I struggled today. Out of nowhere, I suddenly did not want to eat my lunch and fought back tears and the eating disorder voice telling me to "just skip it." I had a bit of a meltdown when I realized I had to go up a size in an Under Armour compression shirt (in that moment, I should have recalled the fact that all of their shirts run super-small and it is probably not me, but Mr. ED was screaming at me). In other words, the eating disorder voice was loud and clear today, barking in my ear.
I ate a turkey sandwich and some other food for lunch. I bought the bigger size. I texted LA for help and she sent me a fiesty (yet encouraging) email containing the f-word. At the end of the day, I suppose I won.
I just finished packing to go away for a short weekend trip to Chicago...with running friends....to run...a half marathon...
I have been registered for this race for several months. Now, before anyone flips out, calls Dr. Joe to try to have me committed, or tries to put a boot on my car to stop me, let me explain this decision.
For starters, I was given the green light to return to running from Dr. K. I have tested my leg twice since then with moderately fast training runs, and felt pretty good. No real pain at, around, or near the site of the stress fracture. Considering I was probably running on the stress fracture all summer long without realizing it, taking a few weeks off was probably all that the crack needed to heal up just fine. The X-ray had even shown a large amount of healing tissue around the fracture, which led Dr. K to believe I was well into the healing stage. Dr. K is also treating me for the other physical issues I am facing at the moment, but is still ok with physical activity (and, yes, she knows me well enough to know that my "physical activity" is a little more than just walking to the mailbox). I have been resting all week, and the reality of the situation is that I am handling the stomach issues as best I can at the moment. I'm taking the medications I've been given, following the doctors' advice, and will be getting an ultrasound on my gallbladder on Monday. Running in this race is not going to change anything (the damage is done and is being dealt with), and all of those problems will still exist whether I lie in bed or go run 13 miles. So I'm running the 13 miles.
Secondly, my approach to this weekend's run couldn't be more different than in the past. Never in my life (seriously- I cannot think of a single time in 28 years) have I participated in a race or sporting event "just because". Sure, I approach (some) training runs or workouts with that attitude, but in general, if there is competition to be had, I'm all in. But this weekend, I am using this opportunity to be with my thoughts, to remind myself who I am, and to find some of the strength I know used to be (and still is) somewhere inside of me. I need to be able to tap into that strength and motivation a bit to get over the hurdles that are sure to come next in this process.
This laid-back approach to the race does not mean that I won't push myself if I feel good, or aim for a PR if it ends up within my reach (doubtful after the time off). But what it does mean is that I will be stepping up to the starting line with no expectations, a positive attitude, and the main goal of having fun and enjoying myself.
Did I mention this race is Halloween-themed? Oh yeah...it is. I'll be running 13 miles dressed as Catwoman, and there are sure to be many other freaks in this race. Needless to say the goal of "having fun" is sure to be met. Runners...we're all a little off anyhow. Just add a holiday and the insanity is taken to a whole new level.
Throughout my recovery, several people have tried to persuade me to stop training, competing, and working out. Most people do not realize that the number of hours I spend each exercising has been cut down by one third, and is much more controlled than it used to be. Reducing the number of hours spent on physical activity was the very first deal Dr. Joe struck with me: I decreased by one third and started eating, and I could continue to train as I pleased. The goal for my recovery was never to move me away from what I love: pushing my limits physically, working out, setting and training towards personal goals. Rather, the goal has always been to find a way to balance my need for intensity with healthy eating habits, an acceptable athletic weight, and an absence of eating disorder behaviors.
Right now, a full marathon and a 50K are goals that lie before me in the new year. Am I ready to tackle them right now? Absolutely not. I know I am not healthy or eating nearly enough to successfully train for either. But I will stick to those goals and use them as fuel to push me forward into the later stages of recovery, where there is little room for obsessing over food and fueling takes priority. These dates are on my calendar and not moving, and the sense of pride I'll feel when I cross the finish line will be even more sweet knowing what I have overcome in order to rebuild my body's strength.
More than likely, I will always be an athlete in some form. Sports and competition have been a part of my life for the majority of the time I have been alive and on this planet. To suggest that I should walk away from a lifestyle I love and enjoy is to take away a very, very big part of who I am. It would also mean I would need to rebuild my after-work wardrobe, since I spend most of my outside-of-the-office time in gym clothes...and I don't really have the money or desire to change my "look" (kidding).
So I keep running. I keep training. I back off when I need to (now, for example), and work towards approaching what I love in a healthier way. But I will never, ever give it up completely. I'm much too driven for that, and I need an outlet for my competitiveness (or else I'd start competing in the office, with friends, with my dog...no one wants that, trust me).
This weekend's run is a step towards restoring a sense of normalcy to my life, especially as I gear up to return back to work later on this week. Running the 13 miles, regardless of the pace or tears shed, will remind me who I am: someone who sets goals and achieves them, someone who supports her friends and loves to watch them achieve, and someone who refuses to be knocked down.
Monday morning, I'll be going through yet another medical procedure, followed by a nutrition therapy appointment with LA. I've dedicated 100% of the last two weeks to getting better, establishing a foundation for long-term recovery, and rebuilding my health after causing some pretty serious damage. But for two hours, I'm just going to enjoy the run and get in touch with the strong, driven, fun-loving girl I know is still inside. I need to get back in touch with her to find the strength to fix what has been broken, forgive myself, and move on to the life (and races!) that lie ahead.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Day 8 Intensive: Ups, Downs, and the Dog's ED
Today was truly a day of ups and downs, a lovely array of emotions that just about made me crazy. The ups were products of a lunch with the crazy work friends I absolutely adore, teaching a cycling class filled with my regulars and running friends, and letting out some frustration in LA's office. Finding out more so-so medical news brought about the downs, as well as a few sudden "I'm done eating this stupid meal plan" moments.
Dr. K greeted me this morning with a more detailed version of my scope results from GI Guy. I'm not entirely sure why GI Guy did not go into the level of detail Dr. K was able to, however, I will chalk that up to him being a boy (similar to Dr. Joe's guy moments, I suppose). Come to think of it, I was pretty f-ed up after the procedure, and was in and out of sleep mode. I probably wouldn't have wanted to have an in-depth conversation with me either. Regardless, after the details emerged, it was evident to me that the situation is not as rosy as I was led to believe the other day. Dr. K delivered the following news:
The fact that I can return to running was such good news I almost forgot about the other stuff. Until I heard Dr. Joe's voice in my head: "Don't you ever forget!" and decided I should keep it in my head a little while longer.
Thankfully, I was able to push Dr. K's mixed news out of my head when I left the office, as I was meeting my coworker pals for lunch. I feel honored that they have missed having me around the office, and I was looking forward to catching up with them about office happenings and student stories. College students are like walking sitcoms; there is literally never a dull moment when working in higher education.
My coworkers haven't really seen me eat well in a very long time, so I'm sure the fact that I downed my entire salad at Rockne's came as a bit of a surprise to them. I'm sure they were pleased, and hoping I'll be making runs to the student center for homemade chips and peanut butter brownies again in the very near future. I hope so too. I kind of miss those brownies, to be honest. But not yet...
After lunch was a trip to LA's office. I came unraveled a bit there, perhaps from the news I had received this morning. LA, always on the same wavelength as me for some reason I cannot quite figure out, hit the nail on the head when she said "I sense that you are caught between denial ("don't listen to them, it's not that bad") and panic ("oh shit, this is really serious"). She's exactly right. Each time I get news about my medical condition, I flip-flop between pushing it back to the deepest, most unaccessible corner of my brain and/or letting it bring me to tears.
It's hard to forget that the pain and damage has been, for the most part, self-induced. It's when I allow myself to think about that fact that the waterworks are turned on and the weight of extreme guilt sets in. I suppose it is in those moments that the reality is pushed back. It's a self-preservation thing, really.
Anyhow, LA spent double the usual time with me, as always. She even researched some of the things Dr. K and GI Guy told me so we can better understand my conditions and how to handle them from here on out. I texted Mama K after meeting with LA and said "I'm not sure why people like you and LA have latched on to me and go above and beyond to help me, but I am very, very appreciative."
She responded: "We all believe in you!". Dr. Joe told me once that one of my skills is creating pseudo-family around me. I'm glad I have people in my life who allow me to do just that.
Another slight "down" for today: I've been making a lot of progress with eating over the last few weeks, but for some reason have hit a bit of wall. It's not that I'm slipping back or even considering going back to certain behaviors (especially given the recent medical developments), but I'm starting to pull back just enough to stop the progress moving forward. I'm not sure why. Yesterday's lunch was smaller than usual and a bit restrictive, and I had to just revert back to the robotic chicken-rice-broccoli meal tonight so I wouldn't overthink dinner. LA says this is normal, that my progress will sometimes be significant, and at other times, slip back a little. I think the new anxiety over food is stemming from a lack of physical activity this week due to the scope procedure and not feeling well (thank you, gallbladder pain, or whatever). While I'm making big strides, I am still a calories-in/ calories-out kind of girl (the need to purge in some way still lingers!) and absence from the gym this week isn't exactly driving me headfirst into large plates of food.
In other news, our 15-pound Jack Russell terrier mix has developed an eating disorder, so I'm being forced to take the blame for this recent development. The once-gluttonous little pig has started to restrict. He is now refusing to eat bananas (once an all-time favorite), spitting out grilled chicken (another drool-inducing treat), and hiding the bits of apple I toss to him under the sofa. In addition, he will not touch the food in his dish unless one of us stands over him and repeatedly says "good boy!" as he chomps away (this is rather odd, though, as most with eating disorders do not want to be watched while eating...I'm not sure what game he is playing). I blame The Mr. for talking about the dog's weight in front of him, thus giving him a complex. The Mr. blames me, saying the dog is constantly witnessing his mommy obsess over food. Regardless of who is to blame, the dog needs to get over his ED fast. There is only room for one of us in this house, and I'm working much harder than he is to overcome my issues.
So there you have it...kind of a downer of a post (with the exception of the dog's ED issues), I know it. But, hey, it's real and that's what's going on. Tomorrow is an appointment/therapy/treatment-free day. I'll actually kind of miss Dr. Joe, LA, Dr. K...even GI Guy (why not, he needs love too).
What an odd and twisted life I lead at the moment!
Dr. K greeted me this morning with a more detailed version of my scope results from GI Guy. I'm not entirely sure why GI Guy did not go into the level of detail Dr. K was able to, however, I will chalk that up to him being a boy (similar to Dr. Joe's guy moments, I suppose). Come to think of it, I was pretty f-ed up after the procedure, and was in and out of sleep mode. I probably wouldn't have wanted to have an in-depth conversation with me either. Regardless, after the details emerged, it was evident to me that the situation is not as rosy as I was led to believe the other day. Dr. K delivered the following news:
- The scope showed evidence of bleeding in the lining of my stomach.
- My esophagus, though not torn, was inflammed.
- Presence of ulcers- confirmed.
- The pain in my back is probably stemming from the gallbladder (thrown off by imbalances in enzymes and perhaps other horrible side effects from repeated vomiting), so she asked GI Guy to order an ultrasound to take a closer look. If the pain is in fact stemming from the gallbladder, this completely useless organ will be removed from my body. Bye-by gallbladder, f%&k you for causing me such pain.
The fact that I can return to running was such good news I almost forgot about the other stuff. Until I heard Dr. Joe's voice in my head: "Don't you ever forget!" and decided I should keep it in my head a little while longer.
Thankfully, I was able to push Dr. K's mixed news out of my head when I left the office, as I was meeting my coworker pals for lunch. I feel honored that they have missed having me around the office, and I was looking forward to catching up with them about office happenings and student stories. College students are like walking sitcoms; there is literally never a dull moment when working in higher education.
My coworkers haven't really seen me eat well in a very long time, so I'm sure the fact that I downed my entire salad at Rockne's came as a bit of a surprise to them. I'm sure they were pleased, and hoping I'll be making runs to the student center for homemade chips and peanut butter brownies again in the very near future. I hope so too. I kind of miss those brownies, to be honest. But not yet...
After lunch was a trip to LA's office. I came unraveled a bit there, perhaps from the news I had received this morning. LA, always on the same wavelength as me for some reason I cannot quite figure out, hit the nail on the head when she said "I sense that you are caught between denial ("don't listen to them, it's not that bad") and panic ("oh shit, this is really serious"). She's exactly right. Each time I get news about my medical condition, I flip-flop between pushing it back to the deepest, most unaccessible corner of my brain and/or letting it bring me to tears.
It's hard to forget that the pain and damage has been, for the most part, self-induced. It's when I allow myself to think about that fact that the waterworks are turned on and the weight of extreme guilt sets in. I suppose it is in those moments that the reality is pushed back. It's a self-preservation thing, really.
Anyhow, LA spent double the usual time with me, as always. She even researched some of the things Dr. K and GI Guy told me so we can better understand my conditions and how to handle them from here on out. I texted Mama K after meeting with LA and said "I'm not sure why people like you and LA have latched on to me and go above and beyond to help me, but I am very, very appreciative."
