I just spent a little time trying to pack for my upcoming trip to Florida. This means makeup, swimsuits, professional attire, running clothes, sports bras, etc are all piled up in the walk-in closet just waiting to be neatly organized and packed away in the giant suitcase.
What, you think someone this high-strung and Type A would just dump it all in there without some kind of order? Puh-lease.
So why the trip to the Sunshine State? Well, the five-night stay has dual purpose, actually. The main reason for the trip is to present some of my work at a national conference for people who do what I do: work with college students, advise, counsel, and develop orientation/retention initiatives. But the trip south also allows me to stay with Mama K and her family for a few nights, too. Their house will be my initial stop, and then they will drive me down to Orlando where I will stay for three nights at a fabulous resort and soak up all that is new and innovative in the world of academic advising (I can assure you, the content is positively riveting...).
Given my recent struggles, ups and downs, and relapses, I'm putting a lot of stock in this trip to rejuvenate me and give me that much needed "pep" in my step. I hope to return to the midwest with renewed enthusiasm for my job (I truly love my career, but battling the ED while trying to tread water there has taken its toll on my motivation and creativity), and feeling a little more grounded from time spent with people who I consider to be like a second family.
At this point in treatment, however, a trip like this cannot happen without some preparation and planning. Unfortunately, the days of spontaneous travel are over for the time being, and I now have to process through scenarios and talk with my team about when to email or call them, how to adapt my meal plan when not at home, and how to talk myself out of urges to purge or skip meals. After meeting with LA yesterday and Dr. Joe today, we are good to go and I am being sent off to tackle this one on my own. Armed with cell phone numbers, email addresses, meal plans, and the usual corny "you can do it!" send offs (which I secretly kind of love), I am ready to go enjoy myself and soak up some sun.
Ironically, Mama K moved to Florida on the exact day I had been admitted to the hospital based on Dr. K's recommendation. The last time she saw me, I was perhaps at my sickest; a very skinny girl whose muscles had deteriorated and who could only stand up for several minutes without leaning against a wall or sitting down. At that time, I had been consuming only about 800 calories a day, purging almost all of it, and working out for about 2-2.5 hours per day. I was in desperate need of help, and was receiving it, but wasn't fully admitting to myself or anyone else how bad things had become.
For this reason, I am looking forward to seeing her. While I am still very thin (apparently...so the doctors tell me...I am, of course, unable to see it), I have been told I have my "glow" back, am starting to build muscle again, and even I know I am much stronger physically. After all she has put up with from me, she deserves to see me at least resembling the healthy girl she once knew and trained.
As for the work portion of this trip, I am looking forward to relishing in the fact that my work has been recognized by my peers and sharing it with those in my field. I have spent a lot of time lately beating myself up for destroying my body, not being able to recover as quickly as I thought I would, gaining and losing weight, allowing myself to lose control of my life the way I have. During this self-destructive cycle, I lost little bits and pieces of myself...I no longer saw myself as a talented individual, a professional, a hard-worker. I'm working to rebuild that confidence, and I'll admit that it has been a slow process. I'm hoping being around others in my field re-energizes me, renews my enthusiasm, and reminds me how I got to this point in my career in the first place. I know the Old Me is in there somewhere. I see glimpses of her from time to time. And I hope this experience will help her to make more frequent appearances when I get back.
The buzzer on the dryer just went off, which is my cue to start folding the clean clothes and finish up the packing! I'll be posting long-distance, so stay tuned for tales from Florida...
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
From Hardass to Softie
Today, Dr. Joe called me a hardass.
This is not the first time he has said something so blunt to me, yet these comments always stop me in my tracks and are a bit...jarring. Sometimes I think the man is a genius; other times I think he is in need of therapy more than me.
At least he got me to crack a smile. Given that I normally do not see Dr. Joe on Mondays, let me back up...
Yesterday, my father called to let me know my 87-year old grandmother's passing is drawing near, and that it looks like it may be as early as today or this week sometime. While this is expected and not entirely shocking, it is coming at a time that is not necessarily convenient (as though there is ever really a convenient time for such a thing). I am also still in a pretty fragile emotional state, given the ups and downs that are expected on the roller coaster of ED recovery.
Not to mention the fact that I just dealt with a very unexpected death in the family about a month ago- my uncle's suicide. That particular experience brought with it all kinds of emotional baggage (true family dysfunction in every sense of the word).
Anyhow, the news of my grandmother's deteriorating health and the likelihood of another funeral in the near future really threw me for a loop. Another punch to the gut...that's what it felt like. It's as though my life just keeps spinning faster and faster as I try to slow it down and focus on such minute tasks as, oh, eating three meals a day and keeping them down and trying to pull myself out of the lows that have hit me recently. Knocked back into the depression that has been haunting me for a few weeks, I retreated to bed very early last night and stayed there until late this morning.
This morning, it took a lot of "Come on, M. Just move your body." to get out of bed, into the shower, and to get dressed. I used my 30-minute commute to gain some composure, psych myself up to go work with college students, and put on my look-at-me-I'm-so-together persona. I entered my office through the back door so I could stop by my two friends' offices and WHAM...the tears came out of nowhere.
I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it. Thank god for those two and my angel of a boss, who allowed me to head right back home and back into the safety of my bed.
Dr. Joe has given me a list of four instances in which I must email or call him:
1. I purge.
2. I skip consecutive meals.
3. I break our 10-hour-per-week exercise rule.
4. I stay home from work/ leave work.
So I emailed. Like the Perfect Patient I am. And he tells me to come by at 4:00.
So I do. After being in bed for several hours. And looking like death (although, let's face it...I'm sure he's seen much worse).
I tell Dr. Joe I do not understand why life's challenges are so hard for me to take right now, and that I feel the resiliency I once had is gone. I've turned to mush. Everything is just too much to handle and I hate how I turn into a blubbering mess at the drop of a hat. Life is too much, it's all so overwhelming.
I say to him "the Old Me could deal with anything. The Me I am right now can't hardly manage life."
Enter Dr. Joe's "hardass" comment. He says: "M., the Old You was a hardass."
Well, ok, then. That silenced me.
I took three things away from meeting with Dr. Joe today:
1. I was a hardass at one point in my life. I didn't admit weakness, I didn't give in, and I didn't cry. This experience is teaching me to listen to my mind, my emotions. This is new for me, and the emotions are really quite frightening. Tears and emotional breakdowns...enter stage left.
2. It's ok to just give up sometimes. When Dr. Joe asked me what I planned to do when I left his office, I said "go right back to bed." And he said "Ok. Rest is good for you right now." Music to my ears...because I was incapable of doing anything else, anyhow.
3. Tomorrow is another chance to get back in the game.
For now, back to bed. To rest. Recharge. Regroup.
This is not the first time he has said something so blunt to me, yet these comments always stop me in my tracks and are a bit...jarring. Sometimes I think the man is a genius; other times I think he is in need of therapy more than me.
At least he got me to crack a smile. Given that I normally do not see Dr. Joe on Mondays, let me back up...
Yesterday, my father called to let me know my 87-year old grandmother's passing is drawing near, and that it looks like it may be as early as today or this week sometime. While this is expected and not entirely shocking, it is coming at a time that is not necessarily convenient (as though there is ever really a convenient time for such a thing). I am also still in a pretty fragile emotional state, given the ups and downs that are expected on the roller coaster of ED recovery.
Not to mention the fact that I just dealt with a very unexpected death in the family about a month ago- my uncle's suicide. That particular experience brought with it all kinds of emotional baggage (true family dysfunction in every sense of the word).
Anyhow, the news of my grandmother's deteriorating health and the likelihood of another funeral in the near future really threw me for a loop. Another punch to the gut...that's what it felt like. It's as though my life just keeps spinning faster and faster as I try to slow it down and focus on such minute tasks as, oh, eating three meals a day and keeping them down and trying to pull myself out of the lows that have hit me recently. Knocked back into the depression that has been haunting me for a few weeks, I retreated to bed very early last night and stayed there until late this morning.
This morning, it took a lot of "Come on, M. Just move your body." to get out of bed, into the shower, and to get dressed. I used my 30-minute commute to gain some composure, psych myself up to go work with college students, and put on my look-at-me-I'm-so-together persona. I entered my office through the back door so I could stop by my two friends' offices and WHAM...the tears came out of nowhere.
I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it. Thank god for those two and my angel of a boss, who allowed me to head right back home and back into the safety of my bed.
Dr. Joe has given me a list of four instances in which I must email or call him:
1. I purge.
2. I skip consecutive meals.
3. I break our 10-hour-per-week exercise rule.
4. I stay home from work/ leave work.
So I emailed. Like the Perfect Patient I am. And he tells me to come by at 4:00.
So I do. After being in bed for several hours. And looking like death (although, let's face it...I'm sure he's seen much worse).
I tell Dr. Joe I do not understand why life's challenges are so hard for me to take right now, and that I feel the resiliency I once had is gone. I've turned to mush. Everything is just too much to handle and I hate how I turn into a blubbering mess at the drop of a hat. Life is too much, it's all so overwhelming.
I say to him "the Old Me could deal with anything. The Me I am right now can't hardly manage life."
Enter Dr. Joe's "hardass" comment. He says: "M., the Old You was a hardass."
Well, ok, then. That silenced me.
I took three things away from meeting with Dr. Joe today:
1. I was a hardass at one point in my life. I didn't admit weakness, I didn't give in, and I didn't cry. This experience is teaching me to listen to my mind, my emotions. This is new for me, and the emotions are really quite frightening. Tears and emotional breakdowns...enter stage left.
2. It's ok to just give up sometimes. When Dr. Joe asked me what I planned to do when I left his office, I said "go right back to bed." And he said "Ok. Rest is good for you right now." Music to my ears...because I was incapable of doing anything else, anyhow.
3. Tomorrow is another chance to get back in the game.
For now, back to bed. To rest. Recharge. Regroup.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Coming Back to Life
Right now, as I sit here in bed typing away on my laptop, The Mr. and our dog are passed out next to me and sleeping soundly. As for me, I'm full of energy and not at all ready for bed. The post-race nap I had earlier helped to renew me a bit, and now my body thinks it's mid-morning when it really should be shutting down for the night.
Today is the first day in a very long time that I feel as though I may be coming back to life a bit and moving to the other, more positive side of recovery. Why do I feel this way?
1. Last night, I actually carb-loaded for the race (a runner ritual I ceased to enjoy when I suddenly became afraid of food). This is why the recovery team hasn't taken away my training. We have one rule: I eat, I get to train and race. They all know my passion for competition is the carrot dangling out front, forcing me to fuel myself. And they are right...an anorexic is not going to shove huge plates of pasta in her mouth without a damn good reason to do so. However, I can honestly say I pigged out on a pre-race carb fest of whole wheat linguine, baguette, spinach salad, and pumpkin cookies without much mental preparation or guilt. I sort of just looked at the pasta, thought about the race ahead and wanting to run a fast time, and loaded up. Ability to carb-load = major progress in the right direction.
2. Being "Me" is taking a lot less effort. Many of my closest friends have been shocked to find out that I have been struggling as much as I have been, given that I tend to mask my weaknesses, struggles with food, and recent bout of depression quite well. I'll admit- keeping up the front that everything is just peachy was really draining, and I questioned more than once why I even tried so hard to do so. But tonight, among my running friends at a post-race party, I noticed I had comfortably slipped back into "Me" without forced effort...laughing, joking, engaging in conversation, living in the moment. Welcome back, Me.
So has my eating disorder vanished? No- I am not that naive. Will it ever go away completely? Probably not. I still sit here right now fighting the urge to purge what I ate at the post-race party (consuming some of the junk food I've been desperately craving seemed like a great idea at the time, given that I had run 13+ miles...not so much right now, though, with the eating disorder screaming in my head). But the two points mentioned above are signs that progress is being made and that there may just be some light at the end of this tunnel in the very near future. Just gotta keep on chippin' with LA's spoon...
And it wouldn't quite be a post-race blog post without telling you about the actual race, right?
Big Local Marathon was an enjoyable one filled with stories of accomplishment and celebration. I ran the first ten miles of the 13.1 with my friend B, and we had a great time making fun of the male runners with their butt cheeks hanging out of their too-short shorts, the relayers taking GU packets on their under-three-mile legs, and the hilarious signs created by the fans on the sidewalks (favorite: "Bloody nipples turn me on"...complete with hand-drawn illustration. Nice). At mile ten, B informed me he had to drop back off my pace, so I hooked up the iPod and took off to the finish line. I ran the exact same time I did in a half marathon three weeks ago (although this course was much more difficult), collected my medal, banana, and bagel and another 13.1 was in the bag.
I took on some extra mileage running in two friends who were completing the 26.2 full marathon and needed a fresh face to run alongside them during the painful last miles. Our running group is a pretty loyal one, and when I received the text that they had hit the wall and needed me to meet them, I didn't think twice about venturing back out onto the course. They both finished (one of them a 26.2 virgin...huge accomplishment!), and I know they will do the same for me one day when I need it too.
The Mr. did very well in his relay leg too. It was nice to have him be part of the race atmosphere, although he still thinks we're all nuts and wouldn't run the distances we do even if a cash offer was part of the deal.
Other friends finished with personal records in both the half and the full. One teammate earned his Marathon Maniac qualification, completing three 26.2's in three weeks. Another beat her half marathon time by two full minutes after coming off an ankle injury, and a Boston Marathon qualification is within reach for one friend (and this was her first full!).
In the words of Dr. Joe (referring to coming back from anorexia): "This is your marathon right now, M."
All in all, it was a hugely successful marathon day...in both the actual race and in my own personal "marathon."
Today is the first day in a very long time that I feel as though I may be coming back to life a bit and moving to the other, more positive side of recovery. Why do I feel this way?
1. Last night, I actually carb-loaded for the race (a runner ritual I ceased to enjoy when I suddenly became afraid of food). This is why the recovery team hasn't taken away my training. We have one rule: I eat, I get to train and race. They all know my passion for competition is the carrot dangling out front, forcing me to fuel myself. And they are right...an anorexic is not going to shove huge plates of pasta in her mouth without a damn good reason to do so. However, I can honestly say I pigged out on a pre-race carb fest of whole wheat linguine, baguette, spinach salad, and pumpkin cookies without much mental preparation or guilt. I sort of just looked at the pasta, thought about the race ahead and wanting to run a fast time, and loaded up. Ability to carb-load = major progress in the right direction.
2. Being "Me" is taking a lot less effort. Many of my closest friends have been shocked to find out that I have been struggling as much as I have been, given that I tend to mask my weaknesses, struggles with food, and recent bout of depression quite well. I'll admit- keeping up the front that everything is just peachy was really draining, and I questioned more than once why I even tried so hard to do so. But tonight, among my running friends at a post-race party, I noticed I had comfortably slipped back into "Me" without forced effort...laughing, joking, engaging in conversation, living in the moment. Welcome back, Me.
So has my eating disorder vanished? No- I am not that naive. Will it ever go away completely? Probably not. I still sit here right now fighting the urge to purge what I ate at the post-race party (consuming some of the junk food I've been desperately craving seemed like a great idea at the time, given that I had run 13+ miles...not so much right now, though, with the eating disorder screaming in my head). But the two points mentioned above are signs that progress is being made and that there may just be some light at the end of this tunnel in the very near future. Just gotta keep on chippin' with LA's spoon...
