My Best Day in Recovery

"What progress, you ask, have I made? I have begun to be a friend to myself." Hecato

          "I finally think I understand it now," my mom said. 

          She had just arrived for her daily hospital visit. I was tired and restless. I have been in this bed for at least the last four weeks, and I was craving sunshine. Every day she would arrive, I would ask her what it's like outside. Is it sunny? Does the weather feel nice? What's it like?
          I could watch the weather on the news, of course. But it wasn't the same as feeling the cool air kiss my skin, and looking up to the sky and squinting as the sun reflected in my eyes. The last time I've been outside was the brief moment I was rolled on the stretcher from my hospital room to the waiting ambulance and transported to a new hospital across town better suited to treating patients with eating disorders. 
          The window from my room had an obstructed view. I could tell if it was light or dark, but not much else. 
         As my depression worsened and rapidly manifested itself as an eating disorder and a severe fear of food and properly nourishing my body, I was desperately searching for the words to explain to my family what was happening to me.
          "I don't feel good," I said. "I'm not happy," "It hurts," "It's not my fault."
          "Just eat," they pleaded.
          My sister reminds me now the saddest thing I told her while I was deep in my struggle, searching for a way to explain to them what I was going through.
          "It's always been like this," I told her. "Just now how I felt on the inside is starting to show on the outside."
          My sister cried at the thought, finding it morbid. But to this day, I still think it's the truest explanation. 

          I remember the first day I felt I physically could not eat my lunch. It was not like me to skip a meal. Actually, in university, it was my favorite part of the day, because it allowed me a break from school and work, and just an hour of downtime to sit with my friends, or in front of the TV and enjoy a meal, without the pressure of thinking about anything else.
          I didn't feel hungry, but I knew I had to eat, as I had to head off to work in less than a half an hour. I was happy that the cafeteria was serving sweet potatoes that day, one of my favorite foods. I pulled my chair closer to the table, and looked down at the plate in front of me, and I cried. 
          I was stressed out and had a lot on my theoretical plate, and my mind. 
          I don't know how much of my reliance on food restriction was a conscious choice, or how much was just instinct, a feeling that I had control over some aspect of my life. But, at the time, it felt good that I didn't feel hungry. I felt superior over the demons I was fighting. I felt like I could have everything: classes I loved at school, work I was proud of and co-workers I was happy to work alongside, but I didn't need this. Maybe other people did, but I was sure I didn't. 
          
         
          "The part of your brain that is refusing to allow you to eat," my mom said, "that's not you, that's not my Brianna- that's the bad Brianna."
          This was something my mom pondered about before. I've been through a lot in the past four weeks of the hospital. I showed little progress and hadn't been able to gain any of the weight I lost back, but every now and again I would show signs of hope that I would get better. That was the hope my mom held on to- that maybe, just maybe, I would come out of this alive, with minimal long-term damage to my organs.

          The first day my mom arrived at the hospital, I didn't know she was coming. I had been admitted the night before, because my heart rate was dangerously low- in the 40's. I was almost immediately checked into the Intensive Care Unit to be monitored over night, because the situation would be dire if my HR were to drop any lower. 
           Nurses wrapped me in blankets hoping to preserve my body heat and avoid any further drop in HR. Before I fell asleep, the nurse asked me that in the event of an emergency, would I want the doctors to do everything they could to revive me and save my life. 
          I told her no, and signed my name on a "DNR." 
          I was 21 years old, labeled a 'fall risk', having my heart rate closely monitored, and told the nurses that if anything were to happen overnight, to let me die peacefully. This is what I wanted, I was sure. I signed my name on the line. 
          When I woke up in the morning, I was told my mom was on her way, a four hour drive from where she lived to the hospital. 
          The nurses said they didn't believe I was making decisions that were in my best interest, so my mom was now in charge of making all medical decisions for me, and she should be here within the hour.
          