She responded: "We all believe in you!". Dr. Joe told me once that one of my skills is creating pseudo-family around me. I'm glad I have people in my life who allow me to do just that.
Another slight "down" for today: I've been making a lot of progress with eating over the last few weeks, but for some reason have hit a bit of wall. It's not that I'm slipping back or even considering going back to certain behaviors (especially given the recent medical developments), but I'm starting to pull back just enough to stop the progress moving forward. I'm not sure why. Yesterday's lunch was smaller than usual and a bit restrictive, and I had to just revert back to the robotic chicken-rice-broccoli meal tonight so I wouldn't overthink dinner. LA says this is normal, that my progress will sometimes be significant, and at other times, slip back a little. I think the new anxiety over food is stemming from a lack of physical activity this week due to the scope procedure and not feeling well (thank you, gallbladder pain, or whatever). While I'm making big strides, I am still a calories-in/ calories-out kind of girl (the need to purge in some way still lingers!) and absence from the gym this week isn't exactly driving me headfirst into large plates of food.
In other news, our 15-pound Jack Russell terrier mix has developed an eating disorder, so I'm being forced to take the blame for this recent development. The once-gluttonous little pig has started to restrict. He is now refusing to eat bananas (once an all-time favorite), spitting out grilled chicken (another drool-inducing treat), and hiding the bits of apple I toss to him under the sofa. In addition, he will not touch the food in his dish unless one of us stands over him and repeatedly says "good boy!" as he chomps away (this is rather odd, though, as most with eating disorders do not want to be watched while eating...I'm not sure what game he is playing). I blame The Mr. for talking about the dog's weight in front of him, thus giving him a complex. The Mr. blames me, saying the dog is constantly witnessing his mommy obsess over food. Regardless of who is to blame, the dog needs to get over his ED fast. There is only room for one of us in this house, and I'm working much harder than he is to overcome my issues.
So there you have it...kind of a downer of a post (with the exception of the dog's ED issues), I know it. But, hey, it's real and that's what's going on. Tomorrow is an appointment/therapy/treatment-free day. I'll actually kind of miss Dr. Joe, LA, Dr. K...even GI Guy (why not, he needs love too).
What an odd and twisted life I lead at the moment!
Taking Halloween Just a Little Too Far
While out with The Mr. the other day, we stopped at a Halloween store to pick up a few last minute details for his "Google Programmer Nerd" costume (hey, we're not 30 yet...we'll grow up then).
Typically, I am not easily offended and have a pretty liberal (if not sick) sense of humor. In the past, I may have even laughed about this, but given the extreme emotional dispair, physical side effects, and hopelessness I have experienced firsthand thanks to the onset of an eating disorder, I was taken aback when I saw this Halloween costume on the rack:
Anna Rexia. For $14.99, any attention-seeking college girl can dress up as a horrible disorder that destroys the mental and physical well-being of millions of girls year after year. The Mr. quickly pulled me away from the display, sensing one hell of a rant coming on from his quick-tempered, redheaded, outspoken Taurus of a wife.
Even though it has been several days since I walked away from that display in digust, I keep thinking about this costume. Many tasteless and offensive Halloween costumes exist out there, yet they still provoke laughter in me and I have always had the "it's all in good fun" attitude. Anna Rexia hits a certain nerve with me, and I know it is because of my close proximity to a complicated issue that has been reduced down to such simplistic parody.
The costume represents the inaccurate yet widespread belief that eating disorders are nothing more than selfish, attention-seeking, over-indulgent obsessions with weight and size. A sexy, skeletal girl with a measuring tape...it's the picture many imagine when they hear the term "anorexia". But what cannot be portrayed is what lies underneath: the self-loathing, the punishment, the guilt, the blame, the deep depression, the perfectionist tendencies...THAT is the real anorexia. It's the anorexia I've come to know as I've fallen victim to it.
Listen in on any therapy session (not that we would ever allow such a thing) or meeting between an ED client and her dietitian and it will become immediately evident that there is much more to this disorder than what meets the eye. Food and weight is not the obsession, rather it is a means to self-destruct, to inflict pain, to disappear emotionally and physically. For the perfectionist, control over weight and food is a means by which self-worth and achievement is measured.
What are your thoughts on the Anna Rexia costume? All in good fun, or pushing the limits?
I'll gracefully step off my soapbox now :)
Typically, I am not easily offended and have a pretty liberal (if not sick) sense of humor. In the past, I may have even laughed about this, but given the extreme emotional dispair, physical side effects, and hopelessness I have experienced firsthand thanks to the onset of an eating disorder, I was taken aback when I saw this Halloween costume on the rack:
 |
| "Anna Rexia" Halloween Costume |
Anna Rexia. For $14.99, any attention-seeking college girl can dress up as a horrible disorder that destroys the mental and physical well-being of millions of girls year after year. The Mr. quickly pulled me away from the display, sensing one hell of a rant coming on from his quick-tempered, redheaded, outspoken Taurus of a wife.
Even though it has been several days since I walked away from that display in digust, I keep thinking about this costume. Many tasteless and offensive Halloween costumes exist out there, yet they still provoke laughter in me and I have always had the "it's all in good fun" attitude. Anna Rexia hits a certain nerve with me, and I know it is because of my close proximity to a complicated issue that has been reduced down to such simplistic parody.
The costume represents the inaccurate yet widespread belief that eating disorders are nothing more than selfish, attention-seeking, over-indulgent obsessions with weight and size. A sexy, skeletal girl with a measuring tape...it's the picture many imagine when they hear the term "anorexia". But what cannot be portrayed is what lies underneath: the self-loathing, the punishment, the guilt, the blame, the deep depression, the perfectionist tendencies...THAT is the real anorexia. It's the anorexia I've come to know as I've fallen victim to it.
Listen in on any therapy session (not that we would ever allow such a thing) or meeting between an ED client and her dietitian and it will become immediately evident that there is much more to this disorder than what meets the eye. Food and weight is not the obsession, rather it is a means to self-destruct, to inflict pain, to disappear emotionally and physically. For the perfectionist, control over weight and food is a means by which self-worth and achievement is measured.
What are your thoughts on the Anna Rexia costume? All in good fun, or pushing the limits?
I'll gracefully step off my soapbox now :)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Day 7 Intensive: The Gray Area of Recovery
(You may be wondering what happened to Day 6 Intensive...that was yesterday. While I met with LA, I was then put under for the endoscopy and don't remember much after that; hence, the gaping hole in my blog).
So I pick up at Day 7. Today was a casual treatment day compared to the last week or so, as I was not double-teamed by doctors or running from office to office. I slept in (much needed considering I was up until 5:00 AM with the pain of a lifetime), took my car in for an oil change to make the message on the dashboard go away (why else would I get an oil change?), made a pit stop at Target (yes, there is a Starbucks in Target...stopped there too), and found myself on Dr. Joe's sofa around 3:00 PM.
At Dr. Joe's, the topic of the hour was the upcoming return to work. Two weeks ago, when my supervisor offered me two weeks leave, I balked. Two weeks away from the office had seemed like eternity, given my full-throttle approach to career and, well, life in general. The decision to step away, focus on myself, and get serious about recovering my body and mind was not an easy one to make. I had initially internalized a leave from work as yet another failure in this battle, a sign that I couldn't tackle this while keeping all the other balls in the air as well as I thought I could.
Now, with the two weeks coming to an end, the thought of returning to work induces a mixture of relief and panic. I keep trying to put my finger on what is causing the anxiety about returning to my "real life", and Dr. Joe helped me to poinpoint it today. I mentioned it in my Group Therapy Experiment post a few days ago: I seem to have settled into the Gray Area of Recovery, a fragile state of safety.
I've arrived at the Gray Area thanks to the two weeks off. It's the in between stage; the point at which I am no longer critically sick, but not really fully recovered either. It's a delicate place to be. It's the stage where those around me begin to see signs of progress on the outside in the form of regular eating, maybe adding a few pounds (god, I hope not too many!), balanced mood, a few more smiles and the return of laughter. But inside, things are (and will continue to be) a bit of a mess, and there is a lot of work that lies ahead.
In the last two weeks, I have built a very comfortable support system around me and could count on very regular (daily, in some cases) contact with LA and Dr. Joe, who together serve as the unconditional foundation that holds me together. LA and I even joked today that we have probably fallen into some kind of client-nutritionist interdependence, as not meeting today seemed a little strange to both of us. While on leave, it has been a relief to know that I only need to get through mere hours on my own, as opposed to going a week in between appointments. The upcoming return to weekly meetings leaves me feeling nervously independent again. While I know they are only a phone call or email away, I also know that I still struggle to reach out when I really need it for fear of winning the #1 Neediest Client of All Time award (I'm sure I'm on the short list of finalists at this point).
Also anxiety-producing is the (perhaps unfounded) belief that I will be expected to hit the ground running when I return from leave...and in all areas of my life. I, in many ways, feel as though we have just begun the recovery process; however, I worry that even the most supportive people in my life will assume the time off has restored me back to normal. Sure, I'm eating full meals again. But it still takes a lot of mental strength to do so. And will I be ready to go out and nonchalantly binge on junk food with my friends any time soon? I may never be, in all honesty. Have I fully "cheered up" and been broken free from the deep, self-hating depression that haunted me early on in recovery? No. I've grown used to having the time to rest my body, or to stay up late to fight off pain knowing I can sleep it off in the morning. There is still lot of garbage that needs to be cleaned up after this storm, and two weeks is just not enough time to do it all. I was broken...very broken. It'll take time to glue me back together. We've only just begun.
I fear my first big task back at work will break the delicate confidence that has been restored over the last two weeks. I fear the first sign of weight gain will throw me back into the cycle I've just escaped, and that I'll allow my pride to stand in the way of asking for help. I fear that I will challenge myself with foods and not be able to handle it. Most of all, I fear I will be left alone in this fight once I have convinced everyone around me I am "better." I fear relapses, and having to rebuild my life again and again and again.
I fear breaking again.
Dr. Joe said today that he is confident I will always land on my feet, that I am just that kind of person who will always find my way out of a bad situation. I hope he knows me well enough by now to be right.
I did speak to my boss today and the plan, as of now, is to return back to work next Wednesday. This means extending the leave by two additional days, but I think it's what I need to wrap up the work I've been doing with my team and transition slowly back into the rest of my life. I want to make sure I am really ready to go back and face stress again, and that the slightest breeze will not blow away the seeds we've just planted (that was a Dr. Joe shout-out right there...he uses the "seed" reference quite often).
Even though Dr. Joe was hard on me earlier in the week, it's not a persona he is able to maintain given that it is so far from his natural demeanor. Today, the nurturing, supportive therapist I have come to know and trust was back, and the quote he left me with today was "Hey, M. We're not going to let you go back scared and unprepared."
So how to handle the Gray Area? I'm still not entirely sure. At some point, life has to go on, whether I am ready for it or not. Let's face it: the world has continued to move along without me over the last two weeks as I exited to the left. In about a week, it will be time to hop back on. It will never really be the same; I'm not the same person I was when I began this process and I will continue to change as I grow stronger and more confident in myself.
The Gray Area, though I do not yet know how to handle it, is a better place to be than at the very beginning (which would probably be known as the Black Area?). I do not even really remember much about the Black Area, but LA reminded me recently. Starving, malnourished, and weak, I was difficult to converse with, teared up at the sight of food, and severely depressed. If being in the Gray Area means I have moved beyond those dark days, I'll take it.
So I pick up at Day 7. Today was a casual treatment day compared to the last week or so, as I was not double-teamed by doctors or running from office to office. I slept in (much needed considering I was up until 5:00 AM with the pain of a lifetime), took my car in for an oil change to make the message on the dashboard go away (why else would I get an oil change?), made a pit stop at Target (yes, there is a Starbucks in Target...stopped there too), and found myself on Dr. Joe's sofa around 3:00 PM.
At Dr. Joe's, the topic of the hour was the upcoming return to work. Two weeks ago, when my supervisor offered me two weeks leave, I balked. Two weeks away from the office had seemed like eternity, given my full-throttle approach to career and, well, life in general. The decision to step away, focus on myself, and get serious about recovering my body and mind was not an easy one to make. I had initially internalized a leave from work as yet another failure in this battle, a sign that I couldn't tackle this while keeping all the other balls in the air as well as I thought I could.
Now, with the two weeks coming to an end, the thought of returning to work induces a mixture of relief and panic. I keep trying to put my finger on what is causing the anxiety about returning to my "real life", and Dr. Joe helped me to poinpoint it today. I mentioned it in my Group Therapy Experiment post a few days ago: I seem to have settled into the Gray Area of Recovery, a fragile state of safety.
I've arrived at the Gray Area thanks to the two weeks off. It's the in between stage; the point at which I am no longer critically sick, but not really fully recovered either. It's a delicate place to be. It's the stage where those around me begin to see signs of progress on the outside in the form of regular eating, maybe adding a few pounds (god, I hope not too many!), balanced mood, a few more smiles and the return of laughter. But inside, things are (and will continue to be) a bit of a mess, and there is a lot of work that lies ahead.