And it wouldn't quite be a post-race blog post without telling you about the actual race, right?
Big Local Marathon was an enjoyable one filled with stories of accomplishment and celebration. I ran the first ten miles of the 13.1 with my friend B, and we had a great time making fun of the male runners with their butt cheeks hanging out of their too-short shorts, the relayers taking GU packets on their under-three-mile legs, and the hilarious signs created by the fans on the sidewalks (favorite: "Bloody nipples turn me on"...complete with hand-drawn illustration. Nice). At mile ten, B informed me he had to drop back off my pace, so I hooked up the iPod and took off to the finish line. I ran the exact same time I did in a half marathon three weeks ago (although this course was much more difficult), collected my medal, banana, and bagel and another 13.1 was in the bag.
I took on some extra mileage running in two friends who were completing the 26.2 full marathon and needed a fresh face to run alongside them during the painful last miles. Our running group is a pretty loyal one, and when I received the text that they had hit the wall and needed me to meet them, I didn't think twice about venturing back out onto the course. They both finished (one of them a 26.2 virgin...huge accomplishment!), and I know they will do the same for me one day when I need it too.
The Mr. did very well in his relay leg too. It was nice to have him be part of the race atmosphere, although he still thinks we're all nuts and wouldn't run the distances we do even if a cash offer was part of the deal.
Other friends finished with personal records in both the half and the full. One teammate earned his Marathon Maniac qualification, completing three 26.2's in three weeks. Another beat her half marathon time by two full minutes after coming off an ankle injury, and a Boston Marathon qualification is within reach for one friend (and this was her first full!).
In the words of Dr. Joe (referring to coming back from anorexia): "This is your marathon right now, M."
All in all, it was a hugely successful marathon day...in both the actual race and in my own personal "marathon."
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Earning the Jacket
This weekend, the running community around here will all be at Big Local Marathon. I am, of course, registered for my favorite distance, the half marathon. I love 13.1. It's perfect. The Mr. (who is a self-proclaimed non-runner) is tackling the 3.5 mile leg of the 26.2 relay. Without training one bit, he is approaching the race with a nonchalant attitude I don't think I've experienced once in my life.
We could not be more different when it comes to competitiveness.
LA and Dr. Joe are both registered for the race, too. LA in the half, Dr. Joe in the full 26.2. Which brings me to today's blog post topic...Earning the Jacket.
I went into my Dr. Joe appointment today pissed off at the guy. During last week's appointment, I was falling apart in his office, depressed as hell and (probably) was being a 28-year-old brat. I didn't really want to talk, and I was in serious emotional pain. I just wanted to curl up in bed for days and, well, starve. When Dr. Joe realized he was getting nowhere with me, he got Dr. K on the phone (seriously, it can be such a twisted parental relationship with them at times). While on hold with Dr. K's office, he looked at me and said "You are so depressed that I just can't reach you right now."
It hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt instantly abandoned. Abandonment is a huge issue for me, and I typically deal with it by writing off the person I feel has turned their back on me so it doesn't hurt as much to not have them around. Sadly, it's something I've gotten good at throughout my life- building that wall when I need to protect myself. And so I built a wall to block out Dr. Joe. I relied on LA instead this past week, and dreaded meeting with Dr. Joe today because I felt I no longer trusted him and that the strong patient-psychologist relationship we have worked hard to build was trashed.
I won't bore you with the details, but Dr. Joe and I worked it out and I'm back on board with trusting him. Which means I am back to harassing him.
Today's topic of harassment: Dr. Joe Not Earning the Jacket.
Dr. Joe ran 100+ miles last weekend in a 24-hour endurance run, and therefore is going to wimp out on the Big Local Marathon this weekend (as if he has an excuse). However, Dr. Joe tells me he is planning on stopping by the Race Expo tomorrow night to pick up his 26.2 jacket (a coveted artifact from this particular race).
You have to earn the right to wear this stuff. For example, I ran a half marathon several weeks ago and received the hoodie during packet pickup a few days earlier. When I went to wear it, my running friend B said to me: "Don't you dare. That goes in your closet until you actually have actually competed in the race."
(There is one t-shirt I do wear from a 100-miler during which I volunteered. But it says "VOLUNTEER" across the back...it is very evident I did not actually endure the pain of the 100 miles myself, rather, was refilling water bottles and making peanut butter sandwiches at the aid station- not the same thing).
So I automatically respond to Dr. Joe: "You can't wear a jacket from a race you're not going to run."
Dr. Joe, smiling, amused at the directness he has come to know from me: "Well, I will be doing just that." I rolled my eyes and thought to myself...cheater.
Later this evening I received an email from Dr. Joe. It reads exactly: "M- If I paid for the jacket, I don't mind wearing it. And I'm not so easily rattled.... :) -Dr. Joe"
I secretly love that I made him so paranoid about the jacket that he felt the need to follow up in an email hours latter. Ha! And I'm also glad Dr. Joe and I are back to our regular bantering and that I am still able to trust him. I need to have that trust in order to recover. It's crucial.
The Jacket Earning discussion did, however, make me think about my abnormal work ethic, perfectionism, and high standards- all of which are topics regularly discussed in my therapy and eating disorder recovery. When LA questions why I skipped a meal or purged, a standard response from me is: "I didn't deserve to eat that much today. I only worked out for x number of hours or I only ran x number of miles."
I feel like I need to earn everything in my life. Including the right to feed my body. Where does that come from?
The work hard, play later approach has worked well for me. It's brought me success in work, athletics, and in life in general. But it is also what keeps me from taking care of myself and eating like a normal human being.
Does Dr. Joe really need to earn the right to wear the Big Local Marathon jacket? He is, after all, an accomplished marathon runner and ultrarunner. He has done plenty of 26.2s in the past. So has he, in a sense, already earned it?
Do I really need to "earn" the right to eat? I've shown in my life that I am a hard worker, that I strive to be the best I can be, and my accomplishments can speak for themselves. Haven't I, in a sense, already earned the right to take care of myself and be happy?
I'm going to try hard to catch myself before telling LA I didn't earn the right to eat...and to remember that even Dr. Joe- someone I look up to and respect as a professional and a runner- is walking around town wearing a jacket he didn't necessarily "earn." ;)
We could not be more different when it comes to competitiveness.
LA and Dr. Joe are both registered for the race, too. LA in the half, Dr. Joe in the full 26.2. Which brings me to today's blog post topic...Earning the Jacket.
I went into my Dr. Joe appointment today pissed off at the guy. During last week's appointment, I was falling apart in his office, depressed as hell and (probably) was being a 28-year-old brat. I didn't really want to talk, and I was in serious emotional pain. I just wanted to curl up in bed for days and, well, starve. When Dr. Joe realized he was getting nowhere with me, he got Dr. K on the phone (seriously, it can be such a twisted parental relationship with them at times). While on hold with Dr. K's office, he looked at me and said "You are so depressed that I just can't reach you right now."
It hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt instantly abandoned. Abandonment is a huge issue for me, and I typically deal with it by writing off the person I feel has turned their back on me so it doesn't hurt as much to not have them around. Sadly, it's something I've gotten good at throughout my life- building that wall when I need to protect myself. And so I built a wall to block out Dr. Joe. I relied on LA instead this past week, and dreaded meeting with Dr. Joe today because I felt I no longer trusted him and that the strong patient-psychologist relationship we have worked hard to build was trashed.
I won't bore you with the details, but Dr. Joe and I worked it out and I'm back on board with trusting him. Which means I am back to harassing him.
Today's topic of harassment: Dr. Joe Not Earning the Jacket.
Dr. Joe ran 100+ miles last weekend in a 24-hour endurance run, and therefore is going to wimp out on the Big Local Marathon this weekend (as if he has an excuse). However, Dr. Joe tells me he is planning on stopping by the Race Expo tomorrow night to pick up his 26.2 jacket (a coveted artifact from this particular race).
You have to earn the right to wear this stuff. For example, I ran a half marathon several weeks ago and received the hoodie during packet pickup a few days earlier. When I went to wear it, my running friend B said to me: "Don't you dare. That goes in your closet until you actually have actually competed in the race."
(There is one t-shirt I do wear from a 100-miler during which I volunteered. But it says "VOLUNTEER" across the back...it is very evident I did not actually endure the pain of the 100 miles myself, rather, was refilling water bottles and making peanut butter sandwiches at the aid station- not the same thing).
So I automatically respond to Dr. Joe: "You can't wear a jacket from a race you're not going to run."
Dr. Joe, smiling, amused at the directness he has come to know from me: "Well, I will be doing just that." I rolled my eyes and thought to myself...cheater.
Later this evening I received an email from Dr. Joe. It reads exactly: "M- If I paid for the jacket, I don't mind wearing it. And I'm not so easily rattled.... :) -Dr. Joe"
I secretly love that I made him so paranoid about the jacket that he felt the need to follow up in an email hours latter. Ha! And I'm also glad Dr. Joe and I are back to our regular bantering and that I am still able to trust him. I need to have that trust in order to recover. It's crucial.
The Jacket Earning discussion did, however, make me think about my abnormal work ethic, perfectionism, and high standards- all of which are topics regularly discussed in my therapy and eating disorder recovery. When LA questions why I skipped a meal or purged, a standard response from me is: "I didn't deserve to eat that much today. I only worked out for x number of hours or I only ran x number of miles."
I feel like I need to earn everything in my life. Including the right to feed my body. Where does that come from?
The work hard, play later approach has worked well for me. It's brought me success in work, athletics, and in life in general. But it is also what keeps me from taking care of myself and eating like a normal human being.
Does Dr. Joe really need to earn the right to wear the Big Local Marathon jacket? He is, after all, an accomplished marathon runner and ultrarunner. He has done plenty of 26.2s in the past. So has he, in a sense, already earned it?
Do I really need to "earn" the right to eat? I've shown in my life that I am a hard worker, that I strive to be the best I can be, and my accomplishments can speak for themselves. Haven't I, in a sense, already earned the right to take care of myself and be happy?
I'm going to try hard to catch myself before telling LA I didn't earn the right to eat...and to remember that even Dr. Joe- someone I look up to and respect as a professional and a runner- is walking around town wearing a jacket he didn't necessarily "earn." ;)
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Third Time's a Charm
Sadly, for every person who triumphs over an eating disorder, there are many more who will relapse. It's a very tough cycle to break, and just as with any addiction, the behaviors associated with the ED will find their way to the surface during times of stress or insecurity. It's up to the patient to determine what is going to throw her back into relapse and then lean to fight like hell when the eating disorder voice starts to creep in again.
When it comes to eating disorder recovery, the progress is not always measured by how many pounds someone has gained, how many calories the patient is consuming, and whether or not the person is purging or overexercising. Sometimes simply being able to recognize a pattern is an accomplishment in and of itself.
LA and I have uncovered one of those patterns: my struggle to overcome the stage in refeeding when my metabolism kicks in and my body wants more food. Since I'm in the thick of it right now, I know I need to be on the lookout for the potential relapse that is lurking around the corner, waiting to attack.
The hunger pains and cravings I'm feeling right now are not entirely new to me; this is the third time I have reached this point in refeeding. My metabolism is re-energized, my body is screaming for more fuel, and my brain is a running soundtrack repeating "food. food. food. food. fooooood."
I've been at this stage twice now, but have yet to come out on the other side:
Metabolism Wake-Up Stage Failure #1:
When I first met LA, we started to build my meal plan slowly, and I responded remarkably well. I (naively...such a refeeding novice at that point...ha!) thought I had kicked my eating disorder's ass in record time, and spent a few days satisfying my newfound hunger with all kinds of foods from my self-imposed "Not Acceptable" list. After convincing LA I was ready for challenges, I nonchalantly ate a buffalo chicken wrap in our campus dining area (once a beloved and regular lunch before I started restricting). I then had a celebratory dinner out with The Mr. after he received a big raise at work. I ordered some kind of pasta dish and had a random, emotional, only-in-ED-recovery-world moment when my former hospital dietitian saw me from across the restaurant (chowing on pasta like a normal human being) and gushed about my progress.
That same weekend, I actually ate a cupcake too. I remember texting Mama K about it, as a matter of fact...it's practically reason for a champagne toast when a recovering anorexic downs a sugar-crusted cupcake.
Days later, when the guilt set in and I was convinced those indulgences had left me out of shape (despite having exercised intensely for well over 10 hours that week), given me a giant muffin top (while still swimming in the smallest size jeans on the market), and added 10 pounds to my frame (all in my imagination), I went right back to eating like a rabbit and throwing it all back up.
Back to starting the process all over again. And then...
Metabolism Wake-Up Stage Failure #2:
Nashville. In the middle of Epic Hunger and Craving Stage #2, no control over food due to travel, and with my best friends (where eating is literally a hobby).
We check into the Double Tree Nashville and are presented with their famous and free fresh, warm, gooey Double Tree cookies. While I want to shove the whole thing in my mouth immediately and ask for three more, I stuff it in my purse and try to eat it a bit at a time as we walk around downtown. We head out to lunch, and I sneak a few of L's sweet potato fries because they look amazing, and I'm, well, famished. The next night, I convince myself I'm at peace with my eating disorder (foolishly thinking I can ignore the guilt and automatic response that comes after indulging) and chow on a nacho appetizer at the Hard Rock. Starbucks too. And another cookie at the hotel. What the hell.
Not to mention the lack of discipline and calorie-counting when downing the wine, shots, and beer.
A few days later, I'm in tears in LA's office: "I failed again. Purged all weekend and now not eating anymore."
Back to square one...
Which brings me to the present: Metabolism Wake-Up Stage #3 (Trying to Avoid Failure):
As a result of a great phone conversation with LA yesterday afternoon, I now understand why this stage has been such a roadblock for me:
1. I jump ahead. The achiever in me likes to accomplish one goal, set the next one higher, and immediately begin working towards it. This has caused me to go from just plain eating again to eating "challenge" foods way too soon (Me: Well, I'm eating three small meals again...I'll bet I'm strong enough to down a large pizza!")
2. I genuinely like food. Surprising, I know. But in my pre-anorexia life, used to love to indulge in pretty much anything in moderation. So while my intense willpower helps me ward off most cravings, when a particular urge comes on really, really strong, I sometimes give in without preparing myself to overcome the psychological torture that will follow.
3. A reliance on purging. It's sad, but true. I went down the purging route before I went down the starvation route. It has never really bothered me to throw up after eating something I can't handle (um, that would be why I'm in treatment for an eating disorder...). If I indulge, I don't yet have the coping skills to just let it be. This starts the cycle of purging, restricting, and starving all over again. And we end up back at the starting point.
#3, in my opinion, is the one I need to tackle with Dr. Joe in a big way this week. This time, it has GOT to be different. This time, we will get over this roadblock and I'll finally get to see what is on the other side. Stay tuned...
Every goal has roadblocks. Learning happens when the following questions are asked: What are your goals? What have been your roadblocks? And do you understand what is standing in your way?