          When my mom arrived at the hospital, she rushed to the side of my bed. I could see the worry in her eyes, but if I were to have seen mine, I don't think there would have been much reflected in them. They were empty, just like I was.
          She hugged me and kissed my forehead.
          "Why are you here?" I said. "You shouldn't have come."
         I was angry that the right to make decisions for myself were taken away, and I was taking it out on my mom, who only wanted to help me, who only wanted me to stay alive. 


          I had sent back several of my meals already at the hospital, and my nurses and doctors were quickly becoming fed up with me. I had already been diagnosed with delayed gastric emptying, so even a little quantity of food would make me feel so full that I felt physically ill. I felt like I couldn't take in any food, even if I had wanted to. 
          The doctors threatened a feeding tube.



         As visiting hours came to an end, my mom was getting ready to leave, and I grabbed her hand.
        "Mom, do you have to leave?" I pleaded with her. 
           Even though I initially questioned why she was there, she knew that wasn't coming from me. She knew it was the disorder lashing out at her, because she was trying to save my life, and the disease was doing everything in its power to attempt to take over my mind, and break down my body. 
          Knowing that I would probably get a feeding tube placed that night, I was scared. I didn't want to be alone. My concentration was poor, and I wasn't able to hold a full conversation, because I was tired all of the time, I wanted my mom's company and the safety she provided me that somehow, everything would turn out OK. 



          "It's like there's two Brianna's," my mom said, "There's the good Brianna, that's my sweet girl, that she cares for people and loves school and work and wants to live and beat this, and there's the bitch Brianna, the disorder that's trying to take your life."
          I was so relieved when my mom made this connection, that she showed signs of understanding what was taking place in my mind, why it wasn't as simple as "just eat" or "do something that makes you happy." What was going on in my mind was bigger than me, and I needed some help. After searching so desperately for months for the right words to explain what I was going through, what I was dealing with, and ending with both of us getting frustrated and upset, my mom was finally getting it. We were on the same page and would work to beat this together, whatever it took.


          When my mom had that change in mindset, I had one, too. I was willing to accept medication to get well, accepting that what I had been fighting for the majority of my life was bigger than me; it was bigger than natural remedies, it was bigger than going out in the sunlight, getting exercise and eating right, it was greater than anything I had tried to heal myself. It was beating me, and I wouldn't stand idly by and accept it. Now that my mom and I seemed to be on the same page, I didn't feel alone anymore. We both knew what we were up against. 



            I had always been reluctant about taking medication, because of the possible side effects. But at the point I was at, I figured, it couldn't possibly be any worse. I spent a lot of my day sleeping, laying in bed with my knees tucked into my chest and crying. I couldn't sit up and hold a conversation without losing focus, needing a nap, or wanting to cry. The hardest thing for me was losing my faith. Being a strong believer in Buddhism, I couldn't read the Buddhist texts I once loved, I questioned everything. 



          After about three days of regularly taking an antidepressant, I felt well enough to sit up in my bed and have a heart-to-heart conversation with my mom for the first time in probably three months. I was so happy. We went for a walk up and down the hallway in the hospital. Being on the same page, she understood how hard it was for me to get through a meal, and how when the nurse delivered my meal tray, I would black out, riddled with anxiety. She would try to distract me with conversation, but I just couldn't seem to get past how afraid I was by the amount of food that appeared on each tray. My mom remained patient, and she sat with me during each meal, ensuring me that she was there when things got difficult, and we talked through it. We took it day by day, meal by meal, and I couldn't have gotten through the rough patches without having her on my team. 

         From that moment when my mom proved to me she was starting to understand what I was going through, we encountered many challenges in my road to recovery, but I didn't feel as frustrated by setbacks, because I felt confident in knowing that I had a team of people on my side who were rooting for me and my recovery. I knew I had people counting on me to pull through. There were times when my mom would become frustrated by my lack of progress or if I experienced a setback. I had told her that for us, recovery would look a little like swimming as one vessel; if she could kick, I would try to move my arms as fast as I could. We were both tiring out, but ultimately, we were moving forward, and that's better than nothing in my eyes. 



          

Does 'recovered' ever truly mean recovered?

