The Anorexic Night before Christmas

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and food filled the house

I hid in my bedroom, as scared as a mouse

The cookies and brownies and candy and treats

made my heart race and flutter, and skip a few beats

My family was eating, enjoying the day

I closed my mouth firmly and withered away

I wanted to join them and laugh and have fun

but mentally – mentally I was just done

I couldn’t control it – the fear and the pain

My mind said through food there was nothing to gain

Surrounded by loved ones, but really, alone

I hugged my small body – feeling each bone

The tears started falling – I quietly sobbed

I couldn’t help feeling my life had been robbed

by the monster inside me, who took all my joy –

who treated me like I was but a chew toy

Standing there crying, I looked at the ground

knowing that there was no peace to be found

When quite to my shock I felt arms cross my spine

I snuggled in close as my mom’s heart met mine

She stroked my hair gently and held me quite near,

so desperately trying to quiet my fear

And right in that moment, with love in the air

I knew that this curse was a trial I could bear

For my family was with me, and all my friends too

And with them by my side I might just make it through

The road would be bumpy and ragged and torn

but if I kept walking, I might be reborn

So fearful, but ready, I met my mom’s eye

I said “Mommy, oh mommy, I’m going to try!

I will fight for my freedom, and I won’t give in

I’ll fight, and I’ll fight, and I’m going to win!”

This year for Christmas I’m smiling once more

I’ve crossed the deep water and reached the far shore

My life is now peaceful and happy and free

And I’m grateful to finally, truly be me

Turning 180 Degrees

                Today I visited the adolescent eating disorder program at St. Vincent Hospital.  It was both an exciting and nerve-racking experience.  The last time I walked through the doors of that building was the day I discharged from my own treatment.  I remember feeling a mixture of emotions that day as I prepared for outpatient care and left the program behind.  So much has changed since then.

                My mom and I walked toward the building off of the main hospital together, and my heart was racing.  I kept praying to be calm and to just be myself around the current patients.  I wanted to show them the happiness that I feel in my life now.  I really wanted them to understand that eating disorders are something you can recover from. 

                We waited in a lobby until my previous therapist came and greeted us.  That moment was so sweet.  He and I hadn’t seen each other since I discharged, and both of our smiles were huge.  I can’t express how excited I was for him to see me as I am now – strong, healthy, independent, and happy.  The job of a therapist for teens with eating disorders is a very difficult one, and I can only imagine how rewarding it must have been for him to see that I had made it through.  It must be one of the greatest feelings to know that you really did help save someone’s life.

                I greeted other therapists that I had worked with as we entered the part of the building designated for eating disorder recovery.  Their smiles were huge as well, and I felt like we all still knew each other - like I discharged yesterday.  Seeing them again and seeing their smiles felt greater than I can comprehend.  It felt so incredible to greet them as a friend, and not as a patient.  It was interesting to be on the other side of the glass, so to speak.  I really enjoyed the feeling.

                I saw the room where most of my care took place, and it was bittersweet.  Every time someone discharges from the program, they put their handprint on the wall with paint.  I found mine on the wall, and those of other people I had been in treatment with.  I found words I had written: “Happy is Beautiful.”  Memories rushed through my mind.  I smiled, but there was also a feeling of sadness and curiosity.  I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the teens that I’d been in treatment with.  Did they make it out?  Are they okay now?  I’ll probably never know, and I doubt I’ll ever see them again.  Standing in that room made me think of them and all that I had gone through.  It was almost surreal to be there.

                My mom and I were led to a larger room where we were able to meet with the current patients and their parents.  It was like a walk down memory lane.  I remember sitting in that room and listening to therapists and dieticians teach me about how eating disorders negatively affect the body.  I remember talking about different kinds of food and how our bodies need them to function.  I remember making meal plans with my parents and anxiously trying to decide what I was going to eat.  I remember watching other patients cry out of anger, fear, and frustration.  I remember my mom pulling me out of the room and letting me cry on her shoulder when it all just go too overwhelming.  Emotions flooded my body as I sat to face the teens and parents in that room.  On the wall I saw a quote that read, “I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become,” and it calmed my spirit.  Those words strengthened me as I prepared to speak to the group in front of me.