When it comes to eating disorder recovery, the progress is not always measured by how many pounds someone has gained, how many calories the patient is consuming, and whether or not the person is purging or overexercising. Sometimes simply being able to recognize a pattern is an accomplishment in and of itself.
LA and I have uncovered one of those patterns: my struggle to overcome the stage in refeeding when my metabolism kicks in and my body wants more food. Since I'm in the thick of it right now, I know I need to be on the lookout for the potential relapse that is lurking around the corner, waiting to attack.
The hunger pains and cravings I'm feeling right now are not entirely new to me; this is the third time I have reached this point in refeeding. My metabolism is re-energized, my body is screaming for more fuel, and my brain is a running soundtrack repeating "food. food. food. food. fooooood."
I've been at this stage twice now, but have yet to come out on the other side:
Metabolism Wake-Up Stage Failure #1:
When I first met LA, we started to build my meal plan slowly, and I responded remarkably well. I (naively...such a refeeding novice at that point...ha!) thought I had kicked my eating disorder's ass in record time, and spent a few days satisfying my newfound hunger with all kinds of foods from my self-imposed "Not Acceptable" list. After convincing LA I was ready for challenges, I nonchalantly ate a buffalo chicken wrap in our campus dining area (once a beloved and regular lunch before I started restricting). I then had a celebratory dinner out with The Mr. after he received a big raise at work. I ordered some kind of pasta dish and had a random, emotional, only-in-ED-recovery-world moment when my former hospital dietitian saw me from across the restaurant (chowing on pasta like a normal human being) and gushed about my progress.
That same weekend, I actually ate a cupcake too. I remember texting Mama K about it, as a matter of fact...it's practically reason for a champagne toast when a recovering anorexic downs a sugar-crusted cupcake.
Days later, when the guilt set in and I was convinced those indulgences had left me out of shape (despite having exercised intensely for well over 10 hours that week), given me a giant muffin top (while still swimming in the smallest size jeans on the market), and added 10 pounds to my frame (all in my imagination), I went right back to eating like a rabbit and throwing it all back up.
Back to starting the process all over again. And then...
Metabolism Wake-Up Stage Failure #2:
Nashville. In the middle of Epic Hunger and Craving Stage #2, no control over food due to travel, and with my best friends (where eating is literally a hobby).
We check into the Double Tree Nashville and are presented with their famous and free fresh, warm, gooey Double Tree cookies. While I want to shove the whole thing in my mouth immediately and ask for three more, I stuff it in my purse and try to eat it a bit at a time as we walk around downtown. We head out to lunch, and I sneak a few of L's sweet potato fries because they look amazing, and I'm, well, famished. The next night, I convince myself I'm at peace with my eating disorder (foolishly thinking I can ignore the guilt and automatic response that comes after indulging) and chow on a nacho appetizer at the Hard Rock. Starbucks too. And another cookie at the hotel. What the hell.
Not to mention the lack of discipline and calorie-counting when downing the wine, shots, and beer.
A few days later, I'm in tears in LA's office: "I failed again. Purged all weekend and now not eating anymore."
Back to square one...
Which brings me to the present: Metabolism Wake-Up Stage #3 (Trying to Avoid Failure):
As a result of a great phone conversation with LA yesterday afternoon, I now understand why this stage has been such a roadblock for me:
1. I jump ahead. The achiever in me likes to accomplish one goal, set the next one higher, and immediately begin working towards it. This has caused me to go from just plain eating again to eating "challenge" foods way too soon (Me: Well, I'm eating three small meals again...I'll bet I'm strong enough to down a large pizza!")
2. I genuinely like food. Surprising, I know. But in my pre-anorexia life, used to love to indulge in pretty much anything in moderation. So while my intense willpower helps me ward off most cravings, when a particular urge comes on really, really strong, I sometimes give in without preparing myself to overcome the psychological torture that will follow.
3. A reliance on purging. It's sad, but true. I went down the purging route before I went down the starvation route. It has never really bothered me to throw up after eating something I can't handle (um, that would be why I'm in treatment for an eating disorder...). If I indulge, I don't yet have the coping skills to just let it be. This starts the cycle of purging, restricting, and starving all over again. And we end up back at the starting point.
#3, in my opinion, is the one I need to tackle with Dr. Joe in a big way this week. This time, it has GOT to be different. This time, we will get over this roadblock and I'll finally get to see what is on the other side. Stay tuned...
Every goal has roadblocks. Learning happens when the following questions are asked: What are your goals? What have been your roadblocks? And do you understand what is standing in your way?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Hello, Hunger...Where Have You Been?
Suddenly, everything edible sounds amazing and all I want to do is tackle all kinds of food with the biggest fork on the planet. Actually, screw the fork. I would use my hands if I had to.
Earlier today, I would have given my first born for a chocolate peanut butter milkshake. That craving morphed into cupcakes around lunchtime, Taco Bell's cheesy gordita crunch in the late afternoon, and Bob Evans' biscuits on the drive home from work. Somewhere along the line, thoughts of Heath bar blizzards, mashed potatoes, and Thanksgiving stuffing crept into my imagination and came on so strong I considered calling LA and having her meet me at her office for an emergency pig-out appointment (I would love to have seen her face had I actually proposed that).
All of these intense cravings can only mean one thing...my metabolism is starting to kick back into high gear and hunger cues are knocking at the door- and not lightly.
I sent a text to Mama K today that described my intense need for cupcakes, fat-laden trash from Taco Bell, and random breakfast biscuits.
She texted back: "Hey, that's what the rest of us feel like on a daily basis!"
I guess this means I'm coming back to life.
One would think I would have experienced cravings while restricting and starving, but that was never really the case. After a while, food starting to look so unappetizing it was easy to ignore. My body no longer wanted the nourishment, and my metabolism had slowed to a screeching halt. After repeated purging episodes, it became difficult to keep food down even without intentionally vomiting. My body had literally begun to reject food. Given how sick my body had become, the fact that I have now turned into a hunger-driven monster is a significant sign of progress and healing.
So you're thinking "Great! You've kicked anorexia's ass! Now go get yourself a biscuit and some processed nacho cheese sauce and indulge like the rest of us!"
Not so simple. My body may want the junk, but my mind simply cannot handle it. Within minutes of indulging, I know I would be crouched over a toilet throwing up each and every bit, tears rolling down my face and cursing myself for not having the discipline to just stay away. And then I would lace up my running shoes and go out for a punishing run, just to finish it off. And thus the cycle would start all over again.
This morning during our regular appointment, I got rave reviews for my food intake over the last several days. While LA is beside herself with joy (and I loved it because I get such a kick out of making her proud), we have a long way to go before I can comfortably digest a cupcake and think to myself "That was delicious. Moving on...". The truth is that, while the return of hunger cues is reason for a celebratory chocolate peanut butter shake or a run for the border, it's still going to be awhile before I can give in to the cravings and truly enjoy life's little pleasures.
For now, I'll be sticking to my list of 10 or so "safe" foods and trying to keep the urges at bay until I know I can indulge guilt-free. I suppose all good things in life are worth the wait, aren't they?
Earlier today, I would have given my first born for a chocolate peanut butter milkshake. That craving morphed into cupcakes around lunchtime, Taco Bell's cheesy gordita crunch in the late afternoon, and Bob Evans' biscuits on the drive home from work. Somewhere along the line, thoughts of Heath bar blizzards, mashed potatoes, and Thanksgiving stuffing crept into my imagination and came on so strong I considered calling LA and having her meet me at her office for an emergency pig-out appointment (I would love to have seen her face had I actually proposed that).
All of these intense cravings can only mean one thing...my metabolism is starting to kick back into high gear and hunger cues are knocking at the door- and not lightly.
I sent a text to Mama K today that described my intense need for cupcakes, fat-laden trash from Taco Bell, and random breakfast biscuits.
She texted back: "Hey, that's what the rest of us feel like on a daily basis!"
I guess this means I'm coming back to life.
One would think I would have experienced cravings while restricting and starving, but that was never really the case. After a while, food starting to look so unappetizing it was easy to ignore. My body no longer wanted the nourishment, and my metabolism had slowed to a screeching halt. After repeated purging episodes, it became difficult to keep food down even without intentionally vomiting. My body had literally begun to reject food. Given how sick my body had become, the fact that I have now turned into a hunger-driven monster is a significant sign of progress and healing.
So you're thinking "Great! You've kicked anorexia's ass! Now go get yourself a biscuit and some processed nacho cheese sauce and indulge like the rest of us!"
Not so simple. My body may want the junk, but my mind simply cannot handle it. Within minutes of indulging, I know I would be crouched over a toilet throwing up each and every bit, tears rolling down my face and cursing myself for not having the discipline to just stay away. And then I would lace up my running shoes and go out for a punishing run, just to finish it off. And thus the cycle would start all over again.
This morning during our regular appointment, I got rave reviews for my food intake over the last several days. While LA is beside herself with joy (and I loved it because I get such a kick out of making her proud), we have a long way to go before I can comfortably digest a cupcake and think to myself "That was delicious. Moving on...". The truth is that, while the return of hunger cues is reason for a celebratory chocolate peanut butter shake or a run for the border, it's still going to be awhile before I can give in to the cravings and truly enjoy life's little pleasures.
For now, I'll be sticking to my list of 10 or so "safe" foods and trying to keep the urges at bay until I know I can indulge guilt-free. I suppose all good things in life are worth the wait, aren't they?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Running Puts it All in Perspective...Again
This morning, I was up bright and early to meet a friend for a ten-mile run through my favorite section of the towpath, where the flat, treelined path cuts through the more rugged and challenging trails. I've noticed that few people outside of the athletic community even know of these trails, yet they are the perfect training grounds for marathoners and ultrarunners. I personally love running in this area because it revives me, reminds me who I am, and encourages me to set very lofty goals related to my athletic pursuits.
The small tri-county I call home has a very high concentration of ultrarunners and nationally-known marathoners. It is not uncommon to see someone from our area featured in Runner's World magazine, to hear that someone you regularly pass on the towpath was a top-ten finisher at Badwater Ultramarathon, or that so-and-so down the street just qualified for his/her tenth Boston. I have heard the phrase "I'll be running the full 26.2 at (insert marathon name here), but just to work on speed. I have that 100-miler coming up at the end of the month, ya know..." more than once, and it seems as though everyone I know has a 50K or above on their resume.
Case in point: just before starting this post, I checked the final results of this weekend's endurance run, in which Dr. Joe himself was competing. Dr. Joe himself had a Just Do It weekend, finishing in the top third even with a bum knee.
Depending on how you look at it, this is either the best or worst place on the planet for a competitive overachiever like me.
I run at a slightly faster pace than the person I met out on the towpath this morning, and she is ok with me taking the lead after we warm up. As a result, I had quite a bit of solo run time during which to contemplate what I want to get out of my body while I still can.
I've already registered for a full marathon in March 2011 (a check in the box, really, since running 26.2 has somehow become commonplace around here). I have verbally committed (in my world, a verbal commitment is pretty much an absolute...if I say I'm going to do it, I do it) to a 50K in June. My running friends like to remind me that I also verbally committed to entering a 100-miler in 2012, so I guess I have to add that to the list as well.
Then there are the open water swims. I am dying to add some impressive distances to my List of Accomplishments (that Dr. Joe wants nothing more than to burn) one day...
About a month after my short hospital stay, I relapsed back into my eating disorder by starting to restrict, then starve, then eventually purge again. Just as I was sliding down the same slippery slope and worrying my doctors a little (or a lot), I spent a weekend working an aid station at a 100-mile endurance run with my running group. While working at the mile 58.6 aid station, I connected with some of those most amazing athletes. I know most people looked these runners in the eye and thought "you have got to be absolutely out of your mind to want to run 100 miles."
Not me. Each and every time one of them came through our aid station (broken down, tired, delirious...but still strong and filled with determination) I thought to myself: "I know I have what it takes to do this one day."
And starting with that week, I turned things around in a big way and held it there for quite some time. That 100 mile race was a reminder about who I am, the community I am a part of, and what I may be capable of in the future.
My run this morning gave me that same sense of purpose and drive. I'm not sure why this run was different; perhaps it was the cool, crisp air, the autumn leaves falling around me, or the deer that stared at me as I ran by. For ten miles, I thought to myself: "this is exactly where I belong." While I don't always see it in myself (and certainly haven't recently) I know deep down inside that I have an enormous amount of drive, determination, and grit. I never stop, I never walk, and I do what I say I'm going to do.
I have it in me to run marathons, ultramarathons, and to swim at a competitive level. I have before, and I will do it again. When it comes to eating, coming to terms with adding a few extra pounds of muscle, and overcoming this horrible eating disorder experience, I need to apply the same whatever-it-takes mentality.
The ultrarunners I helped at the 100-miler were not afraid to eat whatever their bodies needed to keep going. They grabbed for the energy bars, GUs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and pretzels we had out on the table without calculating calories or worrying about what it would do to their figure. They knew they needed the fuel to keep their bodies operating as machines, to complete the challenge. At the ultramarathon level, the science of fueling is just as important as an athlete's physical ability; one missed opportunity to give your body what it needs could mean the difference between a finish and a DNF.
In an email to me once, Dr. Joe wrote: "Both you and I will know when you are ready for the ultramarathon." I know inside that when Dr. Joe starts to prep me mentally for an ultramarathon, whenever that day may be, I have truly overcome my eating disorder.
I'm still very much in the darkness LA referred to recently, and trying to find my way to the light. I know could not run an ultramarathon right now- not because of a lack of physical endurance or strength, but because I would not be able to handle the fueling and nutrition required to complete the task at hand. Hopefully, however, I will get there. In the famous words of Dr. Joe: "THIS is your marathon right now."
Running is my passion. I live for the sense of accomplishment at the end of a long run, and love feeling at one with my surroundings. This morning's ten miler was exactly what I needed to begin to heal from my recent self-hatred, and it encouraged me to keep on chipping away at that mountain because some amazing experiences await on the other side. I'll be able to appreciate my upcoming 26.2, 50K, and possible 100-miler (there you have it...it's now in print and I can't escape it!) a hell of a lot more when I can look back on this time and remember how far I will have come.
I mean, seriously...if I can run a half marathon in under two hours, approach training for a full marathon with abnormal excitement, and will NOT allow myself to get through 2011 without completing a 50K, I can cetainly find the strength in me to eat...right? And I'll bet if I approach these major running milestones with the right attitude, even Dr. Joe will allow me to keep the medals as evidence of the struggles I will have overcome in order to achieve.
The small tri-county I call home has a very high concentration of ultrarunners and nationally-known marathoners. It is not uncommon to see someone from our area featured in Runner's World magazine, to hear that someone you regularly pass on the towpath was a top-ten finisher at Badwater Ultramarathon, or that so-and-so down the street just qualified for his/her tenth Boston. I have heard the phrase "I'll be running the full 26.2 at (insert marathon name here), but just to work on speed. I have that 100-miler coming up at the end of the month, ya know..." more than once, and it seems as though everyone I know has a 50K or above on their resume.
Case in point: just before starting this post, I checked the final results of this weekend's endurance run, in which Dr. Joe himself was competing. Dr. Joe himself had a Just Do It weekend, finishing in the top third even with a bum knee.