 Lao Tzu once said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,”

Me and my addictive personality have always thought that was a load of crap. I wanted to reach my destination now. I didn’t much care for the scenic route.

I’m slowly learning that it’s only when you can discipline yourself to slow down that you can truly appreciate the route you take.

I’ve also learned: slowing down is hard.

Almost exactly a year to the day that my recovery journey started, though involuntary, I chose to reflect on my progress.

Recovery is hard. It hurts. It’s messy and confusing and scary. It’s not beautiful, but at the same time, it is. It takes time. A lot of it. You will mess up, you might mess up a lot. But, that’s OK, too, that’s part of the journey and the lessons learned contributes to your growth.

Almost a year into recovery, I often wonder if ‘recovered’ ever really means recovered. Maybe it varies from person to person. Maybe for some, it’s possible to make it on to greener grass and relax there for a little while. For some, their footing in recovery is a little more solid.

Not for me.

My footing in my recovery constantly feels like I’m on wobbly ground, or as if I’m re-learning to walk again. Because I have. Literally. And I am. Figuratively. I always feel as if I’m one insult or comment about my body, or one triggering food or situation away from backpedaling. I am always on guard, and so is my body, refusing to let me restrict my way into nothingness for a second time.

My recovery journey started out of necessity, rather than by choice.

It was my second attempt. My second time being admitted in the ICU after a two month fight against it. The first go-round in the ICU, I was there for four days, and against some of the doctors best wishes, released back home. Against their professional advice, I chose to forego inpatient treatment, and instead focus on my upcoming graduation, just a few months away. The truth is, I wasn’t ready to choose recovery. Nobody else could choose it for me, regardless of how bad they may have wanted to.

Having returned to campus against doctors and school officials wishes, I wasn’t allowed to seek treatment on campus, unless it was an absolute emergency. With my mom living on the other side of the state, we often stayed in touch throughout the day over text message.

Knowing that my mom took a chance on me, understanding how much school meant to me, and how badly I wanted to finish my schooling when I was supposed to, I was also sure that I was always honest with her.

I told her when I was tired, if I was having trouble walking, if I felt faint, if I was upset, and I admit when I made mistakes and cut corners.

One day at a time, one meal at a time, that’s what they told me. This wasn’t going to be easy.

I sang “Eye of the Tiger” to myself any time I had a particularly challenging moment surrounding meal time. I called my mom or sister while I was cooking or sitting down to eat, in hopes of alleviating the chance for a panic attack.

My second go-round in the ICU, I was on my way to my second class of the day at university, and feeling rather exhausted. At 21-years-old, I could barely make the seven minute trek across campus, without every muscle in my body feeling sore. I texted my mom, unsure if I would make it to my classroom.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I cried.

It felt like the muscles in my legs were abandoning me, suddenly we were on different pages, and they weren’t wearing my team colors.

Through the insistence of one of my kind, and patient professors, she told me that she would allow for me to miss that days class if I agreed to take myself to the hospital.

I thought about telling her that I did, and they chose not to admit me, and instead go home and go to bed early. I would try again tomorrow. But, for some reason, this time felt different, I wasn’t fully confident that I would see tomorrow, if I didn’t get help now.

I still wasn’t ready to choose recovery, but at minimum, I would need to be stabilized and have my electrolytes checked.

I was admitted to the ICU almost immediately, where I would spend the next week on bed rest, hooked up to various IV’s and fluids, and have a feeding tube inserted in my nose for the first time.

Sometimes when I’m feeling unstable in my position in recovery, I recall the pain of having three nurses crowd over my bed, wiggling the feeding tube down my nose, and how it burned as it curled in my stomach.

They had to readjust the tube three times after an X-Ray showed it was tangled in my stomach.

After a week, I was transferred to a medical unit, where I lived for six weeks.

Doctor after doctor told me about the toll eating disorders have on your body, and how serious my case was.

“If you were to leave here right now,” my doctor said, “you will not live, do you understand?”

I might have rolled my eyes, because I’ve heard it before.

