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!

Questions about Recovery

My goal in writing this blog is two-fold:

   1. to strengthen my recovery

   2. to help and inspire those struggling to recover or who are in recovery

Therefore:

    I would really love ideas and topics to write about.  I also welcome questions about recovery.

Please post your ideas, questions, or thoughts below.

Cheers!

Part 1: What I Can Never Take for Granted

Not too long ago, I found a letter that I had written to myself on the eve of entering inpatient treatment.  In that letter, I detailed the pain of anorexia so that my future self, if too scared to fight the disease, could remember the devastation anorexia wrought upon my being.

It's funny how we forget.  How time marches forward, altering the perception and emotions that surround events.  A child, who falls from her bike, skinning a knee, will forget the impact of the fall, remembering only the exhilaration of the ride, and climb, once again, up onto her bike.  A mother, who labored painfully for hours, recalls only the moment of meeting her child for the first time.  It's strange how the mind remembers what it wishes to remember.

When in turmoil, pain, or unease, when life feels so out of control and unbearable, the eating disorder valiantly attempts to rescue us with false promises and beliefs.  We forget the physical and emotional pain, and fall victim to its false narratives: I need to get through this weekend; I can start eating again on Monday.  I'll only lose ten pounds; that will be enough.  I'll only purge this one meal; I just can't keep this food inside me right now... and so on...

The mind remembers only the exhilaration, the high of starvation, the smaller clothing sizes, the praise from others, feeling powerful and special, the relief of a purge, the false allure of control---and then, it becomes too late.  Biology always wins, always.  The disease has taken hold and stripped from you any semblance of control.

It is helpful for me to re-read that letter I found now and again to remind myself of why I fought so hard for recovery.  I am recovered, and I don't live my life fearing relapse; however, I cannot be naive.  I was born with the genetic predisposition and perfectionistic personality type prone to an eating disorder.  It is not necessary, nor desirable, to be constantly or obsessively vigilant and fearful of relapse, but it is vital to be aware, aware that certain situations, emotions,  and individuals, etc... can leave the door open, allowing ED to sneak his way in.  Remembering the visceral, emotional, and spiritual pain empowers me with the strength to keep fighting.  

I can never take recovery for granted.  I can't afford the rent ED charges to live in my head and to alter my memories of the disease.  Eating disorders suck, and no false promise of thigh gaps, size 0s, control, or anything, will take the suckiness out of ED.  Eating disorders just plain suck.  Don't let yourself forget that.

Cheers!

What It Takes to Recover

As an educator of struggling readers, I am endlessly searching for ways to help my students persevere through the challenges that  lower their motivation, increase their fear of failure, and decimate their self-esteem.  Oftentimes, my seventh grader readers come to me after experiencing years of failure, of trying different strategies that have failed them, of working with various educators with whom they cannot connect.  It is my job to convince them that all hope is not lost, that despite the past, the present and the future can be different.  But, what I need from them is essentially the most challenging and fearful thing of all: frustration tolerance.

While searching educational TED videos, I found this interesting talk by Dr. Angela Lee Duckworth on grit, the ability to persevere.  And though I made instant connections to teaching, I also immediately considered the implications of grit on recovery.  Grit is the ability to press forward and endure frustration, pain, fear, etc..., delaying gratification until later.  Or, as Dr. Duckworth says, "Grit is sticking with your future, day in and day out, not just for the week, not just for the month, but for years, and working really hard to make that future a reality."

As a teacher, I witness this daily; students struggle to read, the gremlins warring in their brains--"you're stupid! you can't do this!" as students either press on, or in many cases, give in and listen to their gremlins.  As a recovering anorexic, I remember sitting through meals with my ED gremlin screaming "you're fat, you're worthless, don't eat!" as I slowly lifted fork to mouth, tears wetting my plate.