Depending on how you look at it, this is either the best or worst place on the planet for a competitive overachiever like me.
I run at a slightly faster pace than the person I met out on the towpath this morning, and she is ok with me taking the lead after we warm up. As a result, I had quite a bit of solo run time during which to contemplate what I want to get out of my body while I still can.
I've already registered for a full marathon in March 2011 (a check in the box, really, since running 26.2 has somehow become commonplace around here). I have verbally committed (in my world, a verbal commitment is pretty much an absolute...if I say I'm going to do it, I do it) to a 50K in June. My running friends like to remind me that I also verbally committed to entering a 100-miler in 2012, so I guess I have to add that to the list as well.
Then there are the open water swims. I am dying to add some impressive distances to my List of Accomplishments (that Dr. Joe wants nothing more than to burn) one day...
About a month after my short hospital stay, I relapsed back into my eating disorder by starting to restrict, then starve, then eventually purge again. Just as I was sliding down the same slippery slope and worrying my doctors a little (or a lot), I spent a weekend working an aid station at a 100-mile endurance run with my running group. While working at the mile 58.6 aid station, I connected with some of those most amazing athletes. I know most people looked these runners in the eye and thought "you have got to be absolutely out of your mind to want to run 100 miles."
Not me. Each and every time one of them came through our aid station (broken down, tired, delirious...but still strong and filled with determination) I thought to myself: "I know I have what it takes to do this one day."
And starting with that week, I turned things around in a big way and held it there for quite some time. That 100 mile race was a reminder about who I am, the community I am a part of, and what I may be capable of in the future.
My run this morning gave me that same sense of purpose and drive. I'm not sure why this run was different; perhaps it was the cool, crisp air, the autumn leaves falling around me, or the deer that stared at me as I ran by. For ten miles, I thought to myself: "this is exactly where I belong." While I don't always see it in myself (and certainly haven't recently) I know deep down inside that I have an enormous amount of drive, determination, and grit. I never stop, I never walk, and I do what I say I'm going to do.
I have it in me to run marathons, ultramarathons, and to swim at a competitive level. I have before, and I will do it again. When it comes to eating, coming to terms with adding a few extra pounds of muscle, and overcoming this horrible eating disorder experience, I need to apply the same whatever-it-takes mentality.
The ultrarunners I helped at the 100-miler were not afraid to eat whatever their bodies needed to keep going. They grabbed for the energy bars, GUs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and pretzels we had out on the table without calculating calories or worrying about what it would do to their figure. They knew they needed the fuel to keep their bodies operating as machines, to complete the challenge. At the ultramarathon level, the science of fueling is just as important as an athlete's physical ability; one missed opportunity to give your body what it needs could mean the difference between a finish and a DNF.
In an email to me once, Dr. Joe wrote: "Both you and I will know when you are ready for the ultramarathon." I know inside that when Dr. Joe starts to prep me mentally for an ultramarathon, whenever that day may be, I have truly overcome my eating disorder.
I'm still very much in the darkness LA referred to recently, and trying to find my way to the light. I know could not run an ultramarathon right now- not because of a lack of physical endurance or strength, but because I would not be able to handle the fueling and nutrition required to complete the task at hand. Hopefully, however, I will get there. In the famous words of Dr. Joe: "THIS is your marathon right now."
Running is my passion. I live for the sense of accomplishment at the end of a long run, and love feeling at one with my surroundings. This morning's ten miler was exactly what I needed to begin to heal from my recent self-hatred, and it encouraged me to keep on chipping away at that mountain because some amazing experiences await on the other side. I'll be able to appreciate my upcoming 26.2, 50K, and possible 100-miler (there you have it...it's now in print and I can't escape it!) a hell of a lot more when I can look back on this time and remember how far I will have come.
I mean, seriously...if I can run a half marathon in under two hours, approach training for a full marathon with abnormal excitement, and will NOT allow myself to get through 2011 without completing a 50K, I can cetainly find the strength in me to eat...right? And I'll bet if I approach these major running milestones with the right attitude, even Dr. Joe will allow me to keep the medals as evidence of the struggles I will have overcome in order to achieve.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
"You're beautiful. You're amazing."
This weekend, the The Mr's goal was to get me out of bed and out engaging in my favorite recreational activity: shopping. I love it. I excel at it, if I do say so myself. It never gets old, and it always cheers me up.
As much as I love to indulge in some good old-fashioned retail therapy, my eating disorder has turned this much-loved pastime into a bit of a stressor.
As weight started to fall off my frame, I was forced to purchase new clothes- pants, especially. For awhile, my size was changing almost weekly. Now, remember- I hid my starvation, purging, and overall sickness for a long time before I came clean to Mama K. One of the ways I hid the rapid weight loss was to adjust my wardrobe accordingly so I never really looked like I was swimming in my clothes. I remained the ever-polished professional and still went to work in tailored pants and heels each and every day (try to fight the dizziness that comes along with starvation while in 4-inch heels...not exactly an easy task. I'm not sure how runway models plagued by eating disorders do it).
As a result, I now have a range- yes a range- of SIX sizes in my closet. I'm now set for PMS, perceived "fat" days, and future pregnancies thanks to the thousands of dollars I've sunk into a wardrobe that accomodated nearly every version of myself as I fell into sickness.
Lately, mornings have been anxiety-ridden as I attempt to dress my pre-teen-like body. I've shrunk to a point where clothing simply hangs on me, as I no longer have the curves women's clothing is designed for. The Mr. has had it with the tears and the angry, depressed "I just want to put sweats on go back to bed!" comments that he finally decided a shopping trip was just what the doctor ordered.
A friend told me yesterday that she doesn't want me to spend a dime on new clothes at this size. She fears having new clothes in the current size will keep me from making progress. While she is probably right and I will have detachment issues from the wardrobe I purchased between yesterday and today as I put on a bit of "healthy" weight, I did desperately need some stuff to fit the current Me. And when you are depressed as hell and hating life, a few new outfits certainly isn't going to hurt.
Last night, to kick off the weekend spree, we headed out to the mall and The Mr. footed the bill for some new work pants, shirts, leggings, and a necklace to cheer me up (much appreciated- and it did boost my mood a bit). Today, I woke up, taught my cycling class, lifted, showered, and we were back at it again- this time at the outlets.
While I've been told over and over again by my treatment team that my body image is horribly distorted, it never ceases to truly amaze me when I put on the smallest size in the store and it is still too big. It's a very surreal experience to think of your body one way and then be faced with the truth when trying on clothes. Time after time (I'm not kidding...this really truly happens every time I go shopping now), I pick up a size 8 or so (because in my mind, it looks about right), experience frustration and confusion in the fitting room when I suddenly realize it is far too large, and then face the sobering reality than I am about four sizes off. Most women would love to suddenly "realize" they are the size I am; however, for me, it is a sobering reminder of my sickness and reminds me of how distorted my sense of self truly is.
The shocking thing is that those experiences don't stay with me. The next time I go to shop, I go through the same process all over again, convinced that following LA's "outrageous" meal plan has to have at least doubled my size. Then, the fitting room ordeal reminds me that I am way off.
The mind of an anorexic is truly a twisted one.
At one point today, I passed by a mirror inside Banana Republic and was convinced I had suddenly developed a tummy. I was immediately self-concious, as I had gone out in leggings and a long-ish shirt, both of which were form-fitting. I started to pinch around my body. Is it there? Or is this in my head?
(The ironic part is that I was having these thoughts while carrying an enormous armful of clothing in the absolute smallest size Banana Republic dares to carry).
I usually edit myself before verbalizing these thoughts, as I am at least sane enough to realize it sounds ridiculous for an underweight chick to make the "I'm fat" comment to her spouse, friend, or coworker. But before I could stop myself, I blurted out to The Mr.: "Why do I have this on my tummy right now?" (imagine me pinching what probably appeared to be absolutely nothing from my midsection) "This makes no sense...I barely eat and work out all the time...why would there be an ounce of fat on me right now?!" I was near tears. Did I not work hard enough while teaching this morning? Had I eaten too much for lunch (doubtful in hindsight...I had a measley turkey sub from Subway).
He stared at me and said "M., you're beautiful. You're amazing." He turned away and continued rummaging through the clearance section.
I, of course, did not believe him. Full of shit, that's what he was. Saying that to shut me up.
Later on, we were driving from the outlets to the mall (yes, another trip to the mall...he decided dress clothes were a must and needed to visit Express for Men a second time). I was silent in the car, thinking about the clothes I had just bought and how much longer they will actually fit me after LA has her way with me. I didn't realize it, but I was subconciously pinching various areas on my body as I sat in the passenger seat. The Mr. caught me doing so and said it again:
"M., you're beautiful. You're amazing. And this time, I'm going to keep saying it until we get to the mall so maybe you will start to believe it."
And so he did. The radio was immediately turned off, and for six exits on the freeway, I was forced to listen to:
"You're beautiful. You look amazing."
It was agonizing. But I did start to believe it after the 156th time. And when we finally pulled into the mall parking lot, his words were permanently etched into my mind.
The Mr. had wasted almost fifteen minutes repeating that phrase over and over again. The least I can do is make an effort to start to believe it.
As much as I love to indulge in some good old-fashioned retail therapy, my eating disorder has turned this much-loved pastime into a bit of a stressor.
As weight started to fall off my frame, I was forced to purchase new clothes- pants, especially. For awhile, my size was changing almost weekly. Now, remember- I hid my starvation, purging, and overall sickness for a long time before I came clean to Mama K. One of the ways I hid the rapid weight loss was to adjust my wardrobe accordingly so I never really looked like I was swimming in my clothes. I remained the ever-polished professional and still went to work in tailored pants and heels each and every day (try to fight the dizziness that comes along with starvation while in 4-inch heels...not exactly an easy task. I'm not sure how runway models plagued by eating disorders do it).
As a result, I now have a range- yes a range- of SIX sizes in my closet. I'm now set for PMS, perceived "fat" days, and future pregnancies thanks to the thousands of dollars I've sunk into a wardrobe that accomodated nearly every version of myself as I fell into sickness.
Lately, mornings have been anxiety-ridden as I attempt to dress my pre-teen-like body. I've shrunk to a point where clothing simply hangs on me, as I no longer have the curves women's clothing is designed for. The Mr. has had it with the tears and the angry, depressed "I just want to put sweats on go back to bed!" comments that he finally decided a shopping trip was just what the doctor ordered.
A friend told me yesterday that she doesn't want me to spend a dime on new clothes at this size. She fears having new clothes in the current size will keep me from making progress. While she is probably right and I will have detachment issues from the wardrobe I purchased between yesterday and today as I put on a bit of "healthy" weight, I did desperately need some stuff to fit the current Me. And when you are depressed as hell and hating life, a few new outfits certainly isn't going to hurt.
Last night, to kick off the weekend spree, we headed out to the mall and The Mr. footed the bill for some new work pants, shirts, leggings, and a necklace to cheer me up (much appreciated- and it did boost my mood a bit). Today, I woke up, taught my cycling class, lifted, showered, and we were back at it again- this time at the outlets.
While I've been told over and over again by my treatment team that my body image is horribly distorted, it never ceases to truly amaze me when I put on the smallest size in the store and it is still too big. It's a very surreal experience to think of your body one way and then be faced with the truth when trying on clothes. Time after time (I'm not kidding...this really truly happens every time I go shopping now), I pick up a size 8 or so (because in my mind, it looks about right), experience frustration and confusion in the fitting room when I suddenly realize it is far too large, and then face the sobering reality than I am about four sizes off. Most women would love to suddenly "realize" they are the size I am; however, for me, it is a sobering reminder of my sickness and reminds me of how distorted my sense of self truly is.
The shocking thing is that those experiences don't stay with me. The next time I go to shop, I go through the same process all over again, convinced that following LA's "outrageous" meal plan has to have at least doubled my size. Then, the fitting room ordeal reminds me that I am way off.
The mind of an anorexic is truly a twisted one.
At one point today, I passed by a mirror inside Banana Republic and was convinced I had suddenly developed a tummy. I was immediately self-concious, as I had gone out in leggings and a long-ish shirt, both of which were form-fitting. I started to pinch around my body. Is it there? Or is this in my head?
(The ironic part is that I was having these thoughts while carrying an enormous armful of clothing in the absolute smallest size Banana Republic dares to carry).
I usually edit myself before verbalizing these thoughts, as I am at least sane enough to realize it sounds ridiculous for an underweight chick to make the "I'm fat" comment to her spouse, friend, or coworker. But before I could stop myself, I blurted out to The Mr.: "Why do I have this on my tummy right now?" (imagine me pinching what probably appeared to be absolutely nothing from my midsection) "This makes no sense...I barely eat and work out all the time...why would there be an ounce of fat on me right now?!" I was near tears. Did I not work hard enough while teaching this morning? Had I eaten too much for lunch (doubtful in hindsight...I had a measley turkey sub from Subway).
He stared at me and said "M., you're beautiful. You're amazing." He turned away and continued rummaging through the clearance section.
I, of course, did not believe him. Full of shit, that's what he was. Saying that to shut me up.
Later on, we were driving from the outlets to the mall (yes, another trip to the mall...he decided dress clothes were a must and needed to visit Express for Men a second time). I was silent in the car, thinking about the clothes I had just bought and how much longer they will actually fit me after LA has her way with me. I didn't realize it, but I was subconciously pinching various areas on my body as I sat in the passenger seat. The Mr. caught me doing so and said it again:
"M., you're beautiful. You're amazing. And this time, I'm going to keep saying it until we get to the mall so maybe you will start to believe it."
And so he did. The radio was immediately turned off, and for six exits on the freeway, I was forced to listen to:
"You're beautiful. You look amazing."
It was agonizing. But I did start to believe it after the 156th time. And when we finally pulled into the mall parking lot, his words were permanently etched into my mind.
The Mr. had wasted almost fifteen minutes repeating that phrase over and over again. The least I can do is make an effort to start to believe it.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Dr. Joe's Bonfire
Dr. Joe wants to have a bonfire...metaphorically speaking (I think- I doubt that he regularly invites patients to his house for casual bonfires. Plus an eating disorder patient might just be sent over the edge when presented with a s'more or a piece of processed meat on a stick).
Dr. Joe wants to burn my two college degrees...my race bibs and medals...my swimming ribbons...my personal training certification...my accomplishments, achievements, and awards. He says a bonfire is in order to show me that even when all of this is burnt to a crisp, I still exist.
I, of course, panic when he says this. All that hard work up in flames? I think not. Those things define me. Likewise, being several pounds underweight (the skinny runner/swimmer girl) has come to define me. Today, a student on our campus even called out to me: "hey there, Tall Skinny Girl"...nice). It took a lot of work...pain, even, to deteriorate to this point. Although I am fully aware of how sick the eating disorder has made me, it's a tough thing to let go of because it's an achievement (an unhealthy one, of course)...and achievement is what drives me in my life. It's the carrot dangling out in front of me at all times.
