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!
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