In the last two weeks, I have built a very comfortable support system around me and could count on very regular (daily, in some cases) contact with LA and Dr. Joe, who together serve as the unconditional foundation that holds me together. LA and I even joked today that we have probably fallen into some kind of client-nutritionist interdependence, as not meeting today seemed a little strange to both of us. While on leave, it has been a relief to know that I only need to get through mere hours on my own, as opposed to going a week in between appointments. The upcoming return to weekly meetings leaves me feeling nervously independent again. While I know they are only a phone call or email away, I also know that I still struggle to reach out when I really need it for fear of winning the #1 Neediest Client of All Time award (I'm sure I'm on the short list of finalists at this point).
Also anxiety-producing is the (perhaps unfounded) belief that I will be expected to hit the ground running when I return from leave...and in all areas of my life. I, in many ways, feel as though we have just begun the recovery process; however, I worry that even the most supportive people in my life will assume the time off has restored me back to normal. Sure, I'm eating full meals again. But it still takes a lot of mental strength to do so. And will I be ready to go out and nonchalantly binge on junk food with my friends any time soon? I may never be, in all honesty. Have I fully "cheered up" and been broken free from the deep, self-hating depression that haunted me early on in recovery? No. I've grown used to having the time to rest my body, or to stay up late to fight off pain knowing I can sleep it off in the morning. There is still lot of garbage that needs to be cleaned up after this storm, and two weeks is just not enough time to do it all. I was broken...very broken. It'll take time to glue me back together. We've only just begun.
I fear my first big task back at work will break the delicate confidence that has been restored over the last two weeks. I fear the first sign of weight gain will throw me back into the cycle I've just escaped, and that I'll allow my pride to stand in the way of asking for help. I fear that I will challenge myself with foods and not be able to handle it. Most of all, I fear I will be left alone in this fight once I have convinced everyone around me I am "better." I fear relapses, and having to rebuild my life again and again and again.
I fear breaking again.
Dr. Joe said today that he is confident I will always land on my feet, that I am just that kind of person who will always find my way out of a bad situation. I hope he knows me well enough by now to be right.
I did speak to my boss today and the plan, as of now, is to return back to work next Wednesday. This means extending the leave by two additional days, but I think it's what I need to wrap up the work I've been doing with my team and transition slowly back into the rest of my life. I want to make sure I am really ready to go back and face stress again, and that the slightest breeze will not blow away the seeds we've just planted (that was a Dr. Joe shout-out right there...he uses the "seed" reference quite often).
Even though Dr. Joe was hard on me earlier in the week, it's not a persona he is able to maintain given that it is so far from his natural demeanor. Today, the nurturing, supportive therapist I have come to know and trust was back, and the quote he left me with today was "Hey, M. We're not going to let you go back scared and unprepared."
So how to handle the Gray Area? I'm still not entirely sure. At some point, life has to go on, whether I am ready for it or not. Let's face it: the world has continued to move along without me over the last two weeks as I exited to the left. In about a week, it will be time to hop back on. It will never really be the same; I'm not the same person I was when I began this process and I will continue to change as I grow stronger and more confident in myself.
The Gray Area, though I do not yet know how to handle it, is a better place to be than at the very beginning (which would probably be known as the Black Area?). I do not even really remember much about the Black Area, but LA reminded me recently. Starving, malnourished, and weak, I was difficult to converse with, teared up at the sight of food, and severely depressed. If being in the Gray Area means I have moved beyond those dark days, I'll take it.
Blogging Through the Pain
Well, it's been exactly a week since the last episode of intense pain in my back, which resulted in the late-night emergency room adventure. Dr. Joe must have sensed I am starting to feel better and decided he wanted to remind me of the pain one last time. It's 2:42 AM (nevermind the blog time stamp I still have yet to correct), and I imagine he is sitting in his office, stabbing the voo-doo doll in the back and saying out loud "she needs to feel this pain one more time!"
Meanwhile, I sit here on the first floor of my house with the laptop, blogging through the intense pain that has become all too familiar. This is Episode #5, and I'm not sure how many more of these moments I have in me at this point, as they are unbelievably painful, exhausting, and draining. I've described it to all of my doctors and to LA as an excrutiating, intense pain likened to a knife stabbing me in the back. It all starts with a burning sensation in my esophagus, serving as a forewarning signal to hunker down and prepare for the worst because the stabbing sensation is about to set in and I will need to fight through it hard for hours.
When the pain hits, I will do just about anything to make it go away. Since no one determined what this pain is, there is no relief protocol, no prescribed drugs to make it go away. During the worst moments of it (which were about an hour ago), tonight's please-make-it-stop routine went a little something like this:
1. I wake up screaming in pain. The dog jumps out of bed, panicked, and stares at me with a look that is half concerned, half annoyed. The Mr. casually rolls over and sleepily says "huh?" (yeah, it takes him a minute to focus when this happens).
2. I hunch over in bed, curling up in a ball to make it stop. That doesn't work. I lay out straight. Still there. I get up and walk around the room. The pain is crippling. I wonder why I even bother to try...after four episodes of this, I should know by now that nothing makes it go away; I just have to fight through it.
3. I demand that The Mr. grab me something- anything- remotely close to a pain reliever. He brings me two ibuprofen, one of which I drop in the sheets. I scream again. He turns on the light and searches for it as I writhe around in pain, cursing like a sailor.
4. Even after taking the ibuprofen, I consider calling my neighbor (and very close friend of mine) to see if she has any vicodin. I should state that my neighbor is not a prescription drug addict or the neighborhood drug dealer, and that I have no idea why the thought that she might have some popped into my head. But in the desperation of the moment, it seemed like an excellent plan. I decide, however, to allow her her beauty rest and put down the phone.
5. Chocolate milk! Milk neutralizes acid, right?! I must go drink a glass of chocolate milk...that has got to be the surefire remedy I have been missing all along...I head downstairs to the refrigerator.
6. Xanax! We have some from when The Mr. experienced anxiety during graduate school. I shake him violently to wake him up and demand to know where the Xanax is. Maybe if I take down some kind of vicodin-Xanax cocktail I will just pass out and wake up in the morning in a pain-free oblivion. He calls me crazy and offers me the heating pad instead.
(I should mention at this point that I hate drugs of any kind and rarely even take ibuprofen...so you can see how much pain I'm in if I'm demanding vicodin and Xanax, and how insane this pain makes me to think that combining them might be the answer.)
7. The heating pad is now on the full-throttle setting and placed underneath my back. I'm guzzling water from a giant Nalgene bottle.
8. I suddenly stop guzzling water from a Nalgene bottle, remembering from Episodes #2 and #3 that drinking water during this pain led me to vomit unintentionally. I panic. I don't want to vomit. This irony of this thought distracts me for a moment, as I am confused. Didn't I used to induce vomiting on a regular basis on my own free will? What on earth was I thinking? Weird. Back to the pain...
9. I want Hot Doctor from last week's ER visit to stop by and handle this for me. Then I remember that I just woke up, it's 2:30 AM, I am without makeup, wearing my Vanderbilt track and field t-shirt and capri pajama bottoms, and that I only used dry shampoo on my hair earlier today. And I'm not attractive when I'm a raging bitch in excrutiating pain. And, oh yeah, I'm married.
10. I hear my friend L's voice in mind head: "Just go blog". One of the few people I had confided in early on about my eating disorder treatment, I went to her once when eating lunch at work brought me to tears. She told me to go write while I ate to distract myself, and it had worked. I grab my laptop and head down to the first floor of our house to write through the pain.
So far, it is working. So here I am. It is now 3:21 AM, and I am on the sofa with the heating pad. I just wrote all of the above and didn't really think about the pain; I just let it subside gradually. I did not wake up my neighbor demanding drugs she probably does not have. I did not pop a Xanax in a moment of pain-induced loss of common sense. I allowed The Mr. and the dog to go back to sleep. Hot Doctor is still working at the ER where he belongs, instead of on his way to my house (bummer on that, though).
It could be that I worked through the pain like the tough chick I am. Or it could also be that Dr. Joe just simply fell asleep and finally let the voo-doo doll fall to the floor. Who knows. Either way, the worst of tonight's episode is over- hopefully.
I was going to post about the results of the scope later today, but since I'm up and still need distraction from the lingering discomfort, I'll just include that in this post too.
Honestly, I don't remember a thing from the procedure. The biggest mistake GI Guy made with me was showing me the "educational" (read: "scare-the-hell-out-of-the-innocent-patient") video last week, as my previous ignorance of endoscopies was probably a good thing. The video had made me very, very scared and nervous about what I was about to endure, when in reality, they could have done just about anything to me and I wouldn't have known the difference. I was out cold.
While I'm still waiting on biopsy results (that will take about a week), I did get some immediate feedback from the scope. GI Guy did not see signs of any significant damage to the esophagus (he said there probably was at one point given the burning I was feeling, but it may have healed over the last week). This is, obviously, good news. However, the scope revealed I do have several ulcers. The ulcers combined with the severe acid reflux (not uncommon among people who have engaged in self-induced vomiting over a period of time) are probably combining to create the extreme pain and discomfort I sometimes feel.
This still doesn't explain the back pain, but I'll chat with Dr. K about that on Thursday. She will have my scope results and will probably go over them with me again anyhow since GI Guy did so while I was coming out of a drug-induced state (why do they bother to talk to you at that moment anyhow?).
I was not permitted to eat all day in preparation for the scope, so when it was over, I was famished. LA saw me this morning and got a kick out of the fact that I desperately wanted to eat (she rarely hears the words "I'm starving!" come out of my mouth). I was, of course, craving my stand-by peanut-butter-banana smoothie, so I had The Mr. head to Robeks to get me one and downed it in about thirty seconds. We came home and I went straight to bed, where I was for the majority of the evening to let the anesthesia wear off.
Given the pain I was in about an hour ago, I am once again glad I started this blog as an outlet for the pain (physical and emotional) I've endured while fighting this battle. Writing tonight helped me forget about the imaginary knife stabbing me in the back, providing a much needed distraction. And with that, I'm going to go have another glass of acid-neutralizing chocolate milk (am I making that up?) and return to bed, hoping the worst of this Episode #5 is behind me.
Night everyone...although I'm probably the only one not in bed at the moment!
Meanwhile, I sit here on the first floor of my house with the laptop, blogging through the intense pain that has become all too familiar. This is Episode #5, and I'm not sure how many more of these moments I have in me at this point, as they are unbelievably painful, exhausting, and draining. I've described it to all of my doctors and to LA as an excrutiating, intense pain likened to a knife stabbing me in the back. It all starts with a burning sensation in my esophagus, serving as a forewarning signal to hunker down and prepare for the worst because the stabbing sensation is about to set in and I will need to fight through it hard for hours.
When the pain hits, I will do just about anything to make it go away. Since no one determined what this pain is, there is no relief protocol, no prescribed drugs to make it go away. During the worst moments of it (which were about an hour ago), tonight's please-make-it-stop routine went a little something like this:
1. I wake up screaming in pain. The dog jumps out of bed, panicked, and stares at me with a look that is half concerned, half annoyed. The Mr. casually rolls over and sleepily says "huh?" (yeah, it takes him a minute to focus when this happens).
2. I hunch over in bed, curling up in a ball to make it stop. That doesn't work. I lay out straight. Still there. I get up and walk around the room. The pain is crippling. I wonder why I even bother to try...after four episodes of this, I should know by now that nothing makes it go away; I just have to fight through it.
3. I demand that The Mr. grab me something- anything- remotely close to a pain reliever. He brings me two ibuprofen, one of which I drop in the sheets. I scream again. He turns on the light and searches for it as I writhe around in pain, cursing like a sailor.
4. Even after taking the ibuprofen, I consider calling my neighbor (and very close friend of mine) to see if she has any vicodin. I should state that my neighbor is not a prescription drug addict or the neighborhood drug dealer, and that I have no idea why the thought that she might have some popped into my head. But in the desperation of the moment, it seemed like an excellent plan. I decide, however, to allow her her beauty rest and put down the phone.
5. Chocolate milk! Milk neutralizes acid, right?! I must go drink a glass of chocolate milk...that has got to be the surefire remedy I have been missing all along...I head downstairs to the refrigerator.
6. Xanax! We have some from when The Mr. experienced anxiety during graduate school. I shake him violently to wake him up and demand to know where the Xanax is. Maybe if I take down some kind of vicodin-Xanax cocktail I will just pass out and wake up in the morning in a pain-free oblivion. He calls me crazy and offers me the heating pad instead.
(I should mention at this point that I hate drugs of any kind and rarely even take ibuprofen...so you can see how much pain I'm in if I'm demanding vicodin and Xanax, and how insane this pain makes me to think that combining them might be the answer.)
7. The heating pad is now on the full-throttle setting and placed underneath my back. I'm guzzling water from a giant Nalgene bottle.
8. I suddenly stop guzzling water from a Nalgene bottle, remembering from Episodes #2 and #3 that drinking water during this pain led me to vomit unintentionally. I panic. I don't want to vomit. This irony of this thought distracts me for a moment, as I am confused. Didn't I used to induce vomiting on a regular basis on my own free will? What on earth was I thinking? Weird. Back to the pain...