                I shared my story with them – the story of my journey through recovery.  I saw in their eyes a reflection of the girl I used to be.  I loved each and every one of them, even though I hardly know them.  I understand what it’s like to have an eating disorder, and they could tell.  Their eyes watched me intently as I spoke of my struggle that began when I was 12, and their parents were just as interested.  I talked of the day in 8^th grade when my mom finally found out what was going on.  I told them about the work that I did in outpatient treatment as a 14 year old, and how after a year of care I thought I’d figured things out and was finally free.  I talked about relapsing at 16 and defying my parents and counselor as they tried to help me.  I told them about how the eating disorder took over my mind and filled it with thoughts that were not my own, though at first I thought they were mine.  I told them about my treatment experience in the adolescent program at St. Vincent’s, and I talked of how I finally got to the point where I was able to discharge.  I told them about the work I’ve done this past year in outpatient care.  I was realistic with them about how I’m still recovering.  I wanted them to understand that though I discharged a year ago, I still have to fight eating disorder thoughts and feelings.  They’re not nearly as strong or intense as they were when I was in the program, but they are still there.  Recovery is a long process, and I wanted to them to really grasp that.  I encouraged them and told them that it’s worth it to fight, that things can get better, and that there is so much out there that they can experience and love once they are free from their eating disorders.  The more I spoke, the more comfortable I became.  It was liberating, in a way, to share my story with them.  It felt really good to try and give hope to people like me.

                My mom spoke of how she and my family supported me, and she expressed how hard it was.  That was the most difficult part for me – hearing about how she sobbed against my dad when I wasn’t around and prayed to God begging, “Please don’t let my daughter die.”  Her words brought comfort and understanding to the parents in the room who were eager to hear of how they could help their children.  I’m so grateful for what she said and for the insight that she provided.  There is a reason God gave me the family that He did, and I am so grateful that they are a part of my life.  My family is the reason I got through.  They helped pick me up when I didn’t have the strength to stand on my own.
                Many of the patients and their parents asked questions, and I loved answering them.  It felt so good to tell them about what worked for me, to comfort them, and to provide them with hope.  I cannot express how deeply it touched my heart to be able to help.  The feeling was incredible.

                When my mom and I left after an hour and half, we were thanked by many of the parents and patients, and my heart was full of love, gratitude, and joy.  I desperately hope that some of the words I said helped the dear people in that room.  One of the last things I’d told them was that an eating disorder is the worst and best thing that’s ever happened to me.  It was an incredibly hard experience to go through, and I would never ever wish it upon anyone, but it has greatly shaped who I am.  I have grown in ways I never could have if I hadn’t been so sick.  The person I am today is significantly defined by what having an eating disorder has taught me.  It was kind of revelatory for me, to say those words out loud and realize that they are true.  It’s great to know that they are. 

Throughout this past year my life has changed drastically.  No longer a patient, I can now reach out and help others.  I feel as though I’ve turned around 180^o.  Though the journey has been rough, it has been remarkable.  I can hardly wait to see what life has in store for me.  I’m ready for more adventures.

The Special Ones

                When I was little, I remember looking at special needs individuals and feeling uncertain.  They were different, and at the time, that scared me.  As I’ve grown though, my perspective has changed.  I have a cousin who has downs syndrome, and I’ve met a lot of other people who have special needs.   They are some of the sweetest people on this earth.  If you’ve had the pleasure of being around any of them, you know exactly what I mean.  There is something about this group of people that sets them apart from the rest of us, and I believe that we can learn quite a lot from them.   From what I’ve experienced, associating with them can change us for the better.  They are not “freaks” or “weirdos.”  They are human beings like the rest of us, with their own unique personalities and lives.  Often, they are even better people than we are.  Because I’ve been blessed with opportunities to be around special needs individuals, I’ve come to realize something about this group of people.   I firmly believe that they - they are the special ones.