The doctor had told me due to my limited intake of food, my organs started to feed off themselves, and were refusing to release waste.

“Just because you’re here,” one doctor said, “you can still die,” he said, “you are certainly not in the clear.”

I told my mom to ask him to go, because I thought he was being mean to me.

Even when I didn’t have a release date in sight, and doctors told me it may be months, I never felt sad, or scared, or much of anything, really. The only thing I cared about was school.

I wished I could work and complete school, without having to do any of the hard stuff.

Recovery was painful, and I still wasn’t ready to choose it.

I still cringe looking back at the journal they gave me during this time.

It was supposed to be used as a form of therapy, I guess, to get out my feelings, but instead, I logged what meals I ate and what percentage, trying to get around how much they made me eat. I wrote down new ‘food rules’ for when they finally discharged me, and I wrote how I couldn’t wait to get back to eating how I normally ate, how I couldn’t wait to be able to walk around the mall.

It’s been almost a year since I entered the hospital for what I would like to say was the final time. But like I said, recovery is not perfect, it’s not easy, and sometimes you mess up.

For me, my eating disorder is an addiction that resurfaces when my depression does, in times when I’m feeling stressed, or lonely. I’m addicted to the feeling of emptiness, it masks itself as a form of comfort, although I know it’s not, I have nothing else.

The beginning stages of recovery were hard. H A R D. hard. Hard.

Having lost over 60 lbs, meant I had to gain that weight back. And it came back faster than I was prepared for.

With my body refusing to trust me or let me restrict, my depression seemed to search for other ways to find that ‘comfort,’ other forms of self-harm for it to rear it’s ugly head and try to convince me that the beast was in control.

Recovery is messy. Sometimes that beast won. More often than I’d like to admit.

I’ve messed up, and weighed myself, knowing full well that I would not like the result. I’ve told doctors that I could handle the number, that I wouldn’t be upset and that they should tell me, ‘so I could be sure I was healthy,’ I lied, knowing I would use it against myself later. I stepped on scales at other people’s homes, because I wasn’t allowed to have one in mine, and hold it against myself later.

I’ve messed up, and restricted when I was feeling stressed.

I’ve messed up, and read labels, knowing that once I knew, it wasn’t something I could just unknow.

I’ve messed up, and worked out longer than I should have, than I knew my body could handle at the time.

I’ve messed up, and took more than I was prescribed.

I’ve messed up, and spent a few days in the hospital.

I’ve messed up, and never deleted the apps that track how many steps I take, or how many miles I bike.

Those apps send me ‘friendly reminders’ when I haven’t been as active as the previous day, or I haven’t burned as many calories as I did last week.

Those memos still send me into a frenzy.

“Why are you tracking your steps?” my mom asked. “You shouldn’t be tracking your miles, this is not a job,” she reminded me.

Quickly I became defensive, feeling the need to justify why my step count is so high, or why I feel like I need to ride X amount of miles X times per week.

My mom is very keen to my disordered behaviors, and not shy about calling them out.

I know she’s right.

I can recognize when my behavior is disordered, too. But I can’t stop. That’s part of the addiction.

It’s a challenge with myself in a battle against myself. It’s a numbers game. For someone who hates math, I get a little high off seeing the number higher than it was the last time I was on my bike, or the last time I went for a walk, because I can’t be trusted to jump on the scale and see what that number tries to deem my fate.

It’s a numbers game and nobody wins, but I’m addicted.

I still feel the need to excuse myself from conversation when I hear beautiful women, whom I admire talk negatively about themselves.

I feel that emptiness when I hear these women talk about their perceived flaws, or how much weight they think they need to lose, or what ‘magic diet’ they think will finally work for them. It’s not the kind of emptiness I’m attracted to, and I excuse myself from the conversation.

I still don’t know why I don’t allow myself the same courtesy when I start talking negatively about myself.

I’ve messed up more times than once, but like Lao Tzu said, “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

I may have taken a lot of steps, but this journey is far from over.

In fact, it’s still only just beginning. 

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.