9. I want Hot Doctor from last week's ER visit to stop by and handle this for me. Then I remember that I just woke up, it's 2:30 AM, I am without makeup, wearing my Vanderbilt track and field t-shirt and capri pajama bottoms, and that I only used dry shampoo on my hair earlier today. And I'm not attractive when I'm a raging bitch in excrutiating pain. And, oh yeah, I'm married.
10. I hear my friend L's voice in mind head: "Just go blog". One of the few people I had confided in early on about my eating disorder treatment, I went to her once when eating lunch at work brought me to tears. She told me to go write while I ate to distract myself, and it had worked. I grab my laptop and head down to the first floor of our house to write through the pain.
So far, it is working. So here I am. It is now 3:21 AM, and I am on the sofa with the heating pad. I just wrote all of the above and didn't really think about the pain; I just let it subside gradually. I did not wake up my neighbor demanding drugs she probably does not have. I did not pop a Xanax in a moment of pain-induced loss of common sense. I allowed The Mr. and the dog to go back to sleep. Hot Doctor is still working at the ER where he belongs, instead of on his way to my house (bummer on that, though).
It could be that I worked through the pain like the tough chick I am. Or it could also be that Dr. Joe just simply fell asleep and finally let the voo-doo doll fall to the floor. Who knows. Either way, the worst of tonight's episode is over- hopefully.
I was going to post about the results of the scope later today, but since I'm up and still need distraction from the lingering discomfort, I'll just include that in this post too.
Honestly, I don't remember a thing from the procedure. The biggest mistake GI Guy made with me was showing me the "educational" (read: "scare-the-hell-out-of-the-innocent-patient") video last week, as my previous ignorance of endoscopies was probably a good thing. The video had made me very, very scared and nervous about what I was about to endure, when in reality, they could have done just about anything to me and I wouldn't have known the difference. I was out cold.
While I'm still waiting on biopsy results (that will take about a week), I did get some immediate feedback from the scope. GI Guy did not see signs of any significant damage to the esophagus (he said there probably was at one point given the burning I was feeling, but it may have healed over the last week). This is, obviously, good news. However, the scope revealed I do have several ulcers. The ulcers combined with the severe acid reflux (not uncommon among people who have engaged in self-induced vomiting over a period of time) are probably combining to create the extreme pain and discomfort I sometimes feel.
This still doesn't explain the back pain, but I'll chat with Dr. K about that on Thursday. She will have my scope results and will probably go over them with me again anyhow since GI Guy did so while I was coming out of a drug-induced state (why do they bother to talk to you at that moment anyhow?).
I was not permitted to eat all day in preparation for the scope, so when it was over, I was famished. LA saw me this morning and got a kick out of the fact that I desperately wanted to eat (she rarely hears the words "I'm starving!" come out of my mouth). I was, of course, craving my stand-by peanut-butter-banana smoothie, so I had The Mr. head to Robeks to get me one and downed it in about thirty seconds. We came home and I went straight to bed, where I was for the majority of the evening to let the anesthesia wear off.
Given the pain I was in about an hour ago, I am once again glad I started this blog as an outlet for the pain (physical and emotional) I've endured while fighting this battle. Writing tonight helped me forget about the imaginary knife stabbing me in the back, providing a much needed distraction. And with that, I'm going to go have another glass of acid-neutralizing chocolate milk (am I making that up?) and return to bed, hoping the worst of this Episode #5 is behind me.
Night everyone...although I'm probably the only one not in bed at the moment!
Monday, October 25, 2010
Day 5 Intensive: Group Therapy Experiment
(Long post this evening...my apologies in advance! Today was packed with all kinds of recovery goodness.)
During a recent moment of temporary insanity, I happened to mention to Dr. Joe that I wanted to search for an eating disorder support group in my area. Well, as you can imagine, both Dr. Joe and LA latched on to this idea like dogs on bones, so I've been receiving some subtle "encouragement" to attend one this evening at a local eating disorder outpatient clinic.
I do not consider myself a "group therapy" kind of person (if there even is such a thing). I have always had it in my mind, perhaps unfounded, that my situation is somehow unique. Well, let's face it: it is not. There are millions of people out there struggling with various eating disorders, and while our individual situations differ, there are some underlying issues most of us struggle with universally. We might as well bond over them while lounging on some fluffy pillows.
Starbucks coffee has suddenly become my security blanket this past week (I don't drink it regularly, yet keep randomly finding myself in their drive-thru on my way to therapy and nutrition appointments), so I feel the gravitational pull towards the white and green sign on my way to the support group. I wonder for a moment if a latte is illegal contraband in the eating disorder support group world. I decide I don't care and that I will just own my role as the support group Bad Influence right from the start.
On the way to the clinic, I try to "have an open mind" (since Mama K had just texted me that motherly advice several minutes before). I try to really think about why I have self-indentified as a Group Therapy Hater, and here's what I came up with:
1. I am certain I will be the largest one in the room (have YOU ever been in a room full of anorexics and felt skinny? Just sayin'...).
2. I read on the clinic's website that group members are not permitted to talk about specific urges or behaviors while in the group setting. I'm not sure how I will be able to relate to the others if I'm not allowed to speak of the behaviors and patterns that got me to this point in the first place.
3. I'm not convinced that other eating disordered individuals are the best friend choices for me right now. Imagine two recovering anorexics going out to dinner together. The mind reels, does it not? I imagine calling another ED girl and telling her "I am tempted to skip eating all together today" and hearing the not-so-healthy response: "Oooh! Me too!". Supportive, yes. The kind of support I need? Probably not. And the last thing I need is to be supporting someone else through their own struggles when my own recovery is still spotty at best.
Despite the lack of signage at the eating disorder clinic, there is no mistaking that I have arrived at the right place. A skeletal girl several years younger than me is slouching on a sofa, arms crossed and looking severely depressed. Another girl with a head of unruly brown curls is sitting on a large pillow on the floor, wearing a pair of ripped Express jeans that I instantly decide I want. To my surprise, a thirty-something man wearing athletic gear is sitting in an armchair. Two other women greet me with smiles. It is somehow immediately evident to me that they are counselors and not patients, though I can't quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it is indeed their bright smiles; they appear too happy to be battling such a draining disorder.
I take a seat next to Skeleton Girl, gripping my Starbucks cup tightly and praying no one makes me throw it away. Cute Jeans Girl takes a swig out of her own Starbucks cup just as I catch her eye. I smile at her, and she smiles back with instant understanding. Coffee appears to be acceptable in ED support group. I guess they are just happy we are putting anything at all into our bodies.
When the clock hits 6:30, Counselor A starts by asking everyone to share their name and a little about themselves. Cute Jeans Girl is clearly a regular, as the counselors joke around with her and ask her about recent developments in her life. When it comes to me, I say the words I never thought I would say to a group of people, forming my introduction from the cues I picked up from the others: "Hi. I'm M. I'm about three months into recovery from anorexia and working independently with a treatment team. I'm still in the beginning stages of refeeding and just took a two-week leave of absence from my job as a college administrator to do some intensive work with my team".
Cute Jeans Girl smiles at me again and says "You are so lucky you got to take a leave. I had to resign from my job to do six weeks in an inpatient program." I nod, knowingly. But in reality, her statement scares me to death. Could that have been me? Certainly I would have never let myself drop to that point...
In both of my jobs (as a college administrator and fitness instructor), I have been trained to build community. I am used to being in the leadership role within a group such as this; typically I am the one asking the questions, facilitating the conversation, seeing to it that the participants are engaging in conversation. When Counselor B's (who we later find out in an intern) opening question is met with awkward silence from the group, I forget where I am and automatically take my routine position as the first to speak.
When I finish providing my input on the "gray area" of recovery (I will blog about this another time...it's a topic I've been wanting to write about soon), Cute Jeans Girl is nodding, wide-eyed.
"Oh my gosh, I can so relate to that. That is my situation exactly." As she piggy-backs on my response, I decide I like her and that we totally get each other. I make a mental note to befriend Cute Jeans Girl after the meeting is over. Perhaps we can start hanging out at Starbucks together before these ridiculous meetings.
Cute Jeans Girl and I monopolized tonight's support group, sharing stories and relating well to one another in between taking sips from our matching Starbucks cups. Counselors A and B were soaking us up, enthusiastically throwing ideas and support our way. When a moment of silence finally crept up, Guy In Fitness Gear randomly stood up from the armchair and asked "Can I leave now and come back another time? My anxiety is really kicking up here."
I saw a flash of confusion on Counselor B's face, but she quickly recovered. "Certainly," she says. "You are welcome to leave at any time. We hope you return."
He bolts for the door. I suddenly remember why group therapy freaks me out.
Cute Jeans Girl and I stare silently at the floor, probably both wondering if we had set off the crazy guy's anxiety button with our conversational tennis match. Counselor A comes to the rescue by asking Skeleton Girl how she is feeling, pointing out that she has been very quiet this evening. Skeleton Girl says she is depressed, has no motivation, and keeps spiraling into the same cycle of starvation. She feels extreme guilt, and makes mention of the fact that she is a high-achiever in all other areas of her life, aside from tackling this disorder.
I can relate. I tell her about the frustration I used to experience when Dr. Joe and LA would give me such huge pats on the back for achievements that seemed so trivial compared to others in my life. For years I received positive feedback for things like earning a Master's degree, receiving a promotion early in my career, succeeding in athletics, winning prestigious awards. When the positive feedback was suddenly tied to such minute tasks as eating a meal or going a day without purging, I felt my life had been reduced down to such insignificance that it was not worth the effort I was putting into it.
I'm not sure what it was, but something I said resonated with Skeleton Girl. She finally looked up from her lap and gave me a half-hearted smile. So that's what group therapy is all about. Suddenly, I understood.
After an hour and a half of eating disorder talk, I was more than ready to jump off the couch when Counselor A decided to wrap things up. I had already been in to see both Dr. Joe and LA earlier in the day, and I had officially reached my therapy threshold. I tossed my coffee cup in the trash and bolted out the door. As I was pulling out of the parking lot, I realized I had left without exchaging information with Cute Jeans Girl (a potential new friend! I love those!). I pulled back into the parking lot, but she had already left. I instantly regretted not talking to her after the meeting.
Shit. I guess this means I will have to come back and attend another one.
So the Group Therapy Experiment was ok. I will rate it an even-keel five on a scale of one to ten. On the way home, I went over the conversations in my head. I did get some positive reinforcement and ideas from the counselors and other group members, even though Cute Jeans Girl and I hijacked the conversation. While I prefer my individual sessions with Dr. Joe and LA, I decide to file the support group away as a potential tool for the future. I don't think I will ever become a card-carrying devotee, but it may provide a good sofa to sit on when times get really tough or I feel the need to bitch about the latest ED-inspired challenge.
As for my other appointments today, they can best be described as "eh". I was not really in a mood to talk a lot after an ED episode last night, and Dr. Joe had decided to really pull out the big guns and "get serious" with me today. This was followed up with a body image/ body distortion conversation in LA's office, during which I outright denied my body dysmorphia and explained that I still think everyone is lying to me about how skinny I am. Over the entire weekend, I squinted to see what others are seeing, but just couldn't. I guess it really doesn't matter, as I've been told again and again to just trust the team, but I still slip back into this thinking from time to time and have to be pulled back into the boat.
Both appointments were followed up with phone calls, which is never a good sign. About an hour after leaving LA's office I had to call her after a "binge" (again, relative term...) in my kitchen. I had come home from both appointments emotionally drained and slightly hungry, which led me to rip through the refrigerator and cabinets in search of anything my body craved. I had downed a few flaxseed tortilla chips, a string cheese, some hummus, and a small container of caramel Greek yogurt and was instantly filled with enormous guilt.
About an hour after that, Dr. Joe called and we had a follow-up conversation about our earlier appointment. He had told me during the appointment that he can tell I am struggling despite working hard at recovery, and that he thinks I may be in a little bit of denial about the potential severity of the current medical situation. I tearfully told him this made me feel like I am failing despite my efforts. He corrected me by saying (in his calm and soothing voice) that there is a difference between struggling and failing, and that I am in no way failing or letting him down. This was music to my perfectionist ears, and gave me the motivation to keep fighting.
As for tomorrow, it's Scope Day. Procedure will be at 3:00 tomorrow, and I will be out cold for the rest of the day. I'll spare you the incoherent thoughts and stay the hell away from the laptop until the drugs have worn off.
Wish me luck...
During a recent moment of temporary insanity, I happened to mention to Dr. Joe that I wanted to search for an eating disorder support group in my area. Well, as you can imagine, both Dr. Joe and LA latched on to this idea like dogs on bones, so I've been receiving some subtle "encouragement" to attend one this evening at a local eating disorder outpatient clinic.
I do not consider myself a "group therapy" kind of person (if there even is such a thing). I have always had it in my mind, perhaps unfounded, that my situation is somehow unique. Well, let's face it: it is not. There are millions of people out there struggling with various eating disorders, and while our individual situations differ, there are some underlying issues most of us struggle with universally. We might as well bond over them while lounging on some fluffy pillows.