Even throughout my treatment, I have been driven by the lure of achievement and success. I was once referred to as the "Perfect Patient" by Dr. Joe (before he knew me well enough to know this would force me to hold myself to a ridiculously high standard while fighting to maintain that title). I tried my best to turn in perfect food logs, and I would be crushed by a relapse or a screw-up. I can remember several Monday mornings on which I arrived at LA's office in tears because I had purged one to many times that week, hadn't been able to bring myself to eat the appropriate servings of protein, or had skipped a few consecutive meals. Each time, she would look at me and say "it's ok...let's look at what you did do."
And then I'd take a deep breath and we'd move on.
My need to achieve and maintain my title as "Perfect Patient" sometimes kept me from saying what I wanted to while in Dr. Joe's office, or allowing myself to cry or get angry. I was somehow afraid they may abandon me if I showed I wasn't making progress, showing achievement, earning success. Lately, though, I've come down with a serious case of the "I dont give a f^*#s" and it's been making the process a hell of a lot more productive. Sure, I'm certain Dr. Joe wants to slap me across the face at times, but he's also seeing the real me for once, and it's allowing us to finally get somewhere.
My assignment for the week is to compile a list of positive things about myself, but there is one rule: they cannot be tied to achievement in anyway. They must be tied to me as a person, and would still exist even if he were to burn my medals, degrees, ribbons, and all other evidence of success. That throws a wrench in the process.
Battling an eating disorder or not, that's a tough task when you think about it. What defines you? When people ask about your life, what would you say? For me, it's my education level, my job, my athletic pursuits, the certifications I hold, the achievements that fill my resume. I would imagine most others would answer that question in a similar manner.
I was honest with Dr. Joe tonight...I'm going to have a hard time with this assignment. When I look at myself right now, I'm not able to see much. I see someone who has to mentally gear up to consume a turkey sandwich, someone who trashes her body, someone who has lost her strength. My fallback answer for this assignment would be how hard I train, the position I hold, the degrees hanging on my wall...you get the point.
So I have six days to think it over and get a list together. If all my accomplishments went up in flames at Dr. Joe's metaphorical bonefire...who would I be?
Dr. Joe wants to burn my two college degrees...my race bibs and medals...my swimming ribbons...my personal training certification...my accomplishments, achievements, and awards. He says a bonfire is in order to show me that even when all of this is burnt to a crisp, I still exist.
I, of course, panic when he says this. All that hard work up in flames? I think not. Those things define me. Likewise, being several pounds underweight (the skinny runner/swimmer girl) has come to define me. Today, a student on our campus even called out to me: "hey there, Tall Skinny Girl"...nice). It took a lot of work...pain, even, to deteriorate to this point. Although I am fully aware of how sick the eating disorder has made me, it's a tough thing to let go of because it's an achievement (an unhealthy one, of course)...and achievement is what drives me in my life. It's the carrot dangling out in front of me at all times.
Even throughout my treatment, I have been driven by the lure of achievement and success. I was once referred to as the "Perfect Patient" by Dr. Joe (before he knew me well enough to know this would force me to hold myself to a ridiculously high standard while fighting to maintain that title). I tried my best to turn in perfect food logs, and I would be crushed by a relapse or a screw-up. I can remember several Monday mornings on which I arrived at LA's office in tears because I had purged one to many times that week, hadn't been able to bring myself to eat the appropriate servings of protein, or had skipped a few consecutive meals. Each time, she would look at me and say "it's ok...let's look at what you did do."
And then I'd take a deep breath and we'd move on.
My need to achieve and maintain my title as "Perfect Patient" sometimes kept me from saying what I wanted to while in Dr. Joe's office, or allowing myself to cry or get angry. I was somehow afraid they may abandon me if I showed I wasn't making progress, showing achievement, earning success. Lately, though, I've come down with a serious case of the "I dont give a f^*#s" and it's been making the process a hell of a lot more productive. Sure, I'm certain Dr. Joe wants to slap me across the face at times, but he's also seeing the real me for once, and it's allowing us to finally get somewhere.
My assignment for the week is to compile a list of positive things about myself, but there is one rule: they cannot be tied to achievement in anyway. They must be tied to me as a person, and would still exist even if he were to burn my medals, degrees, ribbons, and all other evidence of success. That throws a wrench in the process.
Battling an eating disorder or not, that's a tough task when you think about it. What defines you? When people ask about your life, what would you say? For me, it's my education level, my job, my athletic pursuits, the certifications I hold, the achievements that fill my resume. I would imagine most others would answer that question in a similar manner.
I was honest with Dr. Joe tonight...I'm going to have a hard time with this assignment. When I look at myself right now, I'm not able to see much. I see someone who has to mentally gear up to consume a turkey sandwich, someone who trashes her body, someone who has lost her strength. My fallback answer for this assignment would be how hard I train, the position I hold, the degrees hanging on my wall...you get the point.
So I have six days to think it over and get a list together. If all my accomplishments went up in flames at Dr. Joe's metaphorical bonefire...who would I be?
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sitting with the Emotions
When 9:30 rolled around this morning, I found myself sitting in LA's office for my regular weekly appointment with tears rolling down my face. What a way to kick off the new week.
I was relieved to be seeing LA this morning. In all honesty, it wouldn't have mattered which member of the team it was: Dr. K, LA, or Dr. Joe- whichever one saw me first would have been faced with the waterworks. Lucky LA intercepted the emotional mess that is Me.
On paper, the weekend was not a bad one. The Mr. had been out of town visiting his best friend in New York City, but I ran with the group and once on my own, I went to a bonfire with friends from the running community, and saw a movie with my neighbor. I ate according to my meal plan and stuck with all "safe" foods to resist the urge to exercise for hours or stick a finger down my throat (sorry- graphic...but true).
In between those activities, however, I was in bed under the covers. There was the laughing, carefree, talkative version of Me who showed up at the social engagements. Then there was the exhausted, depressed version of Me who had, at times, become one with the sheets. I had, basically, forced myself to interact with others in an effort to 1. get my runs in (can't miss those...obviously), and 2. keep me from staying in bed for 72 hours straight without so much as a shower.
It has officially hit me...The Great Depression. The Big D. Or as LA called it this morning: The Blackness in the Middle of the Mountain.
LA- not a therapist, but a nutritionist, mind you- explained it this way (hang on for the ride...it's a little out there, but I listened anyhow):
The Blackness in the Middle of the Mountain (aka My Great Depression According to LA):
In the worst moments of my eating disorder, I had been running through a flat desert. Sure, the conditions were brutal, as I was restricting, starving, purging, overexercising, but in my mind, it was a still a great race. Suddenly I came to a mountain. There was no road going around it. There was no way to climb it (no climbing gear...I was running remember...). A group of people (she refers to herself, Mama K., Dr. K, Dr. Joe) showed up, gave me a spoon, and told me to start chipping away at the mountain to get through it. At first, I looked at them like they were crazy, not fully committed to their insane idea of chipping away at something so large with a spoon. But I started the process nevertheless, and, inch by inch, cut into the side of the mountain.
Now, according to LA, I've finally committed to using the spoon. As crazy as it sounded at first, I'm making progress using what they gave me. And now, I've come to an interesting place: the middle of the mountain, where it is dark and black and cold. In too far to go backwards, but not in far enough to see light at the other side.
So we keep chipping, even in the blackness when I can't see a thing.
In LA's words: "You're eating again. You're not focusing as much on food. That leaves you just sitting with the emotions."
Today, I left work early (rare for me- to say I have a strong work ethic is a grave understatement) because I'm in that darkness. I needed one more day in bed, to give into the exhaustion and emotions that are sucking the life out of me. I'm starting to leave anorexia behind, outside the cave. But, as LA pointed out, I'm left sitting with the emotions as I continue to chip away at that giant mountain in my way.
There is a line in Nichole Johns' "Purge: Rehab Diaries" that perfectly illustrates the link between control over food and emotional despair, self-hatred, and pain. She writes: "Only seventeen more pounds until I was officially underweight, and underweight was my ultimate goal because then I could start over- my body reduced to its bare essentials, and everything would be ok" (pg. 67).
I hate to admit that I felt the same way, especially when I was gripped tightly by my eating disorder and the self-hatred that goes along with it- get rid of it all. Then, I could start over and rebuild.
Today, I told LA and a supportive friend or two that I feel broken. Not sure who I am anymore, or who I will be when I come out on the other side of that mountain. I know now that I am no longer the girl who purges everything that goes into her body, or starves herself to skin and bones. I am no longer the girl who feels faint when standing for longer than five minutes or attempts to function with an astronomical calorie deficit each and every day. That girl, for the most part, is gone.
At the same time, I'm not entirely sure who I will be once I get to the other side of the mountain. But what I do know is that getting through a mountain using a spoon is a hell of an accomplishment, so I hope I am able to appreciate it when I get there.
So here I sit, back in bed with my emotions. It's been a rough day (who am I kidding- rough week), but LA is right. There is a point in the middle of a mountain where darkness is all around, and I am in it right now. It's making it hard to get out of bed, to concentrate on work, and to live the happy life I once knew (but also know I will one day get back). But it's a place I need to pass through, no matter how painful the process.
I'm always thankful to those who help me and support me. But today, I am especially grateful for LA for so eloquently explaining to me my own emotions.
For now, back to the darkness and under the covers. Giving in tonight, but I'll be picking up the spoon again tomorrow.
I was relieved to be seeing LA this morning. In all honesty, it wouldn't have mattered which member of the team it was: Dr. K, LA, or Dr. Joe- whichever one saw me first would have been faced with the waterworks. Lucky LA intercepted the emotional mess that is Me.
On paper, the weekend was not a bad one. The Mr. had been out of town visiting his best friend in New York City, but I ran with the group and once on my own, I went to a bonfire with friends from the running community, and saw a movie with my neighbor. I ate according to my meal plan and stuck with all "safe" foods to resist the urge to exercise for hours or stick a finger down my throat (sorry- graphic...but true).
In between those activities, however, I was in bed under the covers. There was the laughing, carefree, talkative version of Me who showed up at the social engagements. Then there was the exhausted, depressed version of Me who had, at times, become one with the sheets. I had, basically, forced myself to interact with others in an effort to 1. get my runs in (can't miss those...obviously), and 2. keep me from staying in bed for 72 hours straight without so much as a shower.
It has officially hit me...The Great Depression. The Big D. Or as LA called it this morning: The Blackness in the Middle of the Mountain.
LA- not a therapist, but a nutritionist, mind you- explained it this way (hang on for the ride...it's a little out there, but I listened anyhow):
The Blackness in the Middle of the Mountain (aka My Great Depression According to LA):
In the worst moments of my eating disorder, I had been running through a flat desert. Sure, the conditions were brutal, as I was restricting, starving, purging, overexercising, but in my mind, it was a still a great race. Suddenly I came to a mountain. There was no road going around it. There was no way to climb it (no climbing gear...I was running remember...). A group of people (she refers to herself, Mama K., Dr. K, Dr. Joe) showed up, gave me a spoon, and told me to start chipping away at the mountain to get through it. At first, I looked at them like they were crazy, not fully committed to their insane idea of chipping away at something so large with a spoon. But I started the process nevertheless, and, inch by inch, cut into the side of the mountain.
Now, according to LA, I've finally committed to using the spoon. As crazy as it sounded at first, I'm making progress using what they gave me. And now, I've come to an interesting place: the middle of the mountain, where it is dark and black and cold. In too far to go backwards, but not in far enough to see light at the other side.
So we keep chipping, even in the blackness when I can't see a thing.
In LA's words: "You're eating again. You're not focusing as much on food. That leaves you just sitting with the emotions."
Today, I left work early (rare for me- to say I have a strong work ethic is a grave understatement) because I'm in that darkness. I needed one more day in bed, to give into the exhaustion and emotions that are sucking the life out of me. I'm starting to leave anorexia behind, outside the cave. But, as LA pointed out, I'm left sitting with the emotions as I continue to chip away at that giant mountain in my way.
There is a line in Nichole Johns' "Purge: Rehab Diaries" that perfectly illustrates the link between control over food and emotional despair, self-hatred, and pain. She writes: "Only seventeen more pounds until I was officially underweight, and underweight was my ultimate goal because then I could start over- my body reduced to its bare essentials, and everything would be ok" (pg. 67).
I hate to admit that I felt the same way, especially when I was gripped tightly by my eating disorder and the self-hatred that goes along with it- get rid of it all. Then, I could start over and rebuild.
Today, I told LA and a supportive friend or two that I feel broken. Not sure who I am anymore, or who I will be when I come out on the other side of that mountain. I know now that I am no longer the girl who purges everything that goes into her body, or starves herself to skin and bones. I am no longer the girl who feels faint when standing for longer than five minutes or attempts to function with an astronomical calorie deficit each and every day. That girl, for the most part, is gone.
At the same time, I'm not entirely sure who I will be once I get to the other side of the mountain. But what I do know is that getting through a mountain using a spoon is a hell of an accomplishment, so I hope I am able to appreciate it when I get there.
So here I sit, back in bed with my emotions. It's been a rough day (who am I kidding- rough week), but LA is right. There is a point in the middle of a mountain where darkness is all around, and I am in it right now. It's making it hard to get out of bed, to concentrate on work, and to live the happy life I once knew (but also know I will one day get back). But it's a place I need to pass through, no matter how painful the process.
I'm always thankful to those who help me and support me. But today, I am especially grateful for LA for so eloquently explaining to me my own emotions.
For now, back to the darkness and under the covers. Giving in tonight, but I'll be picking up the spoon again tomorrow.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Chicken, Broccoli, Rice, and 13.1
I am in bed at the moment, having just got home from a bonfire with members of my running club. Considering I ran a pretty speedy half marathon this morning (for fun...as a training run...no medal involved...hate that...) and it is now past midnight (I don't know why the time stamp on my blog is off. I need to fix that at some point), I'm pretty beat. I did, however, want to follow up after my last post.
Several weeks ago, a missed meal (example: Friday's lunch and The Turkey Sandwich Incident) would have evolved into missed dinner, super-long workout fueled by nothing the next morning, resisting breakfast,another missed lunch...perhaps a "binge" on some soup or something else that really doesn't count as a meal, followed by self-induced vomiting...guilt, tears...
You get the idea.
Friday night's dinner was surprisingly uneventful, especially after the lunch incident. I came home to an empty house (The Mr. is in NYC visiting his best friend from college), and I was actually looking forward to some rare solo downtime. I changed into my sweats, threw my hair up in a ponytail, and proceeded to prepare grilled chicken, steamed broccoli, and brown and wild rice.
I have had this dinner four times this week. LA's goal for the week: just eat. Even if it's the same meal repeatedly. Known in the recovery process as "safe" meals, certain meals have the ability to transform an eating disordered person into an eating robot. There is no thought process, emotion, or over-thinking involved. For me, it has become the standard chicken-broccoli-rice combo.
I sat in front of the television in my finished basement, watching in awe as the Real Housewives of New Jersey verbally (and physically too...what if we all acted like that?!) attack one another on their reunion show. The TV provided distraction as I, emotionless and completely robotic, polished off the meal one bite at a time.
Whenever my mind told me to stop eating or to go get rid of what had already passed through my mouth, I just kept reminding myself: "You have to run 13 miles in the morning. If you do not eat this, your running club friends will need to scrape your body off the road and haul your ass into the ER."
Now, I do realize that there will not always been a 13-mile run scheduled for the next morning to force me to fuel my body properly. I am not so naive to think that this is even remotely close to a healthy thought process. However, on a day like Friday, when food is the enemy and the eating disorder voice is barking in my ear, anything that forces me to eat a meal is a fair game.
So I got back on track. I earned the right to record a succcessful dinner in the food log that LA will review on Monday morning. The big blank spot for Friday lunch will be a discussion point (no doubt), but at least I redeemed myself by eating an actual dinner.
Near mile 11 this morning, I experienced a bit of a runner's high- which I love. Those moments always remind me why I need to get healthy again: the rewarding experience of training with friends, the thrill of competition, and the personal satisfaction of pushing beyond limitations are the things I live for.
I want know that my body is strong enough to allow me those moments.
Several weeks ago, a missed meal (example: Friday's lunch and The Turkey Sandwich Incident) would have evolved into missed dinner, super-long workout fueled by nothing the next morning, resisting breakfast,another missed lunch...perhaps a "binge" on some soup or something else that really doesn't count as a meal, followed by self-induced vomiting...guilt, tears...
You get the idea.
Friday night's dinner was surprisingly uneventful, especially after the lunch incident. I came home to an empty house (The Mr. is in NYC visiting his best friend from college), and I was actually looking forward to some rare solo downtime. I changed into my sweats, threw my hair up in a ponytail, and proceeded to prepare grilled chicken, steamed broccoli, and brown and wild rice.
I have had this dinner four times this week. LA's goal for the week: just eat. Even if it's the same meal repeatedly. Known in the recovery process as "safe" meals, certain meals have the ability to transform an eating disordered person into an eating robot. There is no thought process, emotion, or over-thinking involved. For me, it has become the standard chicken-broccoli-rice combo.
I sat in front of the television in my finished basement, watching in awe as the Real Housewives of New Jersey verbally (and physically too...what if we all acted like that?!) attack one another on their reunion show. The TV provided distraction as I, emotionless and completely robotic, polished off the meal one bite at a time.
Whenever my mind told me to stop eating or to go get rid of what had already passed through my mouth, I just kept reminding myself: "You have to run 13 miles in the morning. If you do not eat this, your running club friends will need to scrape your body off the road and haul your ass into the ER."
Now, I do realize that there will not always been a 13-mile run scheduled for the next morning to force me to fuel my body properly. I am not so naive to think that this is even remotely close to a healthy thought process. However, on a day like Friday, when food is the enemy and the eating disorder voice is barking in my ear, anything that forces me to eat a meal is a fair game.
So I got back on track. I earned the right to record a succcessful dinner in the food log that LA will review on Monday morning. The big blank spot for Friday lunch will be a discussion point (no doubt), but at least I redeemed myself by eating an actual dinner.
Near mile 11 this morning, I experienced a bit of a runner's high- which I love. Those moments always remind me why I need to get healthy again: the rewarding experience of training with friends, the thrill of competition, and the personal satisfaction of pushing beyond limitations are the things I live for.
I want know that my body is strong enough to allow me those moments.
Friday, September 10, 2010
A Battle Lost
I ate yesterday- quite a bit. I followed LA's plan accordingly and would have been given a gold star if I were the pigtail-wearing Kindergarten version of myself. My body filled with appropriate nourishment, I taught a great cycling class last night at my gym followed by a productive appointment with Dr. Joe.
I was back on track and feeling good. I remember thinking to myself last night, satisfied and strong: "I can do this. Food is not the enemy, and I am worth feeding."
Today, the roller coaster dipped back down. Out of the blue, and totally unexpected.
Another whole grain waffle with all-natural peanut butter, banana, and almonds went down just fine this morning. I even threw in a caloric glass of orange juice for kicks (I usually don't drink anything but water except for that damn Vitamin water LA "strongly recommends" since my electrolytes are out of whack). I felt fit from last night's cycling class and a decent lifting session. The self-loathing I had been carrying around was somewhat diminished by Dr. Joe last night. I was ready for a second day of "perfect" eating.
Until lunch time. The offending turkey-on-wheat. Damn that sandwich.
I don't know where it came from. I had even taken it from the refrigerator in the staff lounge and walked it back to my desk without much thought. But when I pulled back the foil...my eating disorder slapped me right in the face.
Tears welled up. I was suddenly not hungry. Not deserving. Anxious.
In my head: "Eat it. You can't afford to skip a meal and lose anymore weight. You did so well yesterday and this can continue!"
Anorexia: "You don't deserve it. You don't work hard enough to justify eating that. Yesterday's "splurges" are already making you fat and out of shape. Think of all the food that is just sitting in you right now..."
I wrapped it back in foil and walked the sandwich back to the fridge.
I went back to the refrigerator three times in about 20 minutes...fighting with my eating disorder in the hall. Students and coworkers walked by, totally oblivious to the internal war playing out in my head.
1:00- Stepped outside to attend a ceremony on the lawn. Returned to the fridge again. Then again.
1:30- Tears welling up again. Call LA. Left a voicemail. (Anorexia: "You're incredibly needy. She doesn't want to hear you cry about how you need strength to consume a sandwich. Get it together, no one wants to hear your sob story again. She'll stop helping you if she thinks you are not trying hard enough.")
1:45- Thinking to myself: "This is absolutely insane. Eat the f%&# sandwich, for the LOVE OF GOD."
1:52- Another trip to the fridge. Came back empty-handed.
2:00- I leave for a meeting, thinking "I'll just eat when I get back..."
Hours later, my stomach is still empty. I attempted to eat a few raw vegetables at my desk to cover my guilt.
The tagline on my blog says this is an honest account of anorexia recovery. There you have it. The internal war between me and anorexia.
I lost that battle. The next will come at dinner time and I need to win that one.
I was back on track and feeling good. I remember thinking to myself last night, satisfied and strong: "I can do this. Food is not the enemy, and I am worth feeding."
Today, the roller coaster dipped back down. Out of the blue, and totally unexpected.
Another whole grain waffle with all-natural peanut butter, banana, and almonds went down just fine this morning. I even threw in a caloric glass of orange juice for kicks (I usually don't drink anything but water except for that damn Vitamin water LA "strongly recommends" since my electrolytes are out of whack). I felt fit from last night's cycling class and a decent lifting session. The self-loathing I had been carrying around was somewhat diminished by Dr. Joe last night. I was ready for a second day of "perfect" eating.
Until lunch time. The offending turkey-on-wheat. Damn that sandwich.
I don't know where it came from. I had even taken it from the refrigerator in the staff lounge and walked it back to my desk without much thought. But when I pulled back the foil...my eating disorder slapped me right in the face.
Tears welled up. I was suddenly not hungry. Not deserving. Anxious.
In my head: "Eat it. You can't afford to skip a meal and lose anymore weight. You did so well yesterday and this can continue!"
Anorexia: "You don't deserve it. You don't work hard enough to justify eating that. Yesterday's "splurges" are already making you fat and out of shape. Think of all the food that is just sitting in you right now..."
I wrapped it back in foil and walked the sandwich back to the fridge.
I went back to the refrigerator three times in about 20 minutes...fighting with my eating disorder in the hall. Students and coworkers walked by, totally oblivious to the internal war playing out in my head.
1:00- Stepped outside to attend a ceremony on the lawn. Returned to the fridge again. Then again.
1:30- Tears welling up again. Call LA. Left a voicemail. (Anorexia: "You're incredibly needy. She doesn't want to hear you cry about how you need strength to consume a sandwich. Get it together, no one wants to hear your sob story again. She'll stop helping you if she thinks you are not trying hard enough.")
1:45- Thinking to myself: "This is absolutely insane. Eat the f%&# sandwich, for the LOVE OF GOD."
1:52- Another trip to the fridge. Came back empty-handed.
2:00- I leave for a meeting, thinking "I'll just eat when I get back..."
Hours later, my stomach is still empty. I attempted to eat a few raw vegetables at my desk to cover my guilt.
The tagline on my blog says this is an honest account of anorexia recovery. There you have it. The internal war between me and anorexia.
I lost that battle. The next will come at dinner time and I need to win that one.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
What An (Almost) Perfect Day Feels Like
Yesterday was, actually, a perfect food day. But it has to be "almost" perfect...
"Perfect" is on an outbound train at the moment, remember?
Anyhow, yesterday was the first day I followed LA's recommendations exactly. The action-oriented achiever in me wanted to tackle it, wanted to go to bed at night feeling like I had kicked anorexia's sorry little ass. We had a discussion on Tuesday about just eating the meal plan, even if it is the same "safe" foods over and over again. At this point, getting three meals and a snack in is the goal. We'll work on "challenge" foods much later in the process (The Mr. is secretly excited about the possibility of that happening soon...he can't wait until going out for ice cream or eating from a fast food restaurant is on the treatment to-do list).
So yesterday, I approached the "Stick-to-the-Meal-Plan" goal like it were a race, a marathon, a major swim meet. I ran it over in my mind. I planned each meal. I thought about how I would handle each meal and the temptation to run, purge, or jump off a building after consuming what most people consider to be a normal (if not minimal) day's worth of nourishment.
I decided to go for it. Throw caution to the wind. Eat. Leave it in the body so it can work it's magic. F*#% it.
And it felt damn good. Here's what I ate on my first "perfect" day (I'll set the stage for you too)...
Breakfast (7:00am...standing in my kitchen in a bra and boxer shorts, no makeup, hair wrapped in a towel...Al Roker reporting the weather from New Orleans...)
1 whole grain waffle with all-natural peanut butter, slice bananas, almonds on top
Small glass of orange juice to choke down my recommended multi-vitamin and a calcium chew
Mid-morning caloric beverage (I fight LA on this one all the time...at my desk...prepping to go teach a class of 25+ college freshmen...)
Vitamin water (not the Zero kind either...full-throttle, medicinal-tasting Vitamin water. That's right...bring it on. I'm eating today.)
Lunch (At my desk, working like crazy on editing some video footage, inwardly cursing at my students for not coming to class prepared an hour earlier, chatting on IM with my boss)
1 cup Amy's organic black bean and vegetable chili
Raw vegetables with hummus
Afternoon snack (Just before leaving work while mentally preparing for a hell of a run with my running group)
Granny Smith apple
Greek yogurt (I usually buy the plain kind with honey because it has fewer calories, but The Mr. did the shopping this week and bought the caramel one...not sure if that was done on purpose, but what the hell, ate it anyhow).
Evening run (An amazingly carthartic 6 miles with my friend K on my heels the whole time pushing my pace...Country music a la Nashville blaring on the iPod...Felt strong. Felt amazing. Felt like I could probably engage in some runner trash-talking and it would be totally legit...)
(No food on the run, obviously...but I had to touch upon that run because it was the kind of run a runner lives for).
Moving on...
Dinner (At my kitchen table...after my appointment with Dr. Joe...with my dog begging for a bite, barking like a banchee, and scratching the hell out of my legs...)
Small grilled chicken breast
Steamed broccoli
1 cup brown and wild rice
Before bed (Back in a bra and boxers...in my kitchen...about to pass out while standing up...)
Small glass of fat-free chocolate milk (LA makes me do this for extra calcium, protein, and to recover from runs)
...and that was that. Not a lot of food. Less than what a "normal" person would eat in a day. But a big step from Ensure and an intravenous drip.
Was it easy? Nope. But I Just Did It.
"Perfect" is on an outbound train at the moment, remember?
Anyhow, yesterday was the first day I followed LA's recommendations exactly. The action-oriented achiever in me wanted to tackle it, wanted to go to bed at night feeling like I had kicked anorexia's sorry little ass. We had a discussion on Tuesday about just eating the meal plan, even if it is the same "safe" foods over and over again. At this point, getting three meals and a snack in is the goal. We'll work on "challenge" foods much later in the process (The Mr. is secretly excited about the possibility of that happening soon...he can't wait until going out for ice cream or eating from a fast food restaurant is on the treatment to-do list).
So yesterday, I approached the "Stick-to-the-Meal-Plan" goal like it were a race, a marathon, a major swim meet. I ran it over in my mind. I planned each meal. I thought about how I would handle each meal and the temptation to run, purge, or jump off a building after consuming what most people consider to be a normal (if not minimal) day's worth of nourishment.
I decided to go for it. Throw caution to the wind. Eat. Leave it in the body so it can work it's magic. F*#% it.
And it felt damn good. Here's what I ate on my first "perfect" day (I'll set the stage for you too)...
Breakfast (7:00am...standing in my kitchen in a bra and boxer shorts, no makeup, hair wrapped in a towel...Al Roker reporting the weather from New Orleans...)
1 whole grain waffle with all-natural peanut butter, slice bananas, almonds on top
Small glass of orange juice to choke down my recommended multi-vitamin and a calcium chew
Mid-morning caloric beverage (I fight LA on this one all the time...at my desk...prepping to go teach a class of 25+ college freshmen...)
Vitamin water (not the Zero kind either...full-throttle, medicinal-tasting Vitamin water. That's right...bring it on. I'm eating today.)
Lunch (At my desk, working like crazy on editing some video footage, inwardly cursing at my students for not coming to class prepared an hour earlier, chatting on IM with my boss)
1 cup Amy's organic black bean and vegetable chili
Raw vegetables with hummus
Afternoon snack (Just before leaving work while mentally preparing for a hell of a run with my running group)
Granny Smith apple
Greek yogurt (I usually buy the plain kind with honey because it has fewer calories, but The Mr. did the shopping this week and bought the caramel one...not sure if that was done on purpose, but what the hell, ate it anyhow).
Evening run (An amazingly carthartic 6 miles with my friend K on my heels the whole time pushing my pace...Country music a la Nashville blaring on the iPod...Felt strong. Felt amazing. Felt like I could probably engage in some runner trash-talking and it would be totally legit...)
(No food on the run, obviously...but I had to touch upon that run because it was the kind of run a runner lives for).
Moving on...
Dinner (At my kitchen table...after my appointment with Dr. Joe...with my dog begging for a bite, barking like a banchee, and scratching the hell out of my legs...)
Small grilled chicken breast
Steamed broccoli
1 cup brown and wild rice
Before bed (Back in a bra and boxers...in my kitchen...about to pass out while standing up...)
Small glass of fat-free chocolate milk (LA makes me do this for extra calcium, protein, and to recover from runs)
...and that was that. Not a lot of food. Less than what a "normal" person would eat in a day. But a big step from Ensure and an intravenous drip.
Was it easy? Nope. But I Just Did It.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
On Trusting Others
It's lunch time in the office...the time I sometimes dread because eating has become a psychologically labor-intensive process. Today I've committed to following LA's meal plan exactly, so I'm blogging as I eat to distract myself from what is going into my mouth. Dr. Joe's "Just Do It" is the theme for the day once again.
A blogger I follow daily (Carrie, ED Bites) shared an insightful post recently titled Doctors, Ignorance, and Eating Disorders. While not totally related, her article (in addition to my recent meetings with LA and Dr. K) got me thinking about a theme Dr. Joe and I regularly discuss at great length: Trust.
Trust in doctors. Trust in others. Trust in myself.
