered part of my brain felt great sense of accomplishment when I stepped on the scale and watched the number decline. I wondered how low it could go. My brain felt like it was on a high. I felt like I could sustain on no food, just gum and seltzer water and diet soda. I wished I could do all of the things I loved without worrying about the stress of having to eat. 

The next morning, my mom had drove four miles to be by my side, and start making decisions for me. When I woke up and saw her there, I was pissed. 

"Why did you come?" I asked. "You should just go home." 

I was scared having her there. She was going to make me gain weight. They were trying to force me into recovery and it wasn't fair. I wasn't ready to choose recovery. I still wasn't happy.  

When the psychologist came in that day, I begged for medicine, something I had always been against. 

"I can't live like this anymore," I told her. "It's as if I'm already dead. My spirit is gone." 

During this entire struggle, the biggest loss for me was losing my sense of faith. I loved studying Buddhism, I felt it filled my spirit more than anything else. It helped me to remain calm, not to take things in life so seriously, to be a better daughter, a better friend, and a better sister, and helped me learn to act, not react. Suddenly, everything I read in the books felt like bullshit. I could read it, but I didn't believe it anymore. It seemed impossible that such philosophies could be applicable to my life. 

The nutritionist at the hospital threatened that if I didn't start eating, they would have to insert a feeding tube. I was in the hospital for five days, and I was losing weight by being in bed. I was 84 lbs and I still couldn't walk on my own. I couldn't take more than a few steps to the portable toilet placed next to my bed, and even then, I needed help getting up so I didn't fall. 

When I was stabilized, I was placed on the regular hospital floor, where I would get a feeding tube placed. I couldn't avoid it anymore. I had made every excuse. Every time the doctors made a threat, I promised I would eat all of my food, knowing that eating such a high volume was physically impossible for me at this point. I promised to drink boosts, but again, I couldn't drink as many as I would need to to even maintain my weight. 

I had heard of people who pulled out their feeding tubes, and I was sure that's what I would do once the doctors and my mom had left me alone. Until they placed it. I was told to drink soda from a straw as two doctors leaned over my bed strategically sliding the tube up my nose and down my throat. It felt like a sun burn sensation sliding down my throat, burning more and more on the way down. Considering my luck, the tube had to be replaced two more times before they had it right, because the end was coiling in my stomach, which would cause it to clog. 

The doctors gave me a Xanax so that I would stop crying and thrashing and hopefully be able to get some sleep that night. After having the tube pulled all the way out, back down, then back up and wiggled around inside my nose and around my stomach, I vowed I would never touch it, even if I had to leave it in forever. I never wanted that pain ever again.

With the feeding tube now in place, I still wasn't taking anybody seriously, although I was embarrassed of my appearance. 

I asked the nurses for a face mask, so my mom wouldn't have to see me with the tube in my nose when she came in the next day. When I put it on, we were all laughing, because I was still talking. I told the nurse that the nutritionist said the tube didn't have to be turned on tomorrow night [not true.] So I would go to bed having enjoyed my sugar free jello, one day less of having liquid calories poured down my throat. I was still manipulating, numb to the warnings of what could happen.

Story continued in part 5...

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 3

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

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers. 

read part two of my story here:

I was given an ultimatum. I drove myself to the hospital, just to prove to my mom that I didn't need to be there. I would be forced to wait there for hours, checked out, only to be sent home. I better bring a book.

I was admitted almost immediately to the Intensive Care Unit. My weight was now in the double digits and my heart rate was in the high 30's. 

The feeling of not being able to 'physically eat' I was told was called delayed gastric emptying. My body was not getting enough food, so it was holding on to whatever nourishment it did get, refusing to release an ounce, even waste. The build up of waste was collecting in my body and blocking my stomach, which forced me to feel full all of the time. 

I cried after being admitted. Not because I was scared of the incessant warnings of my body shutting down, or my heart stopping in the middle of the night, but because I had work the next day, and my phone was dead. I was scared of eating in the hospital, not being able to choose what they brought me or when I could eat. 

Meals came frequently. Too frequently: 7:30, 4:30, 6:30. I sent back almost all of my trays in my five day stay. I faked allergies, told them the food was bad, and claimed I wasn't hungry.

Having restricted so long, I no longer felt hungry. My hunger cues were skewed and mostly gone. My doctors told me my body was feeding off the waste it was holding, and my internal organs, and if I didn't stop, they would start to shut down. My hair was falling out, I was cold all of the time, despite the 90 degree Florida heat, my skin had a tint of yellow, and I haven't had a real period in over a year. 

Even being in the ICU, I found a way to manipulate the system. Having sent back so many meals, the doctors let me choose anything I wanted to eat, whatever I would be willing to eat. They were lenient with me, because they knew until I was able to release the waste my body was hoarding, I wouldn't be able to take in too much food. It would actually be dangerous, because I wouldn't release any of it. 

The doctors said until I was able to use the bathroom, I would have to stay in ICU under monitoring. I was prescribed laxatives, magnesium citrate, and an enema to help. Nothing worked. The doctors were shocked. 

I was given one more day, and if I wasn't able to go on my own, they would have to operate to remove the waste, leaving a permanent scar on my stomach. 

It was almost as if my bowels heard the threat from my doctors loud and clear, and I was able to go on my own. 

Having stayed in the ICU for almost a week, you don't have any shame at the end of the week. Besides using the bathroom, which was a makeshift pot located next to my bed, I was on bed rest. I 'showered' with wet wipes, and the doctors had to help change my gown, because of all of the wires I was hooked up to. 

I was only twenty years old, encountering the same complications my 90 year old grandpa was just a few months prior. 

I was released the same day, against the psychologist wishes. He was convinced if they released me to my home, and not a treatment center, I would go right back to my old habits. 

He was damn right. 

I was convinced I had to make up for the lost time that I was in the hospital. I had to lose the weight that I was sure they injected into my body through the IV. I was bloated everywhere and I felt disgusting. 

Against doctor and school officials wishes, I declined further treatment. I was adamant against residential treatment, knowing that being in a facility for 30 days with no access to technology or the outside world would not help me in the slightest. Really, I didn't want to be monitored for every morsel I did or did not put in my mouth. I wanted to get better on my own. I did it before, surely I could do it again. I was determined to start and finish my final semester of university and walk across the stage for graduation.

My mom and I received an email prior to school starting that if I was determined to continue school against their warnings, we had to sign a waiver releasing the university of any liability, should anything happen to me on campus. Also, I wasn't allowed to attend the health center on campus for counseling, unless it was an emergency. 

After four years of attending counseling with the same person, I felt extremely betrayed, but I was determined to prove her wrong. 

I would finish the semester, then in December, I would enter treatment when I had more time. 

To me, it was school first, work second, me last. Always last. 

I had a panic attack my first day of school. I woke up two hours before my class to make breakfast and have my coffee. My morning routine always took me so long, because I always had to have the same breakfast, regardless of time constraints. 

I was out of breath walking from my car in the parking garage, to the elevator to get to my class on the second floor. Then, I had 20 minutes to make it to my next class across campus. It took me 10 minutes longer than it normally would. I was jealous of the people speed walking past me, as I struggled to even make it at a snail crawl. I knew I should probably take the elevator up the three flights, but I wanted to work my legs- get in some extra steps, so I took the stairs. 

It only took me three weeks, before I realized that I wouldn't be able to finish out the semester. I was panicked. I had already started, and I didn't want my mom to lose her money on tuition. It was my last semester before graduation and I didn't want to lose my job. I would get treatment in December, and push through. 

It was a conversation I had with my mom that led me to be honest with myself on my evaluation of my health. 

She went to bat for me to finish school, despite all of the doctors and professors warning her of the dangers, of how close I was to death. She was the only one who knew that if I gave up school, I would give up hope. 

"Please don't prove them right," she pleaded.

It was after that second class, that I knew I wouldn't be able to make it to my next one, two hours later. It was only up one more flight of stairs and down the hall, but I felt like my legs were locking in place. I physically could not make it. 

My professor had already asked me if everything was OK with me, so she suspected something was up. I had skipped her class before on a count of "I didn't feel well." With no shame left, it was the only time in my life I was OK with someone assuming I had the shits, rather than reveal the truth. 

I broke down in her office, and she told me it would be OK to skip class, if I promised to go to the hospital right away and stay in touch with her. Knowing I couldn't walk back down the stairs and across campus to the parking garage, she pulled her car in front of the elevator, and drove me to my parking spot. 

Sitting in my car trying to catch my breath, I went back and forth with whether or not I should actually go to the hospital, or if I should just go back to my apartment and take a nap. 

How would she know, anyway?

Story continued in part 4...

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt.2

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

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention numbers. 

read part one of my story here. 

In May of last year, my weight reached its lowest point since middle school. I was 5'7" and 115 lbs. I have been in sports my entire life, so my set weight typically sits around 140-150 lbs. 

In May of last year, my mom told me that I wasn't allowed to work out anymore until I put on some weight. 

I laughed. Yeah, right. I thought. What was I going to do? Sit in my room and let myself go? I completed three or four more workouts, before I realized my mom was right. It wasn't only that I shouldn't workout, I couldn't workout. 

My body was so tired, I could no longer make it through my 30 minute circuit workout. I couldn't bike more than two miles. I was sleeping in late and I was always exhausted. 

I refused to listen to my body, so I pushed through my workouts. I went to boxing, anyway. I couldn't make it through the full hour class. Embarrassed, I would leave early, attributing the lack of stamina to asthma. I sat in my car and cried. I was exhausted, but I couldn't stop. I would try again tomorrow. 

I was extremely relieved when school ended for the semester. Having time off from work, I was able to go home to New York to spend time with my dad and some childhood friends. I thought it would be just the restart I needed. At the airport I promised not to let this newly developed disorder stand in my way of experiencing being home. I will have bagels and pizza, I promised. I'm only there for two weeks, it won't kill me. But it might, I thought. I put my sunglasses on at the gate and cried thinking of how I used to ride my bike to the bagel store on Sunday and buy bagels for my family so we could enjoy breakfast together. I thought about my favorite slice of pizza, a stuffed ziti slice, that I would never be 'allowed' to eat again, and I cried. What if a friend asked me to meet for lunch? How would I tell them no? 

Going home was not what I expected at all. I was extremely uncomfortable not having a place of my own, but instead staying with friends and relatives during the extent of my visit. The severe weight loss was causing me severe anxiety, and I didn't want to see anyone. What would they think? It was almost June, and I was cold all of the time. I hid under sweatshirts and sweatpants, hoping the extra padding would allow me to get comfortable enough to catch a few hours of sleep. My bones were now protruding, which made it difficult to find a position to sleep in that didn't hurt. 

"Bri you look so good, what have you been doing?"

I gave an awkward laugh, and cried that night. 

I didn't want anyone to do what I was doing, let alone anyone I loved. I was so anxious and depressed all of the time, that I was barely eating anything anymore. I was losing more weight every day even though I was just laying on the couch. I swore my body was betraying me and blowing up, but I was fading away more and more each day both physically and mentally. 

I was trapped. And I didn't know how to ask for help. 

I lost 25 lbs in the two weeks that I was in New York, and two weeks I was in California with my sister and my mom was growing more concerned. 

At this point, it was beyond the mental 'fear' of food, and I felt like I physically couldn't put food in my mouth. 

I was staying with my mom in hopes that her monitoring would 'snap me out of it,' and I would be able to 'just eat.' 

I tried to pretend I didn't notice her crying every time I left my breakfast half eaten, or told her I wasn't hungry. 

I cried, too, because I was mad at her for making me stay with her. I was gaining weight here, and she wouldn't let me workout. 

I took advantage of our time at the pool, jumping in the water, and vigorously swimming laps, while she sunbathed, enjoying reading her book. I wondered how many calories swimming burned. 

Despite my insistence that my legs were getting bigger, and my arms were growing jigglier, my mom swore that I had lost, yet again.

She was right. 

I was now 5'7" and 104 lbs. 

We told the doctor that we were going to find me treatment starting July, when our new insurance kicked in. She told my mom that I might not make it that long. 

July was two weeks away. 

The doctor officially diagnosed me as anorexia, to which I laughed, because, I was still convinced there was nothing wrong with me. 

"I'm not anorexic, I'm depressed," I told her. "I'm sad, I can't eat." 

"Just eat," she responded.

If I could, I would not be sitting there talking to her, now would I?

"Do you realize that you could die?" she asked. "You're too young to be doing this."

I didn't blink at her, and I did not react. This would be the first of many times I would have doctors warning me that I could die. I didn't care. Depression didn't let me. I was drowning, and I was numb. 

She asked me if I would be willing to drink multiple boosts or protein shakes per day to get my weight up quickly, and I had a panic attack.

Weight? Quickly? = Fat? Hell no!

The doctor suggested that my mom bring me back to Tampa and find me treatment now, or I would surely end up in the hospital, or worse, dead. 

Story continued in part 3...

I didn't know I had Anorexia pt. 1

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

Potential trigger warning: article may contain ED-related behaviors and mention of numbers. 

It started off as an innocent attempt to combat my depression. I committed myself to my boxing routine of at least three times a week. When I wasn't boxing, I would find other ways to stay active, to keep my mind busy: running, walking, biking, swimming, playing basketball, anything but stay still.

If I sat still for too long, the demons that have been living inside my brain for the past 12 years would catch up with me, forcing me to deal with real emotions, pain that I wasn't ready to confront. I thought if I kept moving, in time, I would be able to outrun the beast.

I've tried everything, but medicine to keep my depression at bay: yoga, meditation, tea, all the natural BS you read in those online articles. Nothing worked, except diet and exercise.

As time went on, I became more and more devout to my workout routine. I would skip plans with my friends and cancel dates, because I had to go to boxing. I would miss class or go in late to work in order to fit in my bodyweight circuits. I was going to school 18 hours and working over 40 hours a week. This was the one thing I did for me. I needed to workout. If I happened to miss a workout, because of prior obligations, or simply because my body was "too tired," I became very angry. I would snap at the people who were closest to me, and it seemed that I couldn't allow myself to do anything else until I completed a workout. Until I sweat off my bad mood.

Once I proved to myself that I was committed to fitness, I explored with diet. I wanted to have the cleanest diet, in order to perform my workouts better. I started by cutting out alcohol, something that quickly isolates you when you're in a college environment, then I said good-bye to processed foods. Everything the magazine told me to do.

For me, it was never about being "skinny," because I was never "fat." I just wanted to be fit and I wanted to feel well.

It wasn't until a night out with my best friend that I had noticed significant weight loss.

"You have lost a lot of weight," she said, "I think you've been working out too much, are you eating?" she asked.

Everyone who was close to me knew my quirks about food. I had a lot of rules about what I would and would not eat, when I would eat and who I would eat with.

I attributed the weight loss to my workout routine and insisted I was eating.

After uploading pictures we took to Facebook, my mom immediately demanded I take down the pictures.

"It's happening again," she cried. "You're too thin."

She was referring to freshman year when I had lost 20 lbs due to a combination of stress and depression and being away from home for the first time. She didn't want anyone to see me like this, so she told me to take the pictures down.

I didn't see it. Part of me felt really proud of my dedication to working out, and part of me felt relieved that my friends and family were concerned, maybe it would allow me to take a break, to loosen up a little bit.

But I was already trapped.

I continued my workouts as if it were part of my religion and regularly looked for ways I could fit in more exercise. If a friend wanted to meet to catch up, I wanted to hike or go biking. I didn't want to waste any time.

If a friend asked me to meet for drinks, or a professor wanted to catch up over lunch, I called my mom in tears. Suddenly I was afraid of extra calories, so I was left alone a lot.

I didn't mind, because it gave me more time to focus on the task at hand- getting fit.

The disorder led me to feel superior to those who would stop for McDonald's at 2 a.m. on the way home from the bar, or grab a bag of candy just because they felt like it. I felt proud of my will power every time I passed up curly fries or mac and cheese in the cafeteria, and instead bee-lined it for the salad bar. I felt proud of myself, but also I felt jealous of my friends who seemed to not put so much thought into when, where and what they were eating and who they would be eating with, friends who would roll out of bed in the late afternoon and swear they would workout tomorrow.

I was trapped. And I didn't know how to stop, or how to ask for help. The wheels kept turning, and my body was exhausted.

Story continued in part 2...

What does it mean to be a 'Recovery Hero?'

"A best friend is someone who loves you when you forget to love yourself."

 During National Eating Disorder Association (NEDA) week, we talk a lot about recovery heroes. But what does that really mean? Who is a recovery hero?

A recovery hero to me is someone who helps you stay behavior- free, or sober, depending on what you might be struggling with. 

A recovery hero can be anything or anyone that helps you live a life free of any negative behaviors; from rediscovering your love of writing or painting, something you haven't done since you were a child to your dog, whose company holds you accountable, keeps you from feeling lonely, and ultimately, away from any self-destructive behaviors. 

A recovery hero is a man or woman who has seen you at your worst and still shows you unwavering support, and ultimately, hope. Even if you have none left. Even when all your hope for reaching and maintaining recovery has come and gone, your recovery hero maintains enough for the both of you- confident that you will get through whatever darkness you are facing. 

He or she is the person who is trying so desperately to pull you out of the mud, regardless of how much your disorder or illness tries to convince you and everyone else around you that it's comfortable there. The mud feels nice, because the mud keeps you numb to whatever you're trying to run away from. But, you can't reside there forever. Eventually, one of two things have to happen: either the mud will suck you in, or your recovery hero, filled with adrenaline will fight off the mud that's pulling you deeper and deeper away from their embrace, and lift you out and back into the light. Because no matter how far into the mud you may be, there's still light. There's always light. And a recovery hero is one who helps you find it again. He or she is the person that despite all other efforts from outsiders is able to get through to you, if only just for a moment. They are the reason something deep down inside of you is still fighting. 

The demons you are battling may have you convinced you that you are stuck in the mud, but the stronger part, the part that is still you, the part that is your soul, the part of you that made this recovery hero fall in love with you, the part of you that convinces them that you're worth fighting for, that there's something to be saved is scratching at the surface, desperate to be pulled out. 

A recovery hero is the person who you can talk to for hours, without them interrupting your endless stream of thoughts. You can call them at any time of the day or night, and they will pick up, offering to drop by if you need anything at all, even just someone to sit by your side. 

Regardless of how hard that your disorder is pushing against you, find that piece of you that wants to be pulled out of the mud, even if it's only an ounce. Find that ounce of hope and remember that their is light. Hope is still their. If you can't find it on your own, reach out to your recovery hero. Be vocal and speak up. Ask for help. Reach out your hand, and yell, "pull!" Your sure to get through the mud together. 

If you or someone you know is suffering from an eating disorder, take a confidential screening www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/screening-tool. 

#LiveForTomorrow Photo Challenge Day 7: I am Grateful For

"Gratitude turns what you have into enough."

 One of my favorite grounding exercises at the end of the day is to spend five or so minutes to slow down and sit with my gratitude journal. This time allows me to step outside of my cluttered mind and recall all of the things I was appreciative of throughout the day.

This process helps me during the low points when my depression threatens to resurface, leaving me feeling drained, empty and alone, to remember how much good is already in my life that I have been turning a blind eye to.

"Is it simple? Can you not see it now? We are worth it all." -Tyler Knott Gregson

 

 

Here's just some of what I found:

 

-The ability to get a quality education and further my knowledge in a subject I love, while honing my craft through extracurricular clubs on campus. Overall, I am always grateful for opportunities to learn something new, whether it be through reading, a formal class, conversation, a documentary, or actual experience.

 

-Going to work every morning and feeling like I have a sense of purpose, genuinely enjoying what I get to do every day, and coming home with a feeling of accomplishment that my work has the potential to make a difference in my community and many individual lives.  

 

-Fresh flowers at the farmer's market

 

 

-Unplugging and going on long walks

 

-Reading a good book

 

 

-Spending the day with my family

 

 

-When the cooler night air takes over the Florida heat

 

 

 

-Lazy afternoons

 

-Sleeping in, and waking up to the sound of the rain bouncing off the windows

 

-Swimming on a hot day/feeling the sun kiss my skin

 

 

-A strong cup of coffee or tea

 

 

-Holiday/nature scented candles

 

-Having meaningful conversations

 

-Sharing a meal with friends

 

 

-Seeing a rainbow on the drive home after a long day

 

 

-Hearing an old song on the radio that I used to love and singing it at the top of my lungs

 

-Not waking up to the sound of the alarm on the weekend

 

-Feeling present, like I am exactly where I need to be

 

 

What are you grateful for? Join me for the remaining three days of the #LiveForTomorrow Photo Challenge, leading up to World Suicide Prevention Day on September, 10.