Starbucks coffee has suddenly become my security blanket this past week (I don't drink it regularly, yet keep randomly finding myself in their drive-thru on my way to therapy and nutrition appointments), so I feel the gravitational pull towards the white and green sign on my way to the support group. I wonder for a moment if a latte is illegal contraband in the eating disorder support group world. I decide I don't care and that I will just own my role as the support group Bad Influence right from the start.
On the way to the clinic, I try to "have an open mind" (since Mama K had just texted me that motherly advice several minutes before). I try to really think about why I have self-indentified as a Group Therapy Hater, and here's what I came up with:
1. I am certain I will be the largest one in the room (have YOU ever been in a room full of anorexics and felt skinny? Just sayin'...).
2. I read on the clinic's website that group members are not permitted to talk about specific urges or behaviors while in the group setting. I'm not sure how I will be able to relate to the others if I'm not allowed to speak of the behaviors and patterns that got me to this point in the first place.
3. I'm not convinced that other eating disordered individuals are the best friend choices for me right now. Imagine two recovering anorexics going out to dinner together. The mind reels, does it not? I imagine calling another ED girl and telling her "I am tempted to skip eating all together today" and hearing the not-so-healthy response: "Oooh! Me too!". Supportive, yes. The kind of support I need? Probably not. And the last thing I need is to be supporting someone else through their own struggles when my own recovery is still spotty at best.
Despite the lack of signage at the eating disorder clinic, there is no mistaking that I have arrived at the right place. A skeletal girl several years younger than me is slouching on a sofa, arms crossed and looking severely depressed. Another girl with a head of unruly brown curls is sitting on a large pillow on the floor, wearing a pair of ripped Express jeans that I instantly decide I want. To my surprise, a thirty-something man wearing athletic gear is sitting in an armchair. Two other women greet me with smiles. It is somehow immediately evident to me that they are counselors and not patients, though I can't quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it is indeed their bright smiles; they appear too happy to be battling such a draining disorder.
I take a seat next to Skeleton Girl, gripping my Starbucks cup tightly and praying no one makes me throw it away. Cute Jeans Girl takes a swig out of her own Starbucks cup just as I catch her eye. I smile at her, and she smiles back with instant understanding. Coffee appears to be acceptable in ED support group. I guess they are just happy we are putting anything at all into our bodies.
When the clock hits 6:30, Counselor A starts by asking everyone to share their name and a little about themselves. Cute Jeans Girl is clearly a regular, as the counselors joke around with her and ask her about recent developments in her life. When it comes to me, I say the words I never thought I would say to a group of people, forming my introduction from the cues I picked up from the others: "Hi. I'm M. I'm about three months into recovery from anorexia and working independently with a treatment team. I'm still in the beginning stages of refeeding and just took a two-week leave of absence from my job as a college administrator to do some intensive work with my team".
Cute Jeans Girl smiles at me again and says "You are so lucky you got to take a leave. I had to resign from my job to do six weeks in an inpatient program." I nod, knowingly. But in reality, her statement scares me to death. Could that have been me? Certainly I would have never let myself drop to that point...
In both of my jobs (as a college administrator and fitness instructor), I have been trained to build community. I am used to being in the leadership role within a group such as this; typically I am the one asking the questions, facilitating the conversation, seeing to it that the participants are engaging in conversation. When Counselor B's (who we later find out in an intern) opening question is met with awkward silence from the group, I forget where I am and automatically take my routine position as the first to speak.
When I finish providing my input on the "gray area" of recovery (I will blog about this another time...it's a topic I've been wanting to write about soon), Cute Jeans Girl is nodding, wide-eyed.
"Oh my gosh, I can so relate to that. That is my situation exactly." As she piggy-backs on my response, I decide I like her and that we totally get each other. I make a mental note to befriend Cute Jeans Girl after the meeting is over. Perhaps we can start hanging out at Starbucks together before these ridiculous meetings.
Cute Jeans Girl and I monopolized tonight's support group, sharing stories and relating well to one another in between taking sips from our matching Starbucks cups. Counselors A and B were soaking us up, enthusiastically throwing ideas and support our way. When a moment of silence finally crept up, Guy In Fitness Gear randomly stood up from the armchair and asked "Can I leave now and come back another time? My anxiety is really kicking up here."
I saw a flash of confusion on Counselor B's face, but she quickly recovered. "Certainly," she says. "You are welcome to leave at any time. We hope you return."
He bolts for the door. I suddenly remember why group therapy freaks me out.
Cute Jeans Girl and I stare silently at the floor, probably both wondering if we had set off the crazy guy's anxiety button with our conversational tennis match. Counselor A comes to the rescue by asking Skeleton Girl how she is feeling, pointing out that she has been very quiet this evening. Skeleton Girl says she is depressed, has no motivation, and keeps spiraling into the same cycle of starvation. She feels extreme guilt, and makes mention of the fact that she is a high-achiever in all other areas of her life, aside from tackling this disorder.
I can relate. I tell her about the frustration I used to experience when Dr. Joe and LA would give me such huge pats on the back for achievements that seemed so trivial compared to others in my life. For years I received positive feedback for things like earning a Master's degree, receiving a promotion early in my career, succeeding in athletics, winning prestigious awards. When the positive feedback was suddenly tied to such minute tasks as eating a meal or going a day without purging, I felt my life had been reduced down to such insignificance that it was not worth the effort I was putting into it.
I'm not sure what it was, but something I said resonated with Skeleton Girl. She finally looked up from her lap and gave me a half-hearted smile. So that's what group therapy is all about. Suddenly, I understood.
After an hour and a half of eating disorder talk, I was more than ready to jump off the couch when Counselor A decided to wrap things up. I had already been in to see both Dr. Joe and LA earlier in the day, and I had officially reached my therapy threshold. I tossed my coffee cup in the trash and bolted out the door. As I was pulling out of the parking lot, I realized I had left without exchaging information with Cute Jeans Girl (a potential new friend! I love those!). I pulled back into the parking lot, but she had already left. I instantly regretted not talking to her after the meeting.
Shit. I guess this means I will have to come back and attend another one.
So the Group Therapy Experiment was ok. I will rate it an even-keel five on a scale of one to ten. On the way home, I went over the conversations in my head. I did get some positive reinforcement and ideas from the counselors and other group members, even though Cute Jeans Girl and I hijacked the conversation. While I prefer my individual sessions with Dr. Joe and LA, I decide to file the support group away as a potential tool for the future. I don't think I will ever become a card-carrying devotee, but it may provide a good sofa to sit on when times get really tough or I feel the need to bitch about the latest ED-inspired challenge.
As for my other appointments today, they can best be described as "eh". I was not really in a mood to talk a lot after an ED episode last night, and Dr. Joe had decided to really pull out the big guns and "get serious" with me today. This was followed up with a body image/ body distortion conversation in LA's office, during which I outright denied my body dysmorphia and explained that I still think everyone is lying to me about how skinny I am. Over the entire weekend, I squinted to see what others are seeing, but just couldn't. I guess it really doesn't matter, as I've been told again and again to just trust the team, but I still slip back into this thinking from time to time and have to be pulled back into the boat.
Both appointments were followed up with phone calls, which is never a good sign. About an hour after leaving LA's office I had to call her after a "binge" (again, relative term...) in my kitchen. I had come home from both appointments emotionally drained and slightly hungry, which led me to rip through the refrigerator and cabinets in search of anything my body craved. I had downed a few flaxseed tortilla chips, a string cheese, some hummus, and a small container of caramel Greek yogurt and was instantly filled with enormous guilt.
About an hour after that, Dr. Joe called and we had a follow-up conversation about our earlier appointment. He had told me during the appointment that he can tell I am struggling despite working hard at recovery, and that he thinks I may be in a little bit of denial about the potential severity of the current medical situation. I tearfully told him this made me feel like I am failing despite my efforts. He corrected me by saying (in his calm and soothing voice) that there is a difference between struggling and failing, and that I am in no way failing or letting him down. This was music to my perfectionist ears, and gave me the motivation to keep fighting.
As for tomorrow, it's Scope Day. Procedure will be at 3:00 tomorrow, and I will be out cold for the rest of the day. I'll spare you the incoherent thoughts and stay the hell away from the laptop until the drugs have worn off.
Wish me luck...
Sunday, October 24, 2010
An Early Thanksgiving Dinner
This is the second Sunday evening in a row on which I do not need to prepare to go to work tomorrow, begin another over-booked week, or iron a set of dress clothes. I'm about to begin the second half of my two-week leave from work, and continue working closely with LA and Dr. Joe. This week also brings the dreaded endoscopy (scope) procedure with GI Guy and a Dr. K appointment (not so dreaded).
As for the weekend, things were pretty casual. I shopped with running friends yesterday for a bit, saw "Life As We Know It" with The Mr. last night, and took a lot of much-needed naps (I can definitely tell my body is revolting and in need of some rest). As for today, we just returned home from an annual family gathering this evening, held about an hour away from where we live. The Mr.'s grandmother escapes the midwestern winters by hopping on the highway and taking off for her Floridian condo around this time each year, so we always have Thanksgiving a month early so she can be included in (er, prepare) the feast.
I know the holidays will be here quickly (thank you, Target...I know Christmas shopping is the first thing on my mind the second Labor Day has passed), and I can't help but remember a goal I set for myself many months ago: to have a grip on my eating disorder before the holidays so I could truly enjoy the food and festivities. While I still have several months to go (and thus, this goal is still within reach), it has become evident to me that recovery is not as quick and painless as I had first anticipated.
I remember first meeting Dr. Joe. He said to me after that initial appointment back in July: "I want you to be patient with this process. We'll re-evaluate in six months and see where we are at that time."
I remember thinking "This guy is a damn fool. Give me a month and I'll have this thing kicked."
Well, here we are, nearly four months later and prepping me for an early family Thanksgiving meal requires the careful, intentional, and detailed planning of a military operation. Granted, it is not "technically" the holidays yet, I have encountered far more ups and downs during recovery than anyone could have anticipated, and no one expects a girl to go from learning how to eat again to pigging out on a pan of bread stuffing. But the sight of a turkey and the smell of pumpkin pie today reminded me that the holidays are around the corner (despite the fact that The Mr.'s family is a little ahead of the game), and therefore the goal I set for myself is creeping up...quickly.
Knowing this meal was on the calendar for today did throw me into a slight ED-inspired panic. I wasn't perfect (I fall short of this, if you recall...wink), but I did the best I could considering where I currently am in this process. Here's the recap:
7:00 am- While Dr. K has not cleared me for running just yet (she did not respond to an amusing email I sent her on Friday asking about it), I (stupidly) met a friend for a (fast) run this morning. I did this for all the wrong reasons (I'll admit it! Caught!): I wanted to exercise before going anywhere near the Thanksgiving food (as though just the smell of it may strip me of my muscle tone and turn me into a ball of goo), and I had taken 10 days off running already and missed it like hell. In my twisted mind, the fact that I had to ice my shin for an hour when I got home was a small price to pay for a run, and Dr. K will never know the difference. Wrong decision #1 for the day.
(Dr. K has never called me a perfect patient...so I don't have a reputation to live up to with her).
9:00 am- Made breakfast, one of my two usuals.
1:00 pm- The Mr. makes lunch. I pace in the kitchen. To eat or not to eat? LA would want me to eat. I do not want to eat. I am panicked about the looming family dinner. I finally grab a very small snack because I know I should. I know skipping a meal is a major sin right now; that is an ED Recovery 101 no-brainer. I shove the guilt out of my head. Wrong decision #2 of the day.
4:00 pm- We arrive at the family gathering, and I am hit in the face with the smell of roasted turkey and ham the moment we open the door. Bring on the usual comments (I am used to them by now, especially from the older relatives): "Oh my gosh, M! Do you eat?" and "You seem to shrink every time I see you! You don't have a thing left to lose! We need to get some pie in you today!". Other times I get the "You look amazing! You have lost so much weight!" and I think to myself: Thank you! But my insides are falling apart, I have to pay someone to teach me to eat food like a normal person, and I can't live my life because of my preoccupation with nutritional information! And you think you want to look like this? Yeah...it's not as fun as it looks!
5:00 pm- The buffet is set. The Mr.'s stepbrother takes his reserved place as the first in line and starts to dig in. Everyone is filling the small bowls with salad, then returning for a large plate of the other "real" food. I scan the table of food. There are things I want, but I know I would not be able to psychologically handle it if I went overboard or felt as though I "binged" (which, at this point, is really just eating like a normal person). However, I am torn between wanting to eat according to my current comfort level and warding off the "You don't eat a thing! Just dig in for god's sake!" comments I seem to regularly receive at events such as this one. This inner conflict is a familiar one, as I have had to strike the perfect balance between eating like a normal person and still sticking to my comfort level many, many times both in the throes of my eating disorder and now in refeeding and recovery.
Last week, during a conversation about this conflict, LA said to me "You have to realize almost everyone has an issue with food. When people make comments about what you are eating, they are projecting their own issues and beliefs about food onto you."