I longed for instant gratification, the endorphin high from running on empty, but giving in would simply push me farther and farther from recovery.  Giving in only fed the failure I feared, assisting the gremlins as they told me, "recovery isn't worth it, you can't recover."  To recover, I needed the grit to persevere through the pain of eating and the turmoil of facing my biggest fears and inner demons.  I couldn't just follow my meal plan for a day or a week, or even a month.  I needed to follow my plan for several months, a year, in fact.  I needed to attend groups, journal daily, do yoga, see my therapist and dietician weekly, and most of all,  I needed to retrain the voices in my head at every meal: "I deserve to eat.  I am beautiful."

To recover, I had to "stick with my future" and endure the present pain.  I had to be willing to take risks and realize that past failure was not, in fact, failure.  "Growth mindset," as Dr. Duckworth claims, allows us to view mistakes as inevitable learning opportunities that help us grow to reach our potential.  Each time I hit a bump in recovery, I learned from it, hit the reset button, and powered forward.  A "fixed mindset" would tell me that I would always be anorexic, that I deserved it, but a growth mindset, would help me to see that my present situation is not fixed, it will change and grow into something better.  This is grit.

To anyone struggling with an eating disorder, challenge your thinking mindset.  Switch from fixed to growth-minded thinking.  Find your grit.  Resolve to persevere.  My students prove to me, day in and day out, that it's possible.  I have experienced this possibility.  You can, too.

"Grit is sticking with your future, day in and day out, not just for the week, 

not just for the month, but for years..." 

Dr. Angela Lee Duckworth

Cheers!

What Anorexia Has Taught Me

To all my readers:

What a trying six months this has been.  Holding on to recovery while life hums along is hard enough; holding on to recovery when life storms and rages feels almost impossible.  But, it is possible.

I have been blessed with few physical repercussions from my eating disorder.  My health, overall, is good, but these last few months have sidelined me with a heart-wrenching long-term consequence of struggling with anorexia for so many years: infertility.

For two long years, alongside recovery, I have battled the emotional and physical rollercoaster of an inability to get pregnant.  These last six months have been most stressful of all.  Surgeries, injections, hormonal imbalances, ultrasounds, bloodwork, hoping, waiting, praying--it's enough to trigger relapse in anyone.

I've had my moments when the will to keep fighting--for myself, my husband, and my unborn baby--has been shaken.  To eat when the emotional turmoil rages, to eat knowing that this pain would all go away with ED's help, to eat when all I want to do is punish my body for failing me is indescribably arduous. I've had my slips, a few stumbles, but here I stand: unbroken.

Fighting and winning a war against an eating disorder has taught me a very, very important important lesson: if I can beat anorexia, I can beat anything.  If I can endure the hourly, daily, and weekly barrage of ED insults with only blind faith in recovery, I can brave any stormy weather.

I can bear this next burden.  ED is strong, but I am stronger.

Cheers!

Coming Out of the Closet

Last February, during NEDA (National Eating Disorder Association) Awareness Week, I opened the closet door.  Last summer, I stuck my toe out of closet door.  Last Wednesday, I peeked my head out of  the closet door.

I am a recovering anorexic, and for years, that secret lay buried deep in my closet, too ashamed of the stigma and of what others would think.  Growing stronger in recovery has allowed me to work through the shame of not being all that my anorexia had me believing that I could be: perfect, invincible, infallible.  And so now, it is time that I break from my cage, dust off my wings, and fly.  No longer do I need to hide.

Noted author, motivational speaker, and researcher on the topics of shame and perfection, Brene Brown,  stated, “Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.” 

Recovery illustrates to me the need to own my story, not to flee from the imperfect parts of myself, but to embrace all aspects that make me the individual I am.  It is not necessary to sing high from the mountaintops that I am anorexic, but it is also not necessary to feel shame for giving this illness power over me.  That is why, slowly, I am emerging for the proverbial closet.

For years, I didn't believe that I had a problem.  I didn't think was my problem was "that bad."  I didn't consider myself sick enough or thin enough.  And, I certainly couldn't name my eating disorder.  Just hearing my doctors say it aloud made me cringe.  As much as I longed for that diagnosis, that validation, I couldn't give breath to the word.

Last February at a NEDA Open Mic Outreach event, I stood before a crowd of familiar and unfamiliar faces and boldly announced that I was in recovery from an eating disorder.  I told the crowd--through shaky voice and legs--that I had never publicly spoken of my illness and shared bits about my story. I couldn't use the word, anorexia--I was too ashamed--but I did admit publicly to a problem.

Last summer I participated in the first NEDA Central New York Walk, proudly wearing my team t-shirt with the words NEDA displayed front and center.  I did not discuss my disease or tell my story, but I walked with dozens of others in a display of recovery from an eating disorder, hiding a little less.

Last Wednesday, I shared tidbits of this blog with a group of relative strangers in my writing class.  Fearful of the response (I don't look anorexic anymore; would they believe me?), I took the risk anyway and felt pride in my strength.  There in writing was the word--anorexia--and everyone who read my writing learned of my written confession.

Today, I take one more step outside the closet.  I share with you my name, Melissa.  

I began this blog as a way to write about eating disorders, while remaining as anonymous as possible.  What if people from work discovered my secret?  Friends?  Family members?

In short, what if people found out?  What would be the worst that could happen? 

I have spend so many years hiding, and I am tired of it all.  I don't need to be ashamed of who I am, or who I was.  I was anorexic, I was bulimic, and now, I'm not.  I'm so much more than that.  But certainly, I don't need to hide it.  

Yes, my name is Melissa, and I am--was--an anorectic.  With each small step outside the closet door, I am less and less ashamed of this.

Cheers!

Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Larger Than They Are

Turning 16.  What a milestone.  Not only considered to be "Sweet Sixteen," it is the year when a girl in New York, like me, can obtain her driver's permit.  After easily passing the written examination, I was awarded my ticket to drive--with adult supervision, of course.

I quickly learned that driving is nothing like the rules laid out in the driver's manual. The anxiety, awkwardness of multitasking, and quick decision making were not issues covered in the booklet.  Despite all of this, I forged ahead, anticipating a whole new era of freedom and independence.

A new driver learns quickly not to trust the rearview mirrors.  Cars have blind spots, yes, and rearview mirrors help to give sight to those areas, but one cannot rely solely on those mirrors.  It may be the angle at which the mirrors are positioned, or it may be the materials used, the objects in the rearview always appear closer than they actually are.  To a driver, a young inexperienced driver, who must make instant decisions, the distorted image in those mirrors serve simply as a guide.  One must remember to look both ways over one's shoulder as well as the mirror adjacent to the steering wheel.  Ignoring all of that data could cause an accident.  And, no one wants an accident to occur.

What does this vignette have to do with eating disorders?  Everything.  

While standing naked in front of the mirror, I would scrutinize every inch of my body.  Almost magically before my eyes, I would see my thighs enlarge.  Pinch fat around my middle.  See bulges, sags, and cellulite, the image in the mirror slapping me for not working out harder and eating less.

While walking on the sidewalk, I stared not straight ahead, but sideways, praying that the images reflected back to me in storefront mirrors wouldn't betray me.  But they did.  Always I saw a big girl, too big to be worthy of love.

While trying on pants, shirts, shorts, or gasp! bathing suits, the mirror reminded me of my imperfection, the thickness and space of my body.

And, I believed everything I saw because I saw it with my own two eyes.  It never once occurred to me that the mirror, and my eyes, could be wrong.

I wish mirrors came with warning labels like the rearview mirrors on cars.  Imagine walking into a dressing room at Macy's and reading "Objects in the dressing room mirror may appear larger than they are."  It would be terrifying at first to know that one would look bigger, but on some level, wouldn't it be freeing to know that the image staring back at you was not real, not the one the rest of the world saw?

