The $hit people say...

Life doesn't always come with an instructional manual.  People don't always know how to act, what to say, or what to do when loved ones are in crisis.  Sometimes, people say some really stupid things.  Sometimes, these comments come out insensitive, and sometimes, the words just sound callous.  Individuals' intentions are usually good, but often, people just don't think before speaking.  It's human nature--I get that.

But here's what bugs me.  When it comes to certain illnesses, like cancer, some types of comments are completely off limits.  People never blame anyone with cancer for getting cancer, and no one offers litanies of advice for how to overcome it.  With certain illnesses, we seem to have more sympathy and compassion, and because of that, people tend to think a little more carefully before speaking.

Eating disorders aren't one of those illnesses.

In my experience, people talk to me not from a place of concern, but from a place of blame.  The $hit people say to me reveals an inner prejudice against eating disorders, as though I am personally culpable for my own suffering. And this, this is not only frustrating, but extremely hurtful and toxic.

Below are just a few of the comments close friends and family have said to me over the years (with some snarky responses I wish I had said):

* "I finally realized that I can't stop you if you want (are going) to kill yourself."  Yes, I'm purposefully destroying myself because I enjoy how physically and mentally painful starvation is.

* "If you had to choose between eating a salad or a milkshake, which one would you choose?" Why on god's great earth would you ask an anorexic this?

* "What was your lowest weight?" Are you asking out of concern or some sick curiosity?

* "You know what to do [to recover].  You just have to do it.  I can't help you any more."  You're right--I'm choosing not to do what's necessary to get better because I just love being in the hospital.

* "You're thinking about more than just yourself." [When I explained how well I was maintaining recovery while trying to get pregnant.] Because we all know how selfish eating disorders are--how self-absorbed of me to have anorexia!

* "I don't understand why you just don't eat." Neither do I--and clearly neither does my treatment team or I'd be snarfing on a Whopper with delight right now.

* "We never hear from you.  You should let us know how treatment is going.  Text us how your day was." Oh, sorry I didn't think about updating you.  I was too busy trying to save my life.

* "You're really consumed by this [recovery.]"  Um, yeah, I kind of want to live.

* "You're really getting too old for this. When are you going to grow out of it?" Trust me, no one wants to spend her childbearing years threatening her fertility.  If I could have turned it off, I'd be cradling a baby right now, not meal planning.

And this is the short list.

These comments, again, were spoken by those people who were closest to me, the ones who were supposedly part of my support network.

And again, I get that humans aren't always graceful in supporting loved ones, nor should perfection be expected.  But I wish, so desperately wish, that people stopped thinking that eating disorders are a choice because no eating disorder is a choice.  If people approached anorectics, bulimics, and binge-eaters with the perspective that eating disorders are genuine illnesses, some of the stupid $hit that would inevitably come out could be overlooked.  But when people talk to eating disorder sufferers as though we are obstinate teenagers choosing not to listen, the stigma against mental illness grows.

I wish an instructional manual for life really did exist.  I'd like to draft an entire chapter about treating individuals with eating disorders with dignity and compassion, the same dignity and compassion reserved for anyone suffering needlessly.

Cheers!

In Search of My Identity, Part 2

For years I was convinced that Identity was a one-word label that encompassed the whole of a person's talent: guitarist, soccer player, actor, etc...  This label was born innately within a person and nothing a person did could alter this.  I had a friend, named "B" who was a gymnast, another friend "D" who was an insanely talented musician, "K" was a dancer, "V" was brilliant, excelling in all her classes, and "L" was just jaw-droppingly beautiful.

And then there was me, label-less, talent-less, identity-less.

I craved to be something.  For a perfectionistic, self-conscious, hurting teenage girl, anorexia filled a gaping void in my life.

Those who loved me would try to convince me of the person they knew me as.  

"But you're a good daughter."  

"You are a great friend."  

"You're a good wife."

None of this was very comforting or consoling.  Everyone is a good daughter, friend, wife/girlfriend, etc..., and besides, as sick as I was, I really didn't see myself excelling in any of those aforementioned departments.  When my loved ones said these very well-intentioned things, the ED told me it was all a cop-out, that even they couldn't identify me as being very good at any one thing.  For over 20 years, I believed these lies.