I know my mind cannot yet handle eating mounds of mashed potatoes, or a plate filled to the sides with gravy-laden stuffing. I am aware of the fact that even a few bites of sweet potato casserole will force me to fight the urge to purge for hours after we leave. I'm just not there yet, but that doesn't mean I won't be in the future.
While standing there in front of the overflowing table of food, I suddenly decide people should take their own personal issues with food and shove them up their asses. Bring on the comments; I'm ready for them. No one but me knows exactly how tough this battle has been for me, and I have to trust the experts who are telling me to fix it the correct way. Gone are the days in which I ate something to prevent the "Why do you always eat so healthy?"comments, only to end up in the bathroom purging and wrecking my body.
With LA's encouraging voice in my head, I pass over the small bowls and grab for a larger plate. I go against the grain (rebel!) and fill half of the large plate with salad. I fill the other half with small amounts of only the indulgences I really, really want. I avoided the foods that lead me to question the ingredient list, obsess over hidden salt, sugar, or butter, or would cause extreme guilt. I'm just not there yet. I need to do what I can handle.
As I sit down at the table, I notice one of my husband's relatives scanning my plate. Through her eyes, she is watching a very skinny girl eat a plate half-filled with salad and probably wondering to herself whether or not I ever indulge, and if she needs to be worried. I see that look from people often. While the worry would certainly be justified, I know better than anyone that my situation is much more than what meets the eye. Sure, I am battling an eating disorder; their assumption is correct. But what they don't know is that I am closer to the end of the battle than the beginning.
Big family meals are eating disorder landmines, and the upcoming months will contain many of them thanks to our many families (divorce creates multiple families, don't ya know?). While my original goal was to be eating normally for the holidays, today was a bit of a trial run. It reminded me I have work to do (I still desperately want to purge tonight's meal even though I made the healthiest choices possible given the situation), and that fully recovering may not fall on a perfect timeline no matter what goals I have set for myself.
Tonight marks the halfway point for my two-week leave from work. Regardless of whether or not the "Holiday Recovery Goal" is met in the near future, this time off has helped me to make significant progress towards getting my life back.
Thanks to our crazy families, there will be several more Thanksgiving meals over the next month or so. This may have been the first round of Anorexia vs. Thanksgiving Dinner, but it will most certainly not be the last.
As for the weekend, things were pretty casual. I shopped with running friends yesterday for a bit, saw "Life As We Know It" with The Mr. last night, and took a lot of much-needed naps (I can definitely tell my body is revolting and in need of some rest). As for today, we just returned home from an annual family gathering this evening, held about an hour away from where we live. The Mr.'s grandmother escapes the midwestern winters by hopping on the highway and taking off for her Floridian condo around this time each year, so we always have Thanksgiving a month early so she can be included in (er, prepare) the feast.
I know the holidays will be here quickly (thank you, Target...I know Christmas shopping is the first thing on my mind the second Labor Day has passed), and I can't help but remember a goal I set for myself many months ago: to have a grip on my eating disorder before the holidays so I could truly enjoy the food and festivities. While I still have several months to go (and thus, this goal is still within reach), it has become evident to me that recovery is not as quick and painless as I had first anticipated.
I remember first meeting Dr. Joe. He said to me after that initial appointment back in July: "I want you to be patient with this process. We'll re-evaluate in six months and see where we are at that time."
I remember thinking "This guy is a damn fool. Give me a month and I'll have this thing kicked."
Well, here we are, nearly four months later and prepping me for an early family Thanksgiving meal requires the careful, intentional, and detailed planning of a military operation. Granted, it is not "technically" the holidays yet, I have encountered far more ups and downs during recovery than anyone could have anticipated, and no one expects a girl to go from learning how to eat again to pigging out on a pan of bread stuffing. But the sight of a turkey and the smell of pumpkin pie today reminded me that the holidays are around the corner (despite the fact that The Mr.'s family is a little ahead of the game), and therefore the goal I set for myself is creeping up...quickly.
Knowing this meal was on the calendar for today did throw me into a slight ED-inspired panic. I wasn't perfect (I fall short of this, if you recall...wink), but I did the best I could considering where I currently am in this process. Here's the recap:
7:00 am- While Dr. K has not cleared me for running just yet (she did not respond to an amusing email I sent her on Friday asking about it), I (stupidly) met a friend for a (fast) run this morning. I did this for all the wrong reasons (I'll admit it! Caught!): I wanted to exercise before going anywhere near the Thanksgiving food (as though just the smell of it may strip me of my muscle tone and turn me into a ball of goo), and I had taken 10 days off running already and missed it like hell. In my twisted mind, the fact that I had to ice my shin for an hour when I got home was a small price to pay for a run, and Dr. K will never know the difference. Wrong decision #1 for the day.
(Dr. K has never called me a perfect patient...so I don't have a reputation to live up to with her).
9:00 am- Made breakfast, one of my two usuals.
1:00 pm- The Mr. makes lunch. I pace in the kitchen. To eat or not to eat? LA would want me to eat. I do not want to eat. I am panicked about the looming family dinner. I finally grab a very small snack because I know I should. I know skipping a meal is a major sin right now; that is an ED Recovery 101 no-brainer. I shove the guilt out of my head. Wrong decision #2 of the day.
4:00 pm- We arrive at the family gathering, and I am hit in the face with the smell of roasted turkey and ham the moment we open the door. Bring on the usual comments (I am used to them by now, especially from the older relatives): "Oh my gosh, M! Do you eat?" and "You seem to shrink every time I see you! You don't have a thing left to lose! We need to get some pie in you today!". Other times I get the "You look amazing! You have lost so much weight!" and I think to myself: Thank you! But my insides are falling apart, I have to pay someone to teach me to eat food like a normal person, and I can't live my life because of my preoccupation with nutritional information! And you think you want to look like this? Yeah...it's not as fun as it looks!
5:00 pm- The buffet is set. The Mr.'s stepbrother takes his reserved place as the first in line and starts to dig in. Everyone is filling the small bowls with salad, then returning for a large plate of the other "real" food. I scan the table of food. There are things I want, but I know I would not be able to psychologically handle it if I went overboard or felt as though I "binged" (which, at this point, is really just eating like a normal person). However, I am torn between wanting to eat according to my current comfort level and warding off the "You don't eat a thing! Just dig in for god's sake!" comments I seem to regularly receive at events such as this one. This inner conflict is a familiar one, as I have had to strike the perfect balance between eating like a normal person and still sticking to my comfort level many, many times both in the throes of my eating disorder and now in refeeding and recovery.
Last week, during a conversation about this conflict, LA said to me "You have to realize almost everyone has an issue with food. When people make comments about what you are eating, they are projecting their own issues and beliefs about food onto you."
I know my mind cannot yet handle eating mounds of mashed potatoes, or a plate filled to the sides with gravy-laden stuffing. I am aware of the fact that even a few bites of sweet potato casserole will force me to fight the urge to purge for hours after we leave. I'm just not there yet, but that doesn't mean I won't be in the future.
While standing there in front of the overflowing table of food, I suddenly decide people should take their own personal issues with food and shove them up their asses. Bring on the comments; I'm ready for them. No one but me knows exactly how tough this battle has been for me, and I have to trust the experts who are telling me to fix it the correct way. Gone are the days in which I ate something to prevent the "Why do you always eat so healthy?"comments, only to end up in the bathroom purging and wrecking my body.
With LA's encouraging voice in my head, I pass over the small bowls and grab for a larger plate. I go against the grain (rebel!) and fill half of the large plate with salad. I fill the other half with small amounts of only the indulgences I really, really want. I avoided the foods that lead me to question the ingredient list, obsess over hidden salt, sugar, or butter, or would cause extreme guilt. I'm just not there yet. I need to do what I can handle.
As I sit down at the table, I notice one of my husband's relatives scanning my plate. Through her eyes, she is watching a very skinny girl eat a plate half-filled with salad and probably wondering to herself whether or not I ever indulge, and if she needs to be worried. I see that look from people often. While the worry would certainly be justified, I know better than anyone that my situation is much more than what meets the eye. Sure, I am battling an eating disorder; their assumption is correct. But what they don't know is that I am closer to the end of the battle than the beginning.
Big family meals are eating disorder landmines, and the upcoming months will contain many of them thanks to our many families (divorce creates multiple families, don't ya know?). While my original goal was to be eating normally for the holidays, today was a bit of a trial run. It reminded me I have work to do (I still desperately want to purge tonight's meal even though I made the healthiest choices possible given the situation), and that fully recovering may not fall on a perfect timeline no matter what goals I have set for myself.
Tonight marks the halfway point for my two-week leave from work. Regardless of whether or not the "Holiday Recovery Goal" is met in the near future, this time off has helped me to make significant progress towards getting my life back.
Thanks to our crazy families, there will be several more Thanksgiving meals over the next month or so. This may have been the first round of Anorexia vs. Thanksgiving Dinner, but it will most certainly not be the last.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Cooking Dinner Again
Years ago, I actually enjoyed cooking. Close friends recall a time during which I used to prepare elaborate meals, cater parties, and watched the Food Network until noon on weekend mornings to learn about how to prepare healthy and unique meals. I found stress relief in chopping up mounds of vegetables, trying to make traditional recipes "healthy", and sipping on glass after glass of wine while stirring up something incredible in the kitchen.
Somewhere along the line, this passion faded. When I started to feel an unfounded and extreme guilt for nourishing my body, our refrigerator became a hell of a lot emptier and the homecooked meals became few and far between.
My anorexia is not solely to blame for this shift, as The Mr. and I shared meals less frequently when he started taking graduate school classes in the evenings. The conflict in our schedules made it easier for me to hide my growing obsession with starvation, and I began using my alone time to over-exercise and forego dinners. I can remember many, many nights during which I would return home after spending three hours working out intensely at the gym and force myself to go to sleep immediately, ignoring hunger pains as I felt for my ribs and hip bones under the covers.
Only this week have I begun to recall the enjoyment I used to receive from preparing meals. Having now experienced the struggle of an eating disorder, I do not think I will ever have a "normal" relationship with food. However, LA has singlehandedly helped to ease the anxiety surrounding preparing and enjoying meals this week.
Twice this week, I have prepared full meals for The Mr. and I. Sure, I approach meal preparation as any recovering anorexic would: I need to keep the meals as "clean" as possible, stick to small portion sizes, and create combinations using only my "safe" food list. Nevertheless, I am slowly dusting off the kitchen appliances I thought I had forgotten how to use.
Tonight was no exception. I had already forewarned The Mr. that we would be having one of LA's suggestions this evening for dinner, and he was (honestly) not thrilled at first. Earlier in the week, LA had told me about her vegetarian tacos, explaining that she replaces the meat with a mixture of black beans and corn (seasoned like taco meat). I would not consider myself a full-fledged vegetarian, although I am about as close as one can get without the actual label, so this sounded rather appealing to me. After talking about this meal with her, I realized I could recreate it using all "safe" foods of mine, so I decided to bust out the cookware that has been collecting dust in the kitchen and give it a shot.
I poured a (giant) glass of wine, and got to work. I sliced open avocados and scooped out the soft center. I chopped up a bushel of cilantro and took in a mild, fragrant scent I haven't experienced in over a year. I quickly diced up tomatoes with the knife skills I learned years ago when I worked as a creative assistant for a catering company, and I nibbled on some cheddar cheese shreds before placing a mound in a serving dish I had forgotten I even owned. I set the table with our matching dishes (something I used to fuss over), and called The Mr. to the table to try something new.
He was hesistant at first, looking skeptically at the meatless mixture he was expected to roll up in a corn tortilla. But, driven by hunger, he dug in anyhow. I watched him load his tortilla up with lots of condiments(probably to cover up the taste of the foreign bean/corn mixture).
He ate three tacos. I had two, and ate them slowly, taking in all the flavors I'm learning to love again. We refilled our wine glasses until the bottle was empty. And I, once again, was provided with a bittersweet glimpse of how life used to be; before food became my enemy.
I vow to thank LA for reminding me that food is something to be enjoyed, and not something to be feared.
The eating disordered response to tonight's dinner is not obsolete; I still feel as though I overate (I did not...not even close) and purging has crossed my mind. I started to add up the ingredients' calories in my head like I have done so many times before. I regretted not using reduced-fat cheddar cheese, and obsessed over whether or not the taco seasoning mix contained too much sodium. I have stood in front of the mirror several times this evening and tried to grab "fat" that I swear is there, but have to trust is not. These thoughts will probably always haunt me, but at least I am learning to rationalize them, brush them off as distorted, and move on.
This past week, I prepared dinner using my "safe" foods twice. Next week, I want to meet this goal again, and perhaps aim for three complete meals. I'm beginning to actually like cooking again. It will take some time until I can cook without overanalyzing the ingredient list or eliminating "unsafe" components. But as long as The Mr. is willing to put up with a few uber-healthy meals, I think I may begin to spend a little more time in the kitchen in the coming weeks.