Throughout my life, I have generally been able to rely on my own judgment and intuition. Sure, it has led me to make poor choices from time to time (crashing someone else's car when I was too young to have a driver's license, dying my hair a ridiculously dark shade of burgundy, "sure, I...can...handle...one...more...shot..."), but for the most part, my intuition has led me down the right path.
Until now. When my life is like Alice in Wonderland and the looking glass is distorted.
Yesterday, LA asked me what Dr. K had said during my appointment (purely conversational, really, given that she will call Dr. K for the information anyhow):
LA: "So what did Dr. K have to say today? About life? About things in general?"
Me: "Nothing much. My bone scan came out ok but I'm still at a low BMI."
LA: "What do you think about that?"
Me: "That she only tells me that to make me stop doing what I'm doing."
LA (laughing, because she finds me amusing at times): "Wait a minute. So, you think your doctor is lying to you?"
I thought for a minute. Watched LA laughing. Cracked a smile. Then I started to crack up too. I understood why LA laughed at that comment. It was ridiculous to think that my doctor would lie to me. And yet so indicative of what it is like to have an eating disorder. You just can't see it. Like Alice in Wonderland.
The mind plays tricks on you: "You don't look that thin.", "Your clothes aren't getting bigger (nevermind that you are a size zero)", "You felt great on that run because you didn't have anything weighing you down".
For me, trusting complete strangers has been the biggest battle.
I have to trust that LA's meal plan (which, really, is still very minimal at this stage in the game) will not turn me into a marshmallow puff overnight.
I have to trust that Dr. K is not lying to me about my current medical situation, even though I still swear at times that I still have wiggle room with my weight (I don't, apparently).
I have to trust that training less will make me a better athlete, and not a worse one.
I have to trust that what I see is not reality. My judgment is off. My intuition is unreliable. For the first time in my life. That has been the hardest battle to overcome. And still is.
When I left LA's office after the Dr-K-Is-A-Liar conversation (and other miscellaneous tear-filled moments), I thought to myself: "I'll bet she is on the phone with Dr. Joe right this second."
Sure enough...not even 5 minutes later, an email pops up on my Blackberry. From Dr. Joe: M. Just received a call from LA. I have a 9pm appointment tomorrow if you would like to come talk.
I write back: Thanks. See you then.
I don't trust many people, and I never really have. But I'm starting to trust the ones who have proven to me that they have my best interest at heart, truly care about me, and who are there for me to lean on when I need them the most.
And I feel blessed that I wasn't entirely able to relate to Carrie's blog post on ED Bites (though I love the post and think it is incredibly insightful) about ED-ignorant medical professionals. In fact, I couldn't ask for a better group surrounding me and I'm thankful I can rely on their intuition when mine is, shall we say, temporarily disabled.
A blogger I follow daily (Carrie, ED Bites) shared an insightful post recently titled Doctors, Ignorance, and Eating Disorders. While not totally related, her article (in addition to my recent meetings with LA and Dr. K) got me thinking about a theme Dr. Joe and I regularly discuss at great length: Trust.
Trust in doctors. Trust in others. Trust in myself.
Throughout my life, I have generally been able to rely on my own judgment and intuition. Sure, it has led me to make poor choices from time to time (crashing someone else's car when I was too young to have a driver's license, dying my hair a ridiculously dark shade of burgundy, "sure, I...can...handle...one...more...shot..."), but for the most part, my intuition has led me down the right path.
Until now. When my life is like Alice in Wonderland and the looking glass is distorted.
Yesterday, LA asked me what Dr. K had said during my appointment (purely conversational, really, given that she will call Dr. K for the information anyhow):
LA: "So what did Dr. K have to say today? About life? About things in general?"
Me: "Nothing much. My bone scan came out ok but I'm still at a low BMI."
LA: "What do you think about that?"
Me: "That she only tells me that to make me stop doing what I'm doing."
LA (laughing, because she finds me amusing at times): "Wait a minute. So, you think your doctor is lying to you?"
I thought for a minute. Watched LA laughing. Cracked a smile. Then I started to crack up too. I understood why LA laughed at that comment. It was ridiculous to think that my doctor would lie to me. And yet so indicative of what it is like to have an eating disorder. You just can't see it. Like Alice in Wonderland.
The mind plays tricks on you: "You don't look that thin.", "Your clothes aren't getting bigger (nevermind that you are a size zero)", "You felt great on that run because you didn't have anything weighing you down".
For me, trusting complete strangers has been the biggest battle.
I have to trust that LA's meal plan (which, really, is still very minimal at this stage in the game) will not turn me into a marshmallow puff overnight.
I have to trust that Dr. K is not lying to me about my current medical situation, even though I still swear at times that I still have wiggle room with my weight (I don't, apparently).
I have to trust that training less will make me a better athlete, and not a worse one.
I have to trust that what I see is not reality. My judgment is off. My intuition is unreliable. For the first time in my life. That has been the hardest battle to overcome. And still is.
When I left LA's office after the Dr-K-Is-A-Liar conversation (and other miscellaneous tear-filled moments), I thought to myself: "I'll bet she is on the phone with Dr. Joe right this second."
Sure enough...not even 5 minutes later, an email pops up on my Blackberry. From Dr. Joe: M. Just received a call from LA. I have a 9pm appointment tomorrow if you would like to come talk.
I write back: Thanks. See you then.
I don't trust many people, and I never really have. But I'm starting to trust the ones who have proven to me that they have my best interest at heart, truly care about me, and who are there for me to lean on when I need them the most.
And I feel blessed that I wasn't entirely able to relate to Carrie's blog post on ED Bites (though I love the post and think it is incredibly insightful) about ED-ignorant medical professionals. In fact, I couldn't ask for a better group surrounding me and I'm thankful I can rely on their intuition when mine is, shall we say, temporarily disabled.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Among Friends
I took a pre-planned vacation day today to recover from the weekend in what my friends and I affectionately call Nash Vegas. Three days of catching up (and drinking), and shopping (and drinking) and cracking up (and drinking) requires a bit of a recuperation.
(I would like to point out that I rarely drink anymore, thankyouverymuch. But everyone is entitled to a crazy weekend every now and then. Since I work with college students, I consider it to be essential research pertinent to my career).
The time away was such a breath of fresh air for me, especially considering the majority of my social interactions as of late have been related to my therapy. Or with college students. Or with the people sweating their asses off in the cycling classes I teach. Traveling with this group is not a new thing; we met in graduate school and have been a little family to each other ever since. I especially lean on this group because they are the type of friends who really only come around once in a lifetime: fiercely loyal, supportive, drama-free girlfriends.
Oddly enough, I had not opened up to this group about my eating disorder struggles until this trip. Even through the worst of it (that lovely vacation in the hospital and such), I didn't let this group in on what was going on. I'm not sure why...but my guess is that it had something to do with the fact that we 1.) don't all live in the same area anymore, and 2.) sometimes you don't want those you truly love to see you at your worst. The skin-and-bones-IV-in-the-arm-choking-down-Ensure stage would have frightened them a bit, I think.
Although I can tell you that I am glad I tore down the wall this weekend and let them inside a little.
In preparation for this trip, I experienced a little (ok...that's a lie...a LOT) of anxiety about how to work around my limited food options, my temptation to still purge after "overeating" (again, relative term), and the overall neuroticism that comes along with having an Eating Disordered Mind. I mean, really, the Skinny Girl can only order grilled chicken and lettuce so many times before her friends really start to wonder if something is up (and, well, in this case that "wondering" would be spot on). Plus, I really felt a strong need to have this particular group of my closest friends in my circle of support. They are, after all, like family.
I honestly don't remember how the news was broke (there were J's jello shots involved, I do know that much). We were all in the hotel room getting ready. I remember K saying she had been wondering if something was going on, since I had casually mentioned seeing a dietitian before while in my Denial Stage and had rapidly dropped to the size of a preteen.
The conversation lasted no more than about 5 minutes. I explained refeeding a bit. The fact that lots of foods freak me out and that my List of Acceptable Foods has, oh, about 5 foods on it. Explained I don't yet have the mental strength to over-indulge in ice cream, giant Starbucks treats, or queso dip (a staple in our grad school experience) and actually keep it in my body just yet. That was that. That's the kind of girls we are...just as long as we know what the others are going through, we can be there for the long haul. No need to dwell. No need to discuss at length. Just unconditional friendship and looking out for one another.
So the weekend was amazing. A much needed break from life. I'll spare you the inside jokes, drunken humor, and random experiences we'll laugh about for years (but I know you are dying to know what five over-educated, otherwise professional young women do while anonymous in a new city...).
Like so many aspects of my life right now (and probably in the future too), my approach to food was not even close to perfect this weekend. I had a lot of internal battles about the choices I made regarding meals and alcohol. I will be honest- I lost most of those battles. There was a lot of undereating and time spent in bathrooms. But this morning brought appointments with both LA and Dr. K...and together we will make sense of it all and try to fix it.
LA told me this morning my large social network and circle of friends is what will save me from this. I am not one to isolate for too long or forego trips and experiences because of what I am going through. The challenge, however, will be in preparing for those experiences to make sure the way I handle them gets increasingly more positive with time.
So for now, I sit here on my deck...blogging in the sunshine, paying bills, messing with my new iPod, and listening to my 15-lb dog terrorize the neighborhood with his obnoxious barking. I'm eating my prescribed lunch and I need to call LA afterwards and report to her that I ate. Back to fixing this. Back to the routine.
It's certainly not a long weekend with the girls in a new city...but it's an essential part of my life right now.
Thank you to the alphabet soup of my best friends...J, K, L, K (missing C on this trip, but love her just the same...she received lots of loud and inaudible voicemails from the five of us) for providing me with a much-needed break from Life. It energized me, renewed me with strength, and made me tired as hell (but the good kind). I love you dearly and I truly believe we will still be experiencing these random roadtrips when our boobs are saggy, we can no longer take down shots, and all sport Mom jeans with nine-inch zippers.
But we'll still think we're damn hot and a hell of a good time.
(I would like to point out that I rarely drink anymore, thankyouverymuch. But everyone is entitled to a crazy weekend every now and then. Since I work with college students, I consider it to be essential research pertinent to my career).
The time away was such a breath of fresh air for me, especially considering the majority of my social interactions as of late have been related to my therapy. Or with college students. Or with the people sweating their asses off in the cycling classes I teach. Traveling with this group is not a new thing; we met in graduate school and have been a little family to each other ever since. I especially lean on this group because they are the type of friends who really only come around once in a lifetime: fiercely loyal, supportive, drama-free girlfriends.
Oddly enough, I had not opened up to this group about my eating disorder struggles until this trip. Even through the worst of it (that lovely vacation in the hospital and such), I didn't let this group in on what was going on. I'm not sure why...but my guess is that it had something to do with the fact that we 1.) don't all live in the same area anymore, and 2.) sometimes you don't want those you truly love to see you at your worst. The skin-and-bones-IV-in-the-arm-choking-down-Ensure stage would have frightened them a bit, I think.
Although I can tell you that I am glad I tore down the wall this weekend and let them inside a little.
In preparation for this trip, I experienced a little (ok...that's a lie...a LOT) of anxiety about how to work around my limited food options, my temptation to still purge after "overeating" (again, relative term), and the overall neuroticism that comes along with having an Eating Disordered Mind. I mean, really, the Skinny Girl can only order grilled chicken and lettuce so many times before her friends really start to wonder if something is up (and, well, in this case that "wondering" would be spot on). Plus, I really felt a strong need to have this particular group of my closest friends in my circle of support. They are, after all, like family.
I honestly don't remember how the news was broke (there were J's jello shots involved, I do know that much). We were all in the hotel room getting ready. I remember K saying she had been wondering if something was going on, since I had casually mentioned seeing a dietitian before while in my Denial Stage and had rapidly dropped to the size of a preteen.
The conversation lasted no more than about 5 minutes. I explained refeeding a bit. The fact that lots of foods freak me out and that my List of Acceptable Foods has, oh, about 5 foods on it. Explained I don't yet have the mental strength to over-indulge in ice cream, giant Starbucks treats, or queso dip (a staple in our grad school experience) and actually keep it in my body just yet. That was that. That's the kind of girls we are...just as long as we know what the others are going through, we can be there for the long haul. No need to dwell. No need to discuss at length. Just unconditional friendship and looking out for one another.
So the weekend was amazing. A much needed break from life. I'll spare you the inside jokes, drunken humor, and random experiences we'll laugh about for years (but I know you are dying to know what five over-educated, otherwise professional young women do while anonymous in a new city...).
Like so many aspects of my life right now (and probably in the future too), my approach to food was not even close to perfect this weekend. I had a lot of internal battles about the choices I made regarding meals and alcohol. I will be honest- I lost most of those battles. There was a lot of undereating and time spent in bathrooms. But this morning brought appointments with both LA and Dr. K...and together we will make sense of it all and try to fix it.
LA told me this morning my large social network and circle of friends is what will save me from this. I am not one to isolate for too long or forego trips and experiences because of what I am going through. The challenge, however, will be in preparing for those experiences to make sure the way I handle them gets increasingly more positive with time.
So for now, I sit here on my deck...blogging in the sunshine, paying bills, messing with my new iPod, and listening to my 15-lb dog terrorize the neighborhood with his obnoxious barking. I'm eating my prescribed lunch and I need to call LA afterwards and report to her that I ate. Back to fixing this. Back to the routine.
It's certainly not a long weekend with the girls in a new city...but it's an essential part of my life right now.
Thank you to the alphabet soup of my best friends...J, K, L, K (missing C on this trip, but love her just the same...she received lots of loud and inaudible voicemails from the five of us) for providing me with a much-needed break from Life. It energized me, renewed me with strength, and made me tired as hell (but the good kind). I love you dearly and I truly believe we will still be experiencing these random roadtrips when our boobs are saggy, we can no longer take down shots, and all sport Mom jeans with nine-inch zippers.
But we'll still think we're damn hot and a hell of a good time.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Racing the Non-Racer
This morning I headed to the pool for a workout. I typically use Fridays as a rest day, but wanted to get in some extra exercise before a long weekend roadtrip with my best friends from graduate school. We're heading to Nashville this weekend to "get crazy"...although our roadtrips have gotten decreasingly crazy as we have entered later stages of adulthood. We're even taking a minivan this time (because one of us actually owns one- what have we become?).
Swimming, is, actually, a rather boring sport. Sometimes I can't believe I spent so much of my life staring at a black line, flipping around, and then staring at it some more. Hours and hours spent swimming yard after yard and not really getting anywhere. But there are many times the black line has allowed me to ponder life's ironies.
Most competitive swimmers I know abandon their pre-set workout and begin to speed up when someone new gets into the next lane over. It's a subtle one-upmanship that exists in the sport. I am guilty as charged. Even for just a few hundred yards, I will pick it up until I have convinced myself I am the better swimmer, then settle back into my workout with a renewed comfort that I still have "It". Whatever "It" may be.
I've also picked up this habit in running, thanks to my friend and running partner, B. On our long training runs, we get a rush from slowly closing the gap and picking off the people running ahead of us. Of course, both the swimmer in the pool and the runner up ahead are oblivious to the fact that we are "racing". Yet we (not just me or even B...but all of us perfectionists...come on, admit it. You do it too...) get such satisfaction from winning the race.
Racing the non-racer. Sounds strange. Overly competitive. Obsessive, even.
I decided this morning (after I had "beaten" the oblivious swimmer next to me) that the mentality behind an eating disorder is much the same. Racing the non-racer. Trying to beat myself...but for what?
Last week, I was in full-blown Stubborn Anorexia Mode. Not wanting to eat despite hunger. Not wanting to give in. Wanting to prove how strong I could be, achieving despite disadvantage ("See? I can run a half marathon in under 2 hours with no food in my body!").
And what did Dr. Joe say to me in his so-laid-back-I'm-almost-asleep way?
"Ok, M. You win."
I was winning a race with myself. And sure, I won. But who is an anorexic person competing against, really?
Herself. And she doesn't even know she is in the race.
Swimming, is, actually, a rather boring sport. Sometimes I can't believe I spent so much of my life staring at a black line, flipping around, and then staring at it some more. Hours and hours spent swimming yard after yard and not really getting anywhere. But there are many times the black line has allowed me to ponder life's ironies.
Most competitive swimmers I know abandon their pre-set workout and begin to speed up when someone new gets into the next lane over. It's a subtle one-upmanship that exists in the sport. I am guilty as charged. Even for just a few hundred yards, I will pick it up until I have convinced myself I am the better swimmer, then settle back into my workout with a renewed comfort that I still have "It". Whatever "It" may be.
I've also picked up this habit in running, thanks to my friend and running partner, B. On our long training runs, we get a rush from slowly closing the gap and picking off the people running ahead of us. Of course, both the swimmer in the pool and the runner up ahead are oblivious to the fact that we are "racing". Yet we (not just me or even B...but all of us perfectionists...come on, admit it. You do it too...) get such satisfaction from winning the race.
Racing the non-racer. Sounds strange. Overly competitive. Obsessive, even.
I decided this morning (after I had "beaten" the oblivious swimmer next to me) that the mentality behind an eating disorder is much the same. Racing the non-racer. Trying to beat myself...but for what?
Last week, I was in full-blown Stubborn Anorexia Mode. Not wanting to eat despite hunger. Not wanting to give in. Wanting to prove how strong I could be, achieving despite disadvantage ("See? I can run a half marathon in under 2 hours with no food in my body!").
And what did Dr. Joe say to me in his so-laid-back-I'm-almost-asleep way?
"Ok, M. You win."
I was winning a race with myself. And sure, I won. But who is an anorexic person competing against, really?
Herself. And she doesn't even know she is in the race.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Perfectionism Rears It's Ugly Head
Day One has gone relatively well. I managed to consume three-ish meals and a few snacks along the way. Certainly not a perfect match to the meal plan my dietitian handed down a few weeks ago, but a much more solid attempt compared to the last two weeks.
And no self-induced vomiting today. A huge accomplishment. And that is not sarcastic...it truly is something to be proud of at this stage of the game.
Notice I used the term "self-induced vomiting" rather than purge...I'll tell you why.
Compulsive exercise is a form of purging. Any anorexic or bulimic person has heard this before from caring doctors and therapists. And it's true, while most of us don't want to admit it. Why is it so hard to wrap a distorted mind around this concept? Because exercise is a much more socially acceptable form of purging compared to sticking fingers down one's throat.
So what's the big deal about exercising too much?
Tonight was the first night I really, truly felt the effects my recent starvation has had on my body. And the way I felt is enough to fuel my motivation to turn things around and really commit to recovery. Mind you, I consider myself to be an athlete. I identify with that persona over many others in my life, including professional, wife, friend, etc. When people ask what makes me, well, me...being an athlete is one of the first things that comes to mind. While my commitment to performance is, in part, what led me down the road to anorexia, it is the threat to my body and overall health that is also steering me in the other direction.
I typically teach fitness classes at my local gym on Thursday nights, but got a sub for my class this evening so I could "recoup" and "relax" after a long and emotional week. I set out to ride an easy 20 miles on my bike ("easy" is a relative term) because, well, exercise addiction is one area of my eating disorder we have yet to fully tackle.
I felt it immediately- the heavy legs, the increased heart rate, the rapid breathing. As a certified personal trainer myself, I knew right away what was happening: my body is lacking stored energy (glycogen). Did it bother me? Absolutely. Did I want to kick the weakness' ass and prove I'm just fine, with or without food? Damn straight. So I kept on truckin' at a high speed. Perfection rearing its ugly head.
I usually love the high I get when completing a challenging workout, race, or competition. I live for it. Tonight, though, when those 20 miles were over, I let out some tears. And not tears of joy.
Dr. Joe is right. I abuse myself. Time and time again. And it needs to stop.
Why do we do this to ourselves? What does completing an utterly draining 20 miles with almost no energy serve to prove? And would I ever tell a training client to "just keep going" in the same situation? Absolutely not.
Eating disordered individuals are some of the toughest-minded people out there: athletically inclined or not. It takes serious mental strength to repeatedly ignore hunger pains, physical weakness, and cravings. But that is not what makes us strong. What makes us strong is telling that critical voice inside to politely f*$% off and do what is best for our bodies: nourish them correctly before using them for work.
Every exercise bulimic (yes, actual term for someone who uses physical activity as a form of purging) experiences a point in a workout in which he or she decides to push beyond the weakness or fatigue. The next time you catch yourself in that moment, ask yourself "Why am I pushing to go further? Is it because I feel strong? Or because I just can't give in?".
Exercise is a great thing. It conditions the mind and body to be strong and efficient. We all need to do it to stay fit and healthy. But too often it becomes punishing. Recognizing the pattern and the motivation behind that punishing or painful workout is another step in the direction of recovery.
From now on, I'm going to try end more workouts with tears of joy...not tears of guilt or pain. You should commit to the same :)
And no self-induced vomiting today. A huge accomplishment. And that is not sarcastic...it truly is something to be proud of at this stage of the game.
Notice I used the term "self-induced vomiting" rather than purge...I'll tell you why.
Compulsive exercise is a form of purging. Any anorexic or bulimic person has heard this before from caring doctors and therapists. And it's true, while most of us don't want to admit it. Why is it so hard to wrap a distorted mind around this concept? Because exercise is a much more socially acceptable form of purging compared to sticking fingers down one's throat.
So what's the big deal about exercising too much?
Tonight was the first night I really, truly felt the effects my recent starvation has had on my body. And the way I felt is enough to fuel my motivation to turn things around and really commit to recovery. Mind you, I consider myself to be an athlete. I identify with that persona over many others in my life, including professional, wife, friend, etc. When people ask what makes me, well, me...being an athlete is one of the first things that comes to mind. While my commitment to performance is, in part, what led me down the road to anorexia, it is the threat to my body and overall health that is also steering me in the other direction.
I typically teach fitness classes at my local gym on Thursday nights, but got a sub for my class this evening so I could "recoup" and "relax" after a long and emotional week. I set out to ride an easy 20 miles on my bike ("easy" is a relative term) because, well, exercise addiction is one area of my eating disorder we have yet to fully tackle.
I felt it immediately- the heavy legs, the increased heart rate, the rapid breathing. As a certified personal trainer myself, I knew right away what was happening: my body is lacking stored energy (glycogen). Did it bother me? Absolutely. Did I want to kick the weakness' ass and prove I'm just fine, with or without food? Damn straight. So I kept on truckin' at a high speed. Perfection rearing its ugly head.
I usually love the high I get when completing a challenging workout, race, or competition. I live for it. Tonight, though, when those 20 miles were over, I let out some tears. And not tears of joy.
Dr. Joe is right. I abuse myself. Time and time again. And it needs to stop.
Why do we do this to ourselves? What does completing an utterly draining 20 miles with almost no energy serve to prove? And would I ever tell a training client to "just keep going" in the same situation? Absolutely not.
Eating disordered individuals are some of the toughest-minded people out there: athletically inclined or not. It takes serious mental strength to repeatedly ignore hunger pains, physical weakness, and cravings. But that is not what makes us strong. What makes us strong is telling that critical voice inside to politely f*$% off and do what is best for our bodies: nourish them correctly before using them for work.
Every exercise bulimic (yes, actual term for someone who uses physical activity as a form of purging) experiences a point in a workout in which he or she decides to push beyond the weakness or fatigue. The next time you catch yourself in that moment, ask yourself "Why am I pushing to go further? Is it because I feel strong? Or because I just can't give in?".
Exercise is a great thing. It conditions the mind and body to be strong and efficient. We all need to do it to stay fit and healthy. But too often it becomes punishing. Recognizing the pattern and the motivation behind that punishing or painful workout is another step in the direction of recovery.
From now on, I'm going to try end more workouts with tears of joy...not tears of guilt or pain. You should commit to the same :)
Blueberry Muffins...and Hope
I started this blog on what I consider to be Day One of Recovery.
This is not necessarily the true "Day One", as there have now been what seems like hundreds of days in between the moment I admitted I had a "mild" (my distorted perception at the time) case of disordered eating and now. I've since been hospitalized, seen a member of my treatment team almost daily, and kept countless mandatory food journals since that artificial "Day One".
But now here I am at the Official Day One...the day I decided to get real, follow my therapist's advice and Just Do It (Dr. Joe and I are both runners and athletes...his eyes twinkle a little when he drops the Nike reference).
I just finished reading Lucy Howard-Taylor's "Biting Anorexia" and started into Nicole Johns' "Purge: Rehab Diaries" last night. While it's generally not recommended to read the accounts of others in the initial stages of eating disorder recovery (because, really, only an anorexic would be triggered by another person's graphic account of puking up lettuce leaves) there is a certain comfort in reading thoughts very similar to your own right there in black and white. It's like assurance that you are not the only one out there who has laid in bed at night feeling for hip bones to reassure yourself the Hershey Kiss you "indulged" in earlier did not cause you to blow up like a killer whale.
These books- though I have only finished one and just started the other- have motivated me to tell my own story. And I want to make sure my own story has a happy ending that inspires others to be strong, seek support, and take the steps needed towards recovery.
And when you decide that today is Day One, you have to start finding signs of hope in the little things. Today I woke up with renewed insight on an incident that occurred last night...
Last night brought the usual painful yet cathartic (like a drug, really) appointment with Dr. Joe the Therapist. Usually, Dr. Joe sits back and pisses me off with his laid-back demeanor. I should mention I'm a bit Type A (No! Writing a blog about seeking perfection?! But that doesn't make any sense!), and while I seek out and need these "chill" people in my life for balance, they generally do get under my skin.
Well, last night Dr. Joe starts talking hospitalization again. He is concerned I will pass out during my evening weight lifting/run routine because there is very little in my stomach during this most recent return to anorexia. He asks repeatedly "why are you abusing yourself?" and I scream and yell at him that I don't know. He mentions he thinks I've been victimized by my dysfunctional, loveless upbringing, that I am detached, that I abuse myself because that's what I'm used to...
...and I'm pissed.
...don't ever tell ME I'm a victim. No way. Not this one. I don't play that game, and never will.
When the excrutiating 60 minutes is over, I hop in my car and speed off, fuming at him. I realize I want to eat...BADLY. I loop my car through the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through (foreign territory for an anorexic) and ordered the biggest blueberry muffin they had (reduced fat of course).
I shoved it in my mouth. I was pissed.
This morning, with some cooling off time, I realized there is hope to be seen in that blueberry muffin. I have been telling myself all along that anorexia is so engrained in me that it will be impossible for me to get out.
But an anorexic emotionally eating a random, fat-laden (it's not really reduced fat...they lie) blueberry muffin? Proof that Dr. Joe is right. Progress is not always a straight line or a grand gesture.
Dr. Joe knew how to push my buttons in just the right way to drive me straight to eating a muffin. And by doing so, I now know that anorexia is not as engrained in me as I once thought. Even I, Queen of Discipline and Detachment, is not immune to emotionally-charged indulgence.
And now it is time to begin the imperfect journey of recovery. Day One. Just Do It.
This is not necessarily the true "Day One", as there have now been what seems like hundreds of days in between the moment I admitted I had a "mild" (my distorted perception at the time) case of disordered eating and now. I've since been hospitalized, seen a member of my treatment team almost daily, and kept countless mandatory food journals since that artificial "Day One".
But now here I am at the Official Day One...the day I decided to get real, follow my therapist's advice and Just Do It (Dr. Joe and I are both runners and athletes...his eyes twinkle a little when he drops the Nike reference).
I just finished reading Lucy Howard-Taylor's "Biting Anorexia" and started into Nicole Johns' "Purge: Rehab Diaries" last night. While it's generally not recommended to read the accounts of others in the initial stages of eating disorder recovery (because, really, only an anorexic would be triggered by another person's graphic account of puking up lettuce leaves) there is a certain comfort in reading thoughts very similar to your own right there in black and white. It's like assurance that you are not the only one out there who has laid in bed at night feeling for hip bones to reassure yourself the Hershey Kiss you "indulged" in earlier did not cause you to blow up like a killer whale.
These books- though I have only finished one and just started the other- have motivated me to tell my own story. And I want to make sure my own story has a happy ending that inspires others to be strong, seek support, and take the steps needed towards recovery.
And when you decide that today is Day One, you have to start finding signs of hope in the little things. Today I woke up with renewed insight on an incident that occurred last night...
Last night brought the usual painful yet cathartic (like a drug, really) appointment with Dr. Joe the Therapist. Usually, Dr. Joe sits back and pisses me off with his laid-back demeanor. I should mention I'm a bit Type A (No! Writing a blog about seeking perfection?! But that doesn't make any sense!), and while I seek out and need these "chill" people in my life for balance, they generally do get under my skin.
Well, last night Dr. Joe starts talking hospitalization again. He is concerned I will pass out during my evening weight lifting/run routine because there is very little in my stomach during this most recent return to anorexia. He asks repeatedly "why are you abusing yourself?" and I scream and yell at him that I don't know. He mentions he thinks I've been victimized by my dysfunctional, loveless upbringing, that I am detached, that I abuse myself because that's what I'm used to...
...and I'm pissed.
...don't ever tell ME I'm a victim. No way. Not this one. I don't play that game, and never will.
When the excrutiating 60 minutes is over, I hop in my car and speed off, fuming at him. I realize I want to eat...BADLY. I loop my car through the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through (foreign territory for an anorexic) and ordered the biggest blueberry muffin they had (reduced fat of course).
I shoved it in my mouth. I was pissed.
This morning, with some cooling off time, I realized there is hope to be seen in that blueberry muffin. I have been telling myself all along that anorexia is so engrained in me that it will be impossible for me to get out.
But an anorexic emotionally eating a random, fat-laden (it's not really reduced fat...they lie) blueberry muffin? Proof that Dr. Joe is right. Progress is not always a straight line or a grand gesture.
Dr. Joe knew how to push my buttons in just the right way to drive me straight to eating a muffin. And by doing so, I now know that anorexia is not as engrained in me as I once thought. Even I, Queen of Discipline and Detachment, is not immune to emotionally-charged indulgence.
And now it is time to begin the imperfect journey of recovery. Day One. Just Do It.
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