I had what Stanford psychologist Carol Dweck (http://mindsetonline.com) would call a "fixed mindset," a belief that talent, skill, success, etc... cannot be cultivated, that these are things to which we are born or not.  What I am now attempting to nurture is a "growth mindset," the idea that I have the power to shape my talents and successes.  With a growth mindset, I would have understood that those I labeled as "smart" had worked to become smart, that my friend, the gymnast, achieved her success through passion and hard work, not just through innate talent.  I would have understood that if I picked up a guitar and did not immediately belt out "Stairway to Heaven," that it was okay, that I could eventually get there.  I would have understood that even the labels into which I boxed my friends were figments of my creation, and that my friends would have wanted to be known as more than just a one-word concept.  Most importantly, I could have turned my fear of failure and relentless energy to self-destruct into something positive.

Doing the hard work of recovery has given me a wonderful gift, the gift of learning who I truly am.  I've learned that my identity cannot be summed up in one word or even several words.  Who I am is simply me, a person with talents in some areas, weaknesses in others, and abilities waiting to be unlocked.  I am a good friend, wife, and daughter, but I'm also so much more.

Cheers!

Picking Up the Pieces

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty 

Back together again.

It has been seven months since I last posted.  You could say, that like Humpty Dumpty, I had a great fall.  My winter of sadness lasted longer than the snow.  It is only since the air has warmed and the leaves bloom verdant on trees that the snow weighting me down has melted.

Like Humpty Dumpty, no one could put me back together--no one, that is, except for myself and for time, the great healer.  I lost more than just a baby this winter--I lost a dream, one that now travels with the wind.  But in that time, I learned how strong I could be.  I learned that anorexia no longer controls me.  Through the long winter, I mourned.  I cried, I cursed, and I felt, deeply felt--but I did not starve.  Despite overwhelming pain, I persevered against the beast that is the eating disorder.

Because of this, I have been able to pick myself up, brush off the dirt and dust, and dream anew.  I don't need ED, my security blanket, to protect me in the cold night--I have myself.

Who needs kings' horses and men anyway?

In Search of My Identity, Part 1

I always ducked when girls at bat hit a ball my way.  Not a softball player.

I was afraid of falling off the parallel bars and balance beam.  Not a gymnast.

I liked to draw, but what I saw in my head was not what others saw on paper.  Not an artist.

Numbers jumbled on the page and made my head hurt.  Not a math scholar or scientist.

I could pluck on the guitar, string words together, and pound the keyboard, but what I produced was never as good as others' masterpieces.

But I was good at starving myself.  I could make myself small.  Others took note of my skill and heaped attention on me.  I wasn't the smallest or the sickest, but I knew that if I worked my hardest, I could get there.  I had found my niche, my identity--nothing, no one, could take this from me.

For me, the most terrifying aspect of recovery was losing my identity as the smallest, the sick one, the one who ate like a bird.  My life had become defined by numbers on the scale and clothing tags, doctors appointments, and self-hatred.  As much as anorexia tortured me, it was my comfort, providing me with a false sense of identity.  If I couldn't be "X," at least I was skinny.  Each time recovery was within my grasp, I relapsed, too fearful of losing myself and too overwhelmed by the prospect of creating a whole new self.

I understood that there were no trophies for the skinniest nor the one who could purge everything, but I desperately craved to be something and to have talent in something.  Years of being sick, especially throughout adolescence, stripped valuable time from exploration into and formation of my Self.  While my friends sought interests, I sought thinness.  While my friends apprenticed at sports, the arts, or music, I would trial and error at starvation, accumulating skill in self-destruction.

I could have been a mathematician, or a painter, or a runner, or anything else that made my heart swell.  I didn't become those things because I was too afraid to fail, too fearful of not being the best.  All those years spent working at the eating disorder could have been spent working on true desires.

In recovery I found the courage to write, a hobby that has brought me joy since I penned my first word.  I am not the best writer, nor will I ever be...and that is okay.  Striving to be the best prevents me from exploring my one true pleasure.  Besides, other writers' incredible skill does NOT negate my ability--my skill will continue to exist even when someone else comes along who is more talented.  In other words, I am learning to let go of perfectionism, learning that no one person holds talent trump.

To recover, we have to be willing to take risks, to allow ourselves to fail and to learn from that failure.  We must be willing to accept that being mediocre at something doesn't negate our uniqueness as individuals.  Recovery means exploring ourselves in gray, not just in black and white, fat and thin, good and bad.

I may not be the best runner, writer, knitter, yogi, or Candy Crush player, but I am a good friend, a loving wife and daughter, a nurturing teacher, a terrible cook, and one hell of a crazy cat lady.

What My Loved Ones Need to Understand

To Those I Love,

         There are things I need you to understand.  There are things about this eating disorder that don't make any sense.  There are things I cannot control.  I need you to listen.  I need you to understand.

         I need you to understand that I am terrified.  Even though I may admit to needing help or say I am sick of being sick, the prospect of losing the eating disorder is frightening.  My eating disorder gives me security and control in a world that is anything but safe and predictable.  Logically, I know that ED is killing me, and I know starving myself, purging, bingeing, etc… is not normal, but emotionally the world of the eating disorder makes so much more sense.  Losing this comfort feels wrong, like I’m being asked to dive from a cliff to my death.  Please understand that because of this, I may become ambivalent about, or even opposed to, recovery.  After all, my most “effective” coping mechanism is being stripped from me.

         I need you to understand that it’s not about food.  Abusing food is simply a symptom of a greater emotional distress.  I cannot articulate why I do what I do—I just know that when I restrict, binge, or purge, the storm within me subsides.  Facing food—eating it and keeping it in—means that I must face a tempest raging with all-consuming violence.  At each meal, with each bite, I relive this experience.

         I need you to understand that I am not my eating disorder.  With each step closer to recovery, ED barrages me with verbal assaults, trying to convince me that I am unlovable, unworthy, and undeserving so ED can survive.  The noise in my head is deafening, and sometimes, oftentimes, I believe what ED tells me.  So, I will fight with anyone who tries to keep me on the path to recovery.  I will say nasty things, I will lie, and I will manipulate, but understand that this is the eating disorder, not me, lashing out.  See past my behavior as challenging as that may be.  Remind me that I’m still in there.  Remind me that I’m not the eating disorder, that the voices in my head are manifestations of my illness.

         I need you to understand that I didn’t choose this path.  No one chooses an eating disorder.  I can’t turn it off.  An eating disorder is a biologically-based mental illness, not a cry for attention, not a stage that I’ll outgrow, not extreme vanity, not a tantrum, not a choice.  Don’t blame me, nor shame me, for this “choice” I never made.

         I need you to understand that making comments about how I look, how others look, how so-and-so is losing weight, how much I have to eat, etc… fuels the voices in my head.  Hearing about diets, clothing sizes, love handles, numbers, pretty or ugly faces, etc… will be heard and translated through ED’s lens.  Even though, with best intentions, you may tell me how healthy I look, all I will hear is “you’re fat.”  Even though you do not mean to hurt me when you talk about Weight Watchers Points, or how Aunt Janey looks like she gained a lot of weight, all I will hear is that how I look, how skinny I’m not, is what matters.   Even though you would never intend to trigger fear within me, when you point out how much I have to eat or comment on what I eat, ED tells me is that I shouldn’t eat at all.

         Most importantly, I need you to understand that no matter how hard I try to push you away, no matter how much I isolate myself, I truly need you not to leave me alone.  The harder I push you away, the harder I need you to pull me closer.  I’m not pushing you away, the eating disorder is.  If ED can get us apart, ED can grow stronger.  Don’t let him win.  Hold me close despite myself.

         Loved one, I know you want to help me.  I know that this eating disorder exhausts you and brings you to your breaking point.  ED makes you feel helpless, leaves you feeling scared.  If you are feeling this way, imagine how I must feel, in a continuous, never-ending battle.  ED prevents me from loving myself, ED stops me from reaching out for help, ED keeps me in fear and despair.  Deep, deep down inside I want to live again, and though I would never say this aloud, I need you.  I need you.

                  Love,

                  the one you love

         

Becoming Right Handed--from a Lefty's Perspective (Updated)

I am that typical Type-A personality.  I hate the unknown.  I'm not very spontaneous.  I like to plan things out.  I'm a perfectionist, a control-freak.  I need to know what's coming next.

If you're like me, or at least can identify with some of these characteristics, the prospect of recovery is probably terrifying for you.  It was for me.  When I was sick, my world was contained and predictable. This world may have been hell, but at least it was a hell, I mistakenly believed, was in my control.

Jenny Schaefer describes recovery as a right-handed individual being forced to become left-handed. In many, many ways, Schaefer is correct.  Recovery feels awkward and wrong, and there is a strong pull just to switch back to the dominant hand.  Reading Schaefer's books gave me a glimpse into the process of recovery, of the physical and emotional pain I would endure.  Entering the process with this in mind helped me to understand that what I was experiencing was normal and even expected.

With all this in mind, I'd like to share with you how I felt as a left-handed anorexic who had to learn to switch hands into recovery.

1. Recovery physically hurt.
   The re-feeding process is not smooth, not simple, not "pretty."  Starvation slows down metabolic and digestive processes.  My body feared starvation and clung to calories.  So when I re-fed, the weight didn't distribute evenly--it went straight into my stomach, the safest place for weight to be in starvation (think of the 80s images of starving Ethiopians). Re-feeding involves the consumption of many calories--more than a non-eating disordered person needs.  Once my body realized that it was receiving nourishment, my metabolism kicked back into gear: night sweats, pimples, and a metabolic jolt that couldn't gain on thousands of calories.
   In addition, because my digestive process had slowed to a stop, my body needed to re-learn how to digest.  This meant constipation, stomachaches, and slowed gastric dumping (meaning that food took forever to break down).  I felt bloated and gassy and always, always way too full, so full that I felt I might burst.
But here's the thing--if you stick with eating, the pain DOES go away.  My amazing body relearned how to work, and magically, it seemed, one day I woke up, and the pain was gone.  Over time, my body learned that it could trust me, and due to this trust, the weight re-distributed and my bodily functions returned to normal.


2. Recovery hurt emotionally.
    My hormones were shut down from starvation; re-feeding threw my endocrine system into high gear.  I cried.  I was depressed.  I lived in a constant state of anxiety.  I felt like I was going crazy.  Starvation warped my thinking--my brain shrank from a lack of food.  The eating disorder voice screamed and bellowed and beckoned me not to eat.  My mind couldn't make sense of the weight gain.  My mind kept telling me I was worthless, ugly, fat, useless, etc...  It was all-out war: the eating disorder versus recovery.  The eating disorder wanted to remain in command and was employing every underhanded, dirty trick in the book.  Ignoring that voice was exhausting, and at the end of each day of treatment, I felt as though I had been in the ring with Ali, Tyson, and Foreman.
But here's the thing--if you stick with eating, the pain DOES subside.  I did the hard, work--the eating, the fear-facing, the connecting, and sharing.  Over time, the eating disorder voice became quieter and quieter, from a shriek to a whisper, and now, at my body's natural set-point, the voice is a distant echo.


3. Recovery truly began when I left treatment.
Treatment is a safe place, a refuge from daily life.  In treatment, my therapist was available whenever I needed her.  She could talk me through any crisis, any meal, any panic attack.  When I left treatment, I wasn't cured.  I had the tools to build a life, but I had only practiced using those tools under close guidance.  Learning to use those tools to build my life, when life interfered daily, was arduous.  The eating disorder was my coping mechanism, my habit, my way of interacting with my world.  I wasn't just learning to switch from my dominant to non-dominant hand, I was relearning how to exist and interact in a way that was completely foreign to me.  Slips, blips, and relapses occurred.
But here's the thing--if you stick with eating on the other side of treatment, you learn how to be a new person.  I still had my supports--my therapist, dietician, support groups, yoga teacher, acupuncturist, loving husband, caring friends--but these supports couldn't be there 24-7, like in treatment.  This was terrifying.  I felt alone and scared when challenged by eating disorder at a meal, the mall, work. The temptation to restrict felt unbearable, but with each meal conquered and each crisis approached in a healthy way,  life on the outside of treatment became not only bearable, but enjoyable.


4. Time seemed to slow to a stop in recovery.
When I left treatment, I utilized all of my supports.  Living day to day was terrifying; I never thought I could make it between appointments.  I still felt crazy.  ED still talked to, and sometimes screamed at, me.  Each day felt like an eternity, an eternity in hell, an eternity that no one else seemed to understand or notice.  To my family, friends, and colleagues, I looked physically healthy; thus, in their minds I was.  I felt misunderstand when they treated me as though the eating disorder was a thing in the past.  Each day slugged along, with survival seemingly my sole purpose.
But here's the thing--if you stick with eating, time will eventually speed up. One day, I caught myself laughing.  Another day, I shocked myself when I realized how good food tastes again.  Another day, I found myself snacking on an ooey-gooey cookie for the sheer pleasure, not caring about calories or fat.  One day, I did feel that omnipresent anxiety.  One day, I felt normal, not crazy.  One day,  eating didn't feel like hard work.  Time will became my friend again.

Before treatment, I often heard from recovered individuals that recovery was the hardest thing they had ever done.  I thought that I understood what this hard work entailed--I didn't.  Switching from a dominant way of thinking and being is no small undertaking, and one not to be taken lightly.  Recovery was the hardest, most painful journey I have ever taken, but it has also been the most rewarding.

Cheers!

Weeding the Garden

When I purchased my first home, I loved the beautiful landscaping out front, the lush bushes and shrubs that lined the front and side with rose-of-Sharons and morning glories coloring the terrain.  That love lasted only until weeds sprung from nowhere, almost overnight it seemed, overwhelming the view.  Never one to enjoy gardening, I knew that as the homeowner, weeding this mess was solely my responsibility, and thus, I undertook it with all the enthusiasm and dedication one musters when cleaning toilets.

I wanted this labor to be over before it had started, so I grabbed at the weeds, haphazardly ripping and pulling, speedily working to clear all evidence from sight. With chunks of green in my fists, I felt satisfied--mission accomplished in under fifteen minutes.

"Pull at the roots," my father admonished repeatedly.

"I know, I know, Dad."

But even though I knew what had to be done, I continued to tug only from the tops, weeding only what could be seen.  Weeding was arduous enough, really digging deep into those roots and ripping them out would only prolong the misery.

Inevitably, within days, the weeds would reappear; it was really only a matter of time.  Ironically, my refusal to dig deeper was the "root" of my misery.

When in treatment for anorexia, the daily struggle to eat and to gain weight was overwhelming.  Relearning how to feed myself--what quantities and varieties of foods my body needed--was some of the hardest work I had (and have) ever done.  Learning to accept a body that took up more space and to accept that despite body dysmorphia I still needed to eat was even harder work.  Dealing with all of that was only part of what needed to be done.  If I had stopped there, if I had just continued following a meal plan and maintaining my goal weight, I would have simply yanked off the top of my weeds and left the roots to grow deeper and stronger.

Because eating disorders have roots, very stubborn, gnarly, tangled roots, roots that live to grow, choke, and kill our gardens.  Issues of food, eating, and body image are only what others see as the problem, but those aren’t the real disease. The disease resides deeper than that and is more insidious than feeling fat or being frightened of French fries.  The frail, emaciated bodies are what many believe the weed to be, but in fact, the roots are nestled much much deeper within.

To recover, I had to do what was even more arduous than relearning to eat--I had to face the trauma, the abuse, the self-hatred, the shame, and fears that gave rise to the eating disorder.  I had to dig deep within and rip it all out, allowing myself to become vulnerable to others, to relearn how to trust, to learn how to love myself.  Only then could my garden flourish, only then could I be free.

Call me crazy, but I now love to weed gardens.  Something feels cathartic about ripping stubborn weeds from their roots, something satisfying when I yank and tug until a long strand of white loosens from the earth.  I feel accomplished.  My garden is freed to thrive, unburdened by the choking weeds that threaten its survival.   The work is frustrating and challenging--those roots cling for dearest life--but the rewards are so much greater.

When I have those days when my thighs feels too large or the desire to skip a meal overwhelms me, I know its time to weed my garden, and I journal, do yoga, or visit my therapist.  I know that I have dig out the feelings and not allow those feelings to take root.  Life without the eating disorder is worth the work it takes, so invest in a trowel, some gloves, and a spade.  Start digging.

Cheers!