In other news, I received a sad email from LA this evening. I was scheduled to meet with her tomorrow morning, however, she and her family have been forced to move out of their home due to smoke damage from a house fire. While missing my appointment with her would normally throw my Type-A personality into a tailspin, the situation at hand motivates me to do well this weekend without her. LA has done so much to help me throughout this process that I owe it to her to pull myself up, work through my own emotions related to food, and make progress independently. I would love to meet with her on Monday and be able to tell her that I ate well, avoided purging, and took some chances on my own. And I am, of course, thinking of her and her family...I can only imagine how stressful and upsetting such an experience can be. She believes so strongly in me that I cannot help but send lots and lots of positivity her way during this time.
I think a celebratory "I Beat Anorexia" party at my house is just around the corner. Perhaps I'll even prep all the food, just like old times.
It's long overdue, is it not?
Somewhere along the line, this passion faded. When I started to feel an unfounded and extreme guilt for nourishing my body, our refrigerator became a hell of a lot emptier and the homecooked meals became few and far between.
My anorexia is not solely to blame for this shift, as The Mr. and I shared meals less frequently when he started taking graduate school classes in the evenings. The conflict in our schedules made it easier for me to hide my growing obsession with starvation, and I began using my alone time to over-exercise and forego dinners. I can remember many, many nights during which I would return home after spending three hours working out intensely at the gym and force myself to go to sleep immediately, ignoring hunger pains as I felt for my ribs and hip bones under the covers.
Only this week have I begun to recall the enjoyment I used to receive from preparing meals. Having now experienced the struggle of an eating disorder, I do not think I will ever have a "normal" relationship with food. However, LA has singlehandedly helped to ease the anxiety surrounding preparing and enjoying meals this week.
Twice this week, I have prepared full meals for The Mr. and I. Sure, I approach meal preparation as any recovering anorexic would: I need to keep the meals as "clean" as possible, stick to small portion sizes, and create combinations using only my "safe" food list. Nevertheless, I am slowly dusting off the kitchen appliances I thought I had forgotten how to use.
Tonight was no exception. I had already forewarned The Mr. that we would be having one of LA's suggestions this evening for dinner, and he was (honestly) not thrilled at first. Earlier in the week, LA had told me about her vegetarian tacos, explaining that she replaces the meat with a mixture of black beans and corn (seasoned like taco meat). I would not consider myself a full-fledged vegetarian, although I am about as close as one can get without the actual label, so this sounded rather appealing to me. After talking about this meal with her, I realized I could recreate it using all "safe" foods of mine, so I decided to bust out the cookware that has been collecting dust in the kitchen and give it a shot.
I poured a (giant) glass of wine, and got to work. I sliced open avocados and scooped out the soft center. I chopped up a bushel of cilantro and took in a mild, fragrant scent I haven't experienced in over a year. I quickly diced up tomatoes with the knife skills I learned years ago when I worked as a creative assistant for a catering company, and I nibbled on some cheddar cheese shreds before placing a mound in a serving dish I had forgotten I even owned. I set the table with our matching dishes (something I used to fuss over), and called The Mr. to the table to try something new.
He was hesistant at first, looking skeptically at the meatless mixture he was expected to roll up in a corn tortilla. But, driven by hunger, he dug in anyhow. I watched him load his tortilla up with lots of condiments(probably to cover up the taste of the foreign bean/corn mixture).
He ate three tacos. I had two, and ate them slowly, taking in all the flavors I'm learning to love again. We refilled our wine glasses until the bottle was empty. And I, once again, was provided with a bittersweet glimpse of how life used to be; before food became my enemy.
I vow to thank LA for reminding me that food is something to be enjoyed, and not something to be feared.
The eating disordered response to tonight's dinner is not obsolete; I still feel as though I overate (I did not...not even close) and purging has crossed my mind. I started to add up the ingredients' calories in my head like I have done so many times before. I regretted not using reduced-fat cheddar cheese, and obsessed over whether or not the taco seasoning mix contained too much sodium. I have stood in front of the mirror several times this evening and tried to grab "fat" that I swear is there, but have to trust is not. These thoughts will probably always haunt me, but at least I am learning to rationalize them, brush them off as distorted, and move on.
This past week, I prepared dinner using my "safe" foods twice. Next week, I want to meet this goal again, and perhaps aim for three complete meals. I'm beginning to actually like cooking again. It will take some time until I can cook without overanalyzing the ingredient list or eliminating "unsafe" components. But as long as The Mr. is willing to put up with a few uber-healthy meals, I think I may begin to spend a little more time in the kitchen in the coming weeks.
In other news, I received a sad email from LA this evening. I was scheduled to meet with her tomorrow morning, however, she and her family have been forced to move out of their home due to smoke damage from a house fire. While missing my appointment with her would normally throw my Type-A personality into a tailspin, the situation at hand motivates me to do well this weekend without her. LA has done so much to help me throughout this process that I owe it to her to pull myself up, work through my own emotions related to food, and make progress independently. I would love to meet with her on Monday and be able to tell her that I ate well, avoided purging, and took some chances on my own. And I am, of course, thinking of her and her family...I can only imagine how stressful and upsetting such an experience can be. She believes so strongly in me that I cannot help but send lots and lots of positivity her way during this time.
I think a celebratory "I Beat Anorexia" party at my house is just around the corner. Perhaps I'll even prep all the food, just like old times.
It's long overdue, is it not?
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Day 4 Intensive: Appointment Overload
Today didn't end much differently than it started...I am drained and exhausted, and still feeling a bit bratty. Having three back-to-back doctor's appointments (all related to the eating disorder repair and recovery process) makes my day job seem like a resort vacation. Anyone who thinks my time off has been a relaxing little stroll in the park thus far has never spent hours upon hours with medical professionals dissecting a year's worth of eating disorder behaviors and their side effects.
If recovery can be compared to a long journey, today was a little like treading through the swamp waters.
Appointment #1: Dr. Joe, 12:00 PM
Dr. Joe and I were not even close to connecting today, and that was partially my fault. I had subconciously (and probably falsely) decided before even arriving at his office that he doesn't really give a damn about me (just collecting a paycheck), thinks I'm the neediest client he has ever had, and that I did not want to open up and talk to him anymore.
So I just sat on the sofa and cried.
I sipped on a Smoothie King peanut butter banana smoothie and got defensive when he asked if that were my lunch (it is actually allowed to be my lunch given my esophagus issues at the moment, so I wasn't technically being a brat). I gave one word answers and don't remember looking at him even once (I usually remember which marathon race shirt he was wearing during each appointment, but I didn't even make note of that today).
He tells me to call or email him after my appointment with the GI specialist later on this afternoon. I say ok, but secretly think to myself, "Ha! So you won't respond back?". He asks what I have been working on with LA, and I want to scream "Why don't you call her and find out? She thinks I'm making great progress!"
Towards the end of the appointment, I start to unload on him a bit, tears pouring down my face. I tell him I'm pissed at myself for the damage I've caused to my once-strong body, that I am starting to feel as though no one really cares if I get better or not, that very few people understand the amount of effort and work I am putting into getting better, and that I'm just tired and want to go back to bed.
I left his office angry and upset. I received an email from him later in the day that read: "We'll regroup to get through this. Need to move forward, not back. One step at a time."
When I read his words, I realized being a closed-off brat was probably unjustified. I vowed to make the next appointment a bit more productive. The truth is, I do need Dr. Joe to help me get past this.
Appointment #2: LA, 2:00 PM
Like the tuned in mother-type that she is, LA could tell I was upset when I arrived at her office. We chatted for a bit about why I was so distant with Dr. Joe. We agreed he is a guy (this does trump his Ph.D in psychology...in the end, he is really just a guy) and guys don't understand the level of encouragement and support we women need on an almost daily basis. We bond over our female-ness. She says she will tell him to quit being a boy the next time they speak. I am reminded why I adore LA.
LA is beyond impressed with my food intake yesterday. She is actually rendered speechless when I tell her I swapped out some of my usual foods for other options (for example, Kashi Mediterranean pizza instead of my usual grilled chicken/rice/veggies dinner). During past periods of initial refeeding, I have stuck to the same exact list of foods (no thought required) day in and day out. I'm starting to move past that stage, making subtle substitutions on my own. She sees big progress, and can't stop smiling. She tells me she will bring cotton candy and cookies to our Saturday morning meeting. I tell her to chill out and not get carried away.
Both yesterday and today, LA and I have had deep conversations about my relationship with food, my body, and how/when the eating disorder really started to take over. Today, she helped me arrive at several conclusions: 1. I generally purge when I feel I need to "start over" for the day, erase a mistake, or get angry at myself for not being more "disciplined"; 2. I allowed myself to starve in an effort to start over and rebuild my body in a more perfect form, which is indicative of my personality. The only problem is that I did not want to rebuild (gain weight in any way, shape, or form) once I had reached the bottom ; 3. I have always been a healthy eater, so even in the later stages of refeeding, my weight gain will probably not be significant; and 4. There is a very good possibility that I will come back stronger, faster, and better than ever after restoring a positive eating routine once again.
I left LA's feeling revived. But then...
Appointment #3: Gastrointestinal Specialist (hereafter referred to as "GI Guy"), 3:15 PM
Here is the moment I've been dreading all day, and probably the underlying reason for my brattiness: meeting GI Guy to talk about the physical damage within my body, the reason for the intense pain that most recently sent me to the ER.
Hot Doctor in the ER, as well as Dr. K, already warned me that an endoscopy (scope) is in my immediate future. Dr. Joe also enjoys using the looming scope as a scare tactic (Dr. Joe: "You're 28 and you need an endoscopy...that's some scary shit"). Needless to say, the fact that GI Guy wants to shove a camera down my throat and stomach is not a surprise at this point in the game.
The surprise came in the form of the educational video I had to watch about the endoscopy. After taking my vitals, the medical assistant clicks the remote control to bring up a video about the procedure we will be scheduling for me. She leaves me alone in the room to face the horror that unfolds on the screen.
I cannot watch it. I begin to text Mama K frantically. Then, I email LA. Text some other friends. Hell no...not doing this. F&#k the scope. Dr. Joe is right...this is some scary shit.
By the time GI Guy enters the room, I have been reduced to a puddle of emotion. I shake his hand, and he ignores the tears (another guy move...LA may have to call this one up, too). We go through the procedure step by step, and I have to recount every excrutiating minute of my purging espisodes so he knows exactly what he is getting himself into with me. His words are passing in and out of my head without comprehension, but I latch on to random phrases here and there:
"...in patients who binge/purge..."
Me: "Um, I do not binge. Ever. I'm anorexic- purging subtype." I have no idea why I feel offended that he assumed I binge, or why on earth I felt driven to correct him. Either way, I'm a broken, 28-year old girl with a history of some pretty self-destructive behavior patterns. Is the exact label important? Probably not.
The next few moments are surreal: me talking about my eating disorder behaviors as though they belong to someone else. I am answering his questions about caloric intake, purging behaviors, post-purging behaviors, and asked to describe the exact procedure I have used time and time again to bring up the digested food from my stomach. It feels so wrong to disclose this private and sacred information; as if my clothes are being ripped off and I'm naked for the world to see.
GI Guy is blunt with me. He says he feels he will, in fact, find signs of some pretty severe damage to my digestive tract. He asks if I have any questions. I shake my head no, and am sent out to schedule the Procedure From Hell.
Tuesday, October 26 at 3:00. The endoscopy awaits.
Which means I have three days to forget all about it and pretend this isn't happening.
If recovery can be compared to a long journey, today was a little like treading through the swamp waters.
Appointment #1: Dr. Joe, 12:00 PM
Dr. Joe and I were not even close to connecting today, and that was partially my fault. I had subconciously (and probably falsely) decided before even arriving at his office that he doesn't really give a damn about me (just collecting a paycheck), thinks I'm the neediest client he has ever had, and that I did not want to open up and talk to him anymore.
So I just sat on the sofa and cried.
I sipped on a Smoothie King peanut butter banana smoothie and got defensive when he asked if that were my lunch (it is actually allowed to be my lunch given my esophagus issues at the moment, so I wasn't technically being a brat). I gave one word answers and don't remember looking at him even once (I usually remember which marathon race shirt he was wearing during each appointment, but I didn't even make note of that today).
He tells me to call or email him after my appointment with the GI specialist later on this afternoon. I say ok, but secretly think to myself, "Ha! So you won't respond back?". He asks what I have been working on with LA, and I want to scream "Why don't you call her and find out? She thinks I'm making great progress!"
Towards the end of the appointment, I start to unload on him a bit, tears pouring down my face. I tell him I'm pissed at myself for the damage I've caused to my once-strong body, that I am starting to feel as though no one really cares if I get better or not, that very few people understand the amount of effort and work I am putting into getting better, and that I'm just tired and want to go back to bed.
I left his office angry and upset. I received an email from him later in the day that read: "We'll regroup to get through this. Need to move forward, not back. One step at a time."
When I read his words, I realized being a closed-off brat was probably unjustified. I vowed to make the next appointment a bit more productive. The truth is, I do need Dr. Joe to help me get past this.
Appointment #2: LA, 2:00 PM
Like the tuned in mother-type that she is, LA could tell I was upset when I arrived at her office. We chatted for a bit about why I was so distant with Dr. Joe. We agreed he is a guy (this does trump his Ph.D in psychology...in the end, he is really just a guy) and guys don't understand the level of encouragement and support we women need on an almost daily basis. We bond over our female-ness. She says she will tell him to quit being a boy the next time they speak. I am reminded why I adore LA.