                Recently I’ve had the opportunity to volunteer with Special Olympics.  I help with a softball team comprised mostly of adults, but with a few kids as well.  Though I’ve only been to a couple of practices so far, I have already grown to love the people on my team.  I don’t know what all of their disabilities are, but I know that each and every one of them is special.  They brighten my day, they make me smile, and their genuine love and excitement makes me want to come back and practice with them again and again.  Like any other person, they get frustrated when things don’t go well and smile brightly when something goes right.  They cheer each other on, they encourage one another, and they are very forgiving.  Welcoming and accepting are words that describe them too.  Two weeks ago most of them had never seen me in their lives.  Now, after three practices, they come up and talk to me right when I show up.  They tell me about their lives, about each other, about anything that’s on their minds.  It is so sweet and wonderful.  I’m pretty sure I’ve never made so many friends so fast.  Special needs individuals are accepting of everybody, no matter what.  I think we can all learn from that.

I love the perspective that people with special needs have towards life.  Many of them are children in the bodies of adults – mentally young, but physically old.  They get excited over simple things, upset over issues such as missing a turn or feeling tired; the simple things in life are their reality.  I love that about them.  It has taught me not to take anything for granted.  Throwing a softball, running around the bases – those are great adventures.  Getting a sunburn, seeing a bee – those are catastrophes.  To special needs individuals, the little things are a really big deal.  I think looking at life with this perspective shows us just how much we have to be grateful for and how much joy we can find in everyday life.  We can stand in a warm summer breeze, we can hear children laughing, we can follow our dreams…these are all things to be grateful for.  I think special needs individuals do a great job of appreciating the little things and in finding joy in what life has to offer.  If we were all like them, I don’t think we would take nearly so much for granted.

I feel truly blessed to know people who are part of this special and unique group.  I know that I am a better person because of the associations that I have with them, and that I have learned so much from their examples.  If you ever have an opportunity to be around someone with special needs, don’t let it pass you by.  You will never regret it.

Learning to Eat

           Alright guys.  So, I wrote an essay this year in my English class about my experiences with anorexia.  I would really like to share that story with all of you.  I hope that it opens your eyes and minds to what having an eating disorder is really like.  To anyone who has had or does have an eating disorder - you are not alone.  I love you, and I know you can get through it.  Just don't give up.

            In my middle school health class we learned about eating disorders: anorexia, bulimia, and binge eating.  My teacher showed us pictures of emaciated teenagers.  I found the images repulsive and disturbing.  I remember thinking, How can they do that to themselves?  Who in their right mind would starve themselves?  What’s wrong with these people?  I never imagined that in just a few short years I would be one of them.

. . .

            I stared at the plate in front of me - white china with little ridges around the edge.  On it sat two scrambled eggs and two slices of wheat bread with a teaspoon of butter on them.  Beside the plate, on the left, sat a little glass bowl with 1 cup of grapes in it.  To my right, stood a small glass with 1 cup of 2% milk in it.  I knew every detail, every measurement, and every calorie.  I’d had it memorized for years.

            I looked down at my legs, my arms crossed tightly across my chest.  My heart was racing, my breathing shallow.  I wanted to be anywhere but at the dining room table.  Food was my enemy.

            My mom sat in a chair on my right, watching.  Her arms were crossed like mine, her face worried and frustrated.  Every now and then she would sigh and shift her position, tired of waiting.  I couldn’t look her in the eye.  I couldn’t bear to let her in, to let her see the monster I was inside.  I knew if I looked I would see my own fear reflected in her eyes and I would cry.  If I looked I would fail: I would break-down; I would eat.  And that…that was something that I simply could not do.

            I could smell the food below me, the warm eggs and toast and butter.  That only made it worse.  For the past month or so all I’d been having for breakfast was a wheat bagel with half of a tablespoon of peanut butter on it.  A measly 290 calories.  I’d carefully counted, and this meal was 600.  It was extremely overwhelming.  If I had to eat I wanted my bagel with peanut butter, not eggs, toast with butter, grapes, and milk.  However, it was my only option.  So, I refused to eat altogether.

            My mom sighed again.  We’d been sitting at the table for at least 10 minutes.

            “Amie,” she began, “you need to start eating.”  Her voice was tired but firm.

            I looked down, my eyes filling with tears, and said nothing.  I knew if I talked I would lose it.  Fear, discomfort, and depression clouded my mind.

            Don’t give in!  She can’t make you eat.  You get to choose.  She can’t make you do anything.

            I clenched my fists, determined to stand my ground.  There was no way that anyone was going to make me put that food inside my body.

            My resolve was short lived.  The moment my mother spoke I fell to pieces.

            “Honey, you have to eat.  Please start eating,” she begged.

            I looked into her eyes - warm, gentle, and fearful.  The tears ran freely down my cheeks and my chest tightened, shortening my breaths.  Panic was overcoming me, and it was inescapable.

            “I can’t,” I said quietly, beginning to sob.  “I can’t.”  I shook, anguished cries tearing from my chest.  My whole body racked back and forth as I bawled uncontrollably.

            My mother’s arms wrapped gently around me.  She stroked my hair, breathing calmly to soothe my spirit.  I wept against her chest. 

            “I know,” she said.  “I know it’s hard and that it’s scary.  But you have to eat honey.  Your body needs it, remember?  Your body needs it.”

            No it doesn’t! my head screamed.  No it doesn’t!  She’s trying to trick you!  She’s trying to kill you!  If you eat, you will get fat.  Fatter than you already are.

            I cringed at the voice in my mind, believing every word.  She’s my friend! I thought.   She’s my mom.  The voice snarled in response to my plea.  No, it replied.

            I wanted to escape.  I wanted to be free.  But the eating disorder had a relentless hold over me.  I knew I had an eating disorder.  I knew I had to eat.  I couldn’t run from the thoughts inside my head though.  I couldn’t run from my mind.  My mind that told me I was fat, that I was ugly, that I was worthless, and that I would never be free.  My mind that told me I didn’t deserve to be loved, that I didn’t deserve to live.  It tormented me day in and day out.  It scared me, but it also made me want to never let it go.  It made me want to hold onto it.  It made me want to continue to starve myself.

            My mom held me close until my breathing slowed and my crying ceased.  She gently sat me upright, moving my hair away from my face with her hand.

            “I need a tissue,” I whimpered.

            She silently got up, walked into the kitchen, and returned with a paper towel.  I blew my nose and wiped my tear-streaked cheeks.  I was exhausted, both mentally and physically.  Sitting quietly beside me, my mother held my hand and rubbed my arm.  I could feel the concern and worry rolling off her body.

            Looking back at the food in front of me, tears began to fill my eyes once again.  I tried to be strong; I tried to hold them back.  I knew deep down that I had to eat.  I had to.  Yet every fiber in my body battled against it.  This wasn’t the first time I’d struggled with food.  Receiving treatment was a part of my history, and I’d learned the facts and figures.  I understood why I needed to eat.  Somehow, though, none of it mattered anymore.  None of it made sense to me.  I couldn’t comprehend it clearly, and it was hard to blindly obey those who wanted me to nourish myself.  It was hard to do the unthinkable.

            I can’t eat this! I screamed inside.  The pain and turmoil was unbearable.  I sat, torn within, the agony and fear pulsing with my heart.  I didn’t want to hurt myself.  I didn’t want to be disobedient.  I didn’t want to do what was wrong.  But I couldn’t control myself.  No matter how hard I fought the voice inside my head I could never win.  It was just too powerful.

            My breakfast was getting cold, and I knew it.  Still, my mom wouldn’t let me leave the table until I’d eaten every bite of it.  There was no way out of this.  I was trapped, unable to make my own choices because those choices were harmful to me.  I didn’t get to choose anymore.

            My resolve wavered.  Tired and broken, I just couldn’t continue to fight.  It wasn’t worth it.  It wasn’t worth it to sit at the table all day, unable to live my life.  It wasn’t worth it to hurt my family and friends.  I just didn’t have the strength left to refuse.

            My mind raced, struggling, being pulled in two directions at once.  The eating disorder forced me towards starvation while the small, healthy part of my mind begged me to just give in and eat.  I couldn’t continue to live like this…and that realization scared me.  This wasn’t really living.  This was not how I wanted my life to be.  I could see that unless I fought the eating disorder, I would never be free.

            Exhausted, depressed, and full of anxiety, I slowly reached out and picked up my fork, my hand shaking.  The tears began to flow but I did not stop.  Taking a small fork-full of eggs, I lifted it gradually to my mouth.  I placed it in and chewed, my eyes squeezed tightly as I silently sobbed.  My mom tightened her grasp on my hand and offered words of encouragement and comfort.  I returned the fork to the plate for more food and continued to eat.  One bite at a time I made it through.

            I can’t eat this!  You’re making yourself fat!  You’re ruining yourself! the voice screamed inside my head.  I ignored it and continued to slowly eat, though each thought was like a knife cutting through my heart.  The pain, agony, and abhorrence I experienced with every bite and swallow was nearly intolerable.  I felt like I was betraying myself, and fear coursed relentlessly through my veins.

            I’m not sure how I made it through the meal.  I just know that I did.  I consumed every piece of food that sat in front of me.  I ate the eggs, I ate the toast with butter on it, I ate the grapes, and I drank the milk.  I hated every second of it, but I did it.  My mom was relieved.  I was terrified.

            The fullness in my stomach was so foreign.  I felt bloated and fat.  Discomfort, guilt, and pure sorrow saturated my being.

            I can’t believe you did that!  You’re fat and ugly.  How could you let them win?  Food makes you fat!  Nobody will ever like you.

            Inside I cringed at these words, bullied by the disease that consumed my mind.  I couldn’t undo the fact that I had eaten, but I also couldn’t escape from myself.  I couldn’t escape from the eating disorder.  It was overbearing and merciless.

            “Alright,” my mom said softly.  “You did it.  Good job sweetie.  I know it was hard but you did it, and you’re getting better and better each day.”

            I don’t want to get better!  I can’t…

            “Thanks,” I mumbled, looking down at my lap.  Part of me was relieved that it was over, but another part of me was horrified at what I’d eaten.  Fear was an ever present emotion in my heart, and I couldn’t escape from it.  And my head…I hated my head.  I hated my mind and the way that it controlled me.  At the same time though, it was my best friend.  I loved and hated the eating disorder, just as I loved and hated myself.

            My mom stood and carried my dishes into the kitchen for me.  Following her lead I rose slowly from my chair, almost as if in a daze.  My face was void of all expression but for a slight frown and furrowed creases across my forehead.  I was solemn and silent.  Depression overcame my mind and spirit.  My world was dark, and I was all alone.

            I felt arms enfold me as my mother pulled me softly into her embrace.

            “It’s okay honey,” she whispered.  “It’s okay.”

            No!  No.  It’s not okay.  But whatever.

            I knew my mom loved me.  I knew it.  I just couldn’t believe her.  I wanted to; every part of me longed to be better, to be normal, to be free.  But I couldn’t see how that was possible, and so her words were hollow to my ears.

            “Try not to stress too much,” she said gently.  “Go do something to get your mind off it, okay?  You don’t have to worry about food again until lunch.”

            Lunch.  My mind was racing.  Lunch.  The fear associated with that word was choking.  More food.  I can’t.  I can’t.

            I nodded my head in response to her words, agreeing to try and think of something else.  It was too late though.  My mind was not my own.

. . .

 

            I look back at my cruel middle school judgments now and cringe.  An eating disorder is not a life choice a person makes for herself; it becomes a way of life forced upon her.  It’s a mental disease that controls your mind and actions, that forces you to be someone other than who you are.  I received enough professional help and exerted enough personal effort to regain who I am, though it is likely that I will never truly be free.  My eating disorder is locked in a chest in my mind, and I will fight every day for the rest of my life to keep it there.  Unfortunately, many victims are not as lucky as me.  They are forever lost, their true personalities maliciously consumed by the beast within their minds.

I made a blog!

Hey!  I just made a blog!  Awesome! :)

So, I decided to create this blog because I'd like to be able to share personal experiences from my life with those around me.  I hope you find it interesting, fun, and maybe even inspiring. :)