When people with eating disorders look into mirrors, we don't realize that the angle of the mirror (our negative perspective) or the materials from which it's made (our life experiences) distort the reflection.  We assume that our eyes tell us the truth.  We ignore the mirror adjacent to the steering wheel and refuse to look both ways over our shoulders.  In other words, we tune out compliments from others, the warnings from loved ones that we look weak, pale, and ill.  We distract ourselves from the noise of our bodies, growling from hunger and groaning in pain, and focus only an image that is distorted.  We refuse to acknowledge that image is even distorted.

We would never do this driving.  It could get us killed.

So, too, can believing the distortions.

Part of recovery entails a willingness to consider that the image we see in the mirror is a distorted amalgamation of our dark inner voices, trying desperately to cling tight.  We have to be willing to look at  the mirror and say, "I am beautiful," "I am worthy," "I deserve life."

For me it means telling that pesky anorexic voice to shove it, while I gasp at the size of my thighs.  It means taking a deep breath, looking straight into the mirror, and audibly saying, "my thighs are not big, they're beautiful, look at how strong they are."  If the eating disorder could condition us to believe we were fat and ugly and worthless, recovery can just as well condition us to do the opposite.

But, first, we must acknowledge the distortion.

Do not give up the fight.  Recovery is possible.  Just remember, objects in the rearview mirror WILL appear larger than they are.

Cheers!

The Most Challenging Choice

Recovery is the hardest thing I have ever done.  Sticking it out through all those unbearable moments, those moments when it would have been easier to surrender to the eating disorder, was the best and most challenging choice I have ever made.

Choice?  Yes, that's right.  Choice.

I chose recovery.

Don't get confused though--I never chose to have an eating disorder.  I never thought to myself, "I want to be skinny.  I'll just be anorexic."  I never thought that a diet would get deadly.  I never understood that at some point a deadly diet could become a disease.

Our society beholds thinness as a god.  We worship the thin and beautiful in movies, television, and magazines.  We seek to be like them, and though that goal is unattainable for the masses, the media sells this ideal as achievable through "willpower."  Yet, when taken too far, nothing but derision ensues when a person reaches beyond "perfection" and becomes anorexic.  Suddenly, that diet--which is really a biologically-based mental illness--becomes a choice.  The media attack switches from "put down that burger" to "give that girl a burger."  No, eating disorders are not choices.

To choose recovery is to be willing and open to change.  It means having blind faith in oneself and one's treatment team.  It involves tortuous physical pain and mental anguish.  It is climbing Mt. Everest with only a stick, hoping that stick won't snap. 

Choosing recovery means accepting that recovery isn't linear, that it won't go smoothly or seamlessly.  Setbacks and relapses are inevitable.  Ambivalence, inevitable. Feeling like giving up, sometimes giving up, but climbing back up--all inevitable.  

I didn't always want to recover, nor did I believe that I could recover.  I chose to face, and subsequently fight, the demons haunting me.  I chose to go to treatment, to do outpatient care, to attend groups, to journal, to practice yoga, and to risk trusting others. 

There are so few aspects of the eating disorder that I could control, but I could control me.  I could control my choices.  Because of that resolve, I am thriving.  I am living.  I am free.

No one chooses to have an eating disorder.  No one chooses to be ill.  But following doctors orders, doing what is hard, sticking it out through all the tough moments, those are choices.  Make them.  You are strong enough, trust me.

Cheers!

What an ED is Not

An eating disorder is not...

* a cry for attention

* a fear of maturation/womanhood

* a phase one will eventually outgrow

* a diet

* a vain ploy to become more beautiful

* a tantrum

* a disease just for rich, white, spoiled teenage girls

* a thing that can just be turned on or off

* all about food and weight

* a choice

Sadly, the majority of individuals in the United States believe eating disorders are deliberate choices, that eating disorders will simply go away if the anorexic or bulimic would "just eat."  Those suffering from eating disorders are shamed for being overly vain and preoccupied with appearances.  Oftentimes, I have read commentary in which some ignorant individual compares having an eating disorder to having cancer.  Whereas a person cannot choose cancer and cannot choose to beat it, the eating disordered individual seems to have this "will" to shape the outcome of his/her disease.  This couldn't be any farther from the truth.

If one could easily will away the eating disorder, treatment would be simple, short, and sustainable.  To imply that the eating disordered individual lacks the willpower to overcome a biologically-based mental disorder sets up the sufferer to feel shame and failure, things which only work to fuel the disease even more.  There's no magical switch that shuts anorexia, bulimia, ED-NOS, and BED off.

Eating disordered individuals do need food to medicate a malnourished, starved body, but food alone is not the cure.  We are not narcissistic, self-absorbed people.  We are those who love too hard, try too hard, and feel too strongly.  We are sensitive and empathetic.  The problem we have is that the disease falsely has us believing that starvation is an effective way to cope with all the trauma in our lives.

An eating disorder is...

* a mental and biological illness

* a maladaptive coping strategy

* an inward emotional assault

* a physical manifestation of inner pain and turmoil
* a maladaptive way to interact with the world
* an ineffective and life-threatening way to numb pain and conquer emotional trauma
* self-abuse

Understanding what eating disorders are helps all involved to fight against the eating disorder and NOT against the sufferer.  Just as we would never blame the chemotherapy patient for needing chemo, we should not blame the eating disorder patient for needing medical and psychological intervention.

Cheers!

Eating Disorders and Adolescence

My eating disorder developed in my adolescence.  It began innocently enough, and like every eating disorder cliche, quickly took over my life.  Recently, I spoke at a family night group about my recovery, and in staring out at my audience, I was shocked to see so many young, young faces who are battling this disease.

I tried to imagine what it must be like for those young teens' parents, listening to a woman who is recovered now, but struggled for longer than most of those teens had been alive.  Does my story provide hope or does it instill fear--fear that their child must endure over twenty years of hell to reach where I am today?

And then, I wonder--what took me so long?  Am I just a really slow learner?

Eating disorders are incredibly complex, and looking back (hindsight always 20/20--another cliche), I now appreciate this complexity.  As a vulnerable thirteen-year-old, one with little self-esteem and a lack of self-concept, I craved power in a world that usurped all power from me.  Bullies, media, parental and school rules, social conventions--everything--took from me.  I didn't know who I was or who I could become.  Anorexia gave me an outlet, an identity, a way to shield me from the things that scared me.

The allure of control allowed me to manifest my teenage rebellion--against my parents (like hell you can make me eat), against the bullies (you can't hurt me; only I can hurt myself), against school (you can't tell me what to do), etc...  While other kids were jocks or potheads, or cheerleaders, I was the anorexic.  The disease gave me a way to interact with my teenage world.  I could bond with other anorexic girls, and together, we could rally against those who would try to take our eating disorder away.  Bonding over the eating disorder was no different than the way some kids bond over Justin Bieber or New Direction.

The challenge in this is that the longer I rallied to stay sick, the more entrenched the eating disorder became.  In that process, my mind sealed and deflected the attempts of others to help me recover.  The longer my mind battled, the easier it became to deny my illness.  Even throughout relative periods of health, the eating disorder held on, maybe not active, but there, lying in wait.

Recovery, under these circumstances, is elusive.  Power struggles with teens always result in the adult's defeat.

What I'd like to tell parents of teenagers with eating disorders is that there is hope for recovery, a recovery that can be a few months or years within reach, not decades within reach.  But for a faster recovery, understanding is key.  I recall a time when my doctor instructed my mother not to let my weight fall past a certain number.  Of course, my weight did fall below, but when my doctor called to follow up, my mother lied, claiming my weight was unchanged.  When I questioned her, she told that it was only a few pounds lower, no big deal.

Eating disorders are a big deal.  They cannot be ignored away, yelled away, shamed away, or controlled away.  The only way to make them go away is to portray them honestly as serious medical and psychological illnesses.  The eating disorder latched on for a reason, and only by tackling and overcoming that reason, will the eating disorder lose its power.

Parents, learn about this disease.  Don't hesitate at the first warning signs.  Partner with your child against the disease, so your child and the disease don't partner against you.

Cheers!