LA is beyond impressed with my food intake yesterday. She is actually rendered speechless when I tell her I swapped out some of my usual foods for other options (for example, Kashi Mediterranean pizza instead of my usual grilled chicken/rice/veggies dinner). During past periods of initial refeeding, I have stuck to the same exact list of foods (no thought required) day in and day out. I'm starting to move past that stage, making subtle substitutions on my own. She sees big progress, and can't stop smiling. She tells me she will bring cotton candy and cookies to our Saturday morning meeting. I tell her to chill out and not get carried away.
Both yesterday and today, LA and I have had deep conversations about my relationship with food, my body, and how/when the eating disorder really started to take over. Today, she helped me arrive at several conclusions: 1. I generally purge when I feel I need to "start over" for the day, erase a mistake, or get angry at myself for not being more "disciplined"; 2. I allowed myself to starve in an effort to start over and rebuild my body in a more perfect form, which is indicative of my personality. The only problem is that I did not want to rebuild (gain weight in any way, shape, or form) once I had reached the bottom ; 3. I have always been a healthy eater, so even in the later stages of refeeding, my weight gain will probably not be significant; and 4. There is a very good possibility that I will come back stronger, faster, and better than ever after restoring a positive eating routine once again.
I left LA's feeling revived. But then...
Appointment #3: Gastrointestinal Specialist (hereafter referred to as "GI Guy"), 3:15 PM
Here is the moment I've been dreading all day, and probably the underlying reason for my brattiness: meeting GI Guy to talk about the physical damage within my body, the reason for the intense pain that most recently sent me to the ER.
Hot Doctor in the ER, as well as Dr. K, already warned me that an endoscopy (scope) is in my immediate future. Dr. Joe also enjoys using the looming scope as a scare tactic (Dr. Joe: "You're 28 and you need an endoscopy...that's some scary shit"). Needless to say, the fact that GI Guy wants to shove a camera down my throat and stomach is not a surprise at this point in the game.
The surprise came in the form of the educational video I had to watch about the endoscopy. After taking my vitals, the medical assistant clicks the remote control to bring up a video about the procedure we will be scheduling for me. She leaves me alone in the room to face the horror that unfolds on the screen.
I cannot watch it. I begin to text Mama K frantically. Then, I email LA. Text some other friends. Hell no...not doing this. F&#k the scope. Dr. Joe is right...this is some scary shit.
By the time GI Guy enters the room, I have been reduced to a puddle of emotion. I shake his hand, and he ignores the tears (another guy move...LA may have to call this one up, too). We go through the procedure step by step, and I have to recount every excrutiating minute of my purging espisodes so he knows exactly what he is getting himself into with me. His words are passing in and out of my head without comprehension, but I latch on to random phrases here and there:
"...in patients who binge/purge..."
Me: "Um, I do not binge. Ever. I'm anorexic- purging subtype." I have no idea why I feel offended that he assumed I binge, or why on earth I felt driven to correct him. Either way, I'm a broken, 28-year old girl with a history of some pretty self-destructive behavior patterns. Is the exact label important? Probably not.
The next few moments are surreal: me talking about my eating disorder behaviors as though they belong to someone else. I am answering his questions about caloric intake, purging behaviors, post-purging behaviors, and asked to describe the exact procedure I have used time and time again to bring up the digested food from my stomach. It feels so wrong to disclose this private and sacred information; as if my clothes are being ripped off and I'm naked for the world to see.
GI Guy is blunt with me. He says he feels he will, in fact, find signs of some pretty severe damage to my digestive tract. He asks if I have any questions. I shake my head no, and am sent out to schedule the Procedure From Hell.
Tuesday, October 26 at 3:00. The endoscopy awaits.
Which means I have three days to forget all about it and pretend this isn't happening.
Being a Brat Today
I think every girl working intensely with a treatment team reaches a point where she reverts back to the bratty teenage version of herself. Today, the mature, positive, pleasant version of myself did not get out of bed. But the bratty, rebellious, defiant 15-year old did. The nice thing about being in eating disorder therapy is that it is perfectly acceptable to take this version of myself to my appointments today, as it will allow LA and Dr. Joe to "explore" what is currently going on with my emotional side.
But wouldn't it be nice if it were acceptable to take this version of ourselves to work, to meetings, to a family gatherings? Maybe it would take away some of the pressure we all feel to be "mature", "put on our happy faces", and "play nice."
Although most of us would end up in timeout and nothing productive would come of that.
I usually don't blog before my appointments, but I am, as stated earlier, feeling like a brat today. I don't know why, and I don't really care. I do not have to be the perfect patient all the time, and today I have chosen to throw a little bit of a tantrum. I'm entitled to. I've been a good girl for the last three days, and now I can be a brat if I want to be.
Hmph.
Here are some of the reasons I am feeling bratty today:
1. Dr. Joe wants me to bring my lunch to his appointment. I don't want to eat in front of him, and I won't be able to talk if I'm eating. And he is paid to get me to talk. Seems counterproductive to me.
(I still have yet to decide if I'm taking my lunch to his office, and I have to leave in about 15 minutes. This will be a last-minute decision).
2. The Mr. implied I was being a bum this morning when I just wanted to lie in bed. Um, hel-lo...last time I checked I've been working my butt off to fight off physical pain, play with plastic food, and ward off the demons that tell me not to eat dinner. It's been a rough week so far, I can lie in bed if I want to (love you, The Mr! I know he reads this blog sometimes...) :)
3. I am supposed to email Dr. Joe if/when I have to go to the ER or experience anything out of the ordinary. I followed the rules and fired off an email to him when I was leaving the ER two nights ago. In it, I told him I was scared and this seems very real right now. He never wrote back. This confirms the Voo-Doo Doll Theory I referred to yesterday. I don't want to talk to Dr. Joe today. He sucks.
4. Yesterday's assignment from LA was to go 24 hours without thinking about food. In plain speak, I was supposed to just eat what I wanted within my own house (because I know all the foods we keep are healthy and safe). I did just that. But today I am obsessing over the fact that I probably did not eat enough fruits and vegetables during that 24-hour timeframe. I think that counts as "thinking about food", so I probably just failed that challenge. Damn.
5. My dog is obnoxious and does not let me rest. I want to send him to doggie day camp for the remainder of my leave, I no longer care about the price.
6. I really, really, really want to run. I've continued to cycle, lift, and swim this week, but I'm over it. I am a runner. Runners need to run.
7. The GI specialist I am meeting with at 3:15 is probably going to have me come back for the actual scope procedure, which means I will have to fork over my $30 copay twice. I hate it when they pull that. Greedy, money-sucking assholes.
8. I miss my work friends and I hate knowing they are in the office and I am not. I'm probably not missing a damn thing, but I love them all the same and am starting to miss the day-to-day ridiculousness that is my crazy office. LA and Dr. Joe are my BFFs this week, and I'm not sure that is a healthy thing for any of us to continue...good thing there is a two-week window for this bonding time.
Please do not interpret my throwback teenage angst as a slip into negativity. Somewhere inside I remain positive about this process, know I am doing what I should be doing, and am making huge progress. I just want to be a brat today.
You can almost hear the foot stomping, door slamming, and "f##k you, I hate you and never want to talk to you again!"'s, now can't you?
Off to share my angst with the doctors. Good thing they can take it in stride and they have no ability whatsoever to ground me. I guess they should be happy I'm not perfect all the time...isn't that what we're working on, anyhow?
But wouldn't it be nice if it were acceptable to take this version of ourselves to work, to meetings, to a family gatherings? Maybe it would take away some of the pressure we all feel to be "mature", "put on our happy faces", and "play nice."
Although most of us would end up in timeout and nothing productive would come of that.
I usually don't blog before my appointments, but I am, as stated earlier, feeling like a brat today. I don't know why, and I don't really care. I do not have to be the perfect patient all the time, and today I have chosen to throw a little bit of a tantrum. I'm entitled to. I've been a good girl for the last three days, and now I can be a brat if I want to be.
Hmph.
Here are some of the reasons I am feeling bratty today:
1. Dr. Joe wants me to bring my lunch to his appointment. I don't want to eat in front of him, and I won't be able to talk if I'm eating. And he is paid to get me to talk. Seems counterproductive to me.
(I still have yet to decide if I'm taking my lunch to his office, and I have to leave in about 15 minutes. This will be a last-minute decision).
2. The Mr. implied I was being a bum this morning when I just wanted to lie in bed. Um, hel-lo...last time I checked I've been working my butt off to fight off physical pain, play with plastic food, and ward off the demons that tell me not to eat dinner. It's been a rough week so far, I can lie in bed if I want to (love you, The Mr! I know he reads this blog sometimes...) :)
3. I am supposed to email Dr. Joe if/when I have to go to the ER or experience anything out of the ordinary. I followed the rules and fired off an email to him when I was leaving the ER two nights ago. In it, I told him I was scared and this seems very real right now. He never wrote back. This confirms the Voo-Doo Doll Theory I referred to yesterday. I don't want to talk to Dr. Joe today. He sucks.
4. Yesterday's assignment from LA was to go 24 hours without thinking about food. In plain speak, I was supposed to just eat what I wanted within my own house (because I know all the foods we keep are healthy and safe). I did just that. But today I am obsessing over the fact that I probably did not eat enough fruits and vegetables during that 24-hour timeframe. I think that counts as "thinking about food", so I probably just failed that challenge. Damn.
5. My dog is obnoxious and does not let me rest. I want to send him to doggie day camp for the remainder of my leave, I no longer care about the price.
6. I really, really, really want to run. I've continued to cycle, lift, and swim this week, but I'm over it. I am a runner. Runners need to run.
7. The GI specialist I am meeting with at 3:15 is probably going to have me come back for the actual scope procedure, which means I will have to fork over my $30 copay twice. I hate it when they pull that. Greedy, money-sucking assholes.
8. I miss my work friends and I hate knowing they are in the office and I am not. I'm probably not missing a damn thing, but I love them all the same and am starting to miss the day-to-day ridiculousness that is my crazy office. LA and Dr. Joe are my BFFs this week, and I'm not sure that is a healthy thing for any of us to continue...good thing there is a two-week window for this bonding time.
Please do not interpret my throwback teenage angst as a slip into negativity. Somewhere inside I remain positive about this process, know I am doing what I should be doing, and am making huge progress. I just want to be a brat today.
You can almost hear the foot stomping, door slamming, and "f##k you, I hate you and never want to talk to you again!"'s, now can't you?
Off to share my angst with the doctors. Good thing they can take it in stride and they have no ability whatsoever to ground me. I guess they should be happy I'm not perfect all the time...isn't that what we're working on, anyhow?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Spending the Night in the ER
Well, the title of this post just oozes with optimism, now doesn't it? But somehow, despite spending roughly five hours in the emergency room last night, I still remain overwhelmingly positive about my recovery. There really is no turning back now.
Around midnight, my sleep (a rather sound one, too) was broken by the intense burning in my throat and esophagus, and the ever-enjoyable feeling of a knife stabbing me in the back. These are precisely the excrutiating symptoms I had been feeling before, and this time we followed Dr. K's advice and headed for the ER.
Given that I am a pretty tough person (thanks to years of sports, a tough-skinned father, and some brutal "I- don't-care-about-the-pain-just-do-it" coaches), I have had very few visits to the ER during my 28 years. I am more inclined to sit on a very serious injury or illness for a long period of time rather than to rush in to the ER or to a doctor for help.
I should note that this is exactly the mentality that perpetuates my eating disorder. Hunger pains? Just ignore 'em and go run 13 miles! Lightheaded from no food? That's ok, you're super woman, remember?! That shooting pain in your shin? Your bones aren't fracturing, just suck it up!
Yeah. It's working real well for me, let me tell ya.
I digress. Back to the ER visit...
I sign the clip board (M., age 28, anorexic- purging subtype, severe esophageal and back pain,) and am taken back immediately. Given my naivety related to the Ways of the ER, I think to myself: "Awesome, I don't even have to wait. In minutes I'll be lying down and pumped with painkillers to make this hell go away."
The nurse takes my blood pressure and temperature. She asks me to rate the pain on a scale of 1-10. Despite the stabbing sensation in my back, the fact that I am seconds from vomiting on the floor, and can hardly sit up straight, I tell her "um, maybe like a 5?". The Mr. shoots me a look of death. He knows I have no concept of pain, and my response is grossly underestimated.
"Ok, you can have a seat in the waiting room."
Well, shit. So I'm not being seen right away. Should've known better.
We take a seat amongst the late-night ER crowd: the college girl wrapped in a blanket who looks like she has gone days without so much as brushing her hair, the child screaming in Spanish to her mother, the wheel-chair bound older woman passed out with her mouth open.
The pain hits me hard. I instantly regret telling the nurse it was only a 5 on the stupid scale of 1-10. I get angry at them for even using that godforsaken subjective system of evaluating pain. I imagine the hoards of people with runny noses who have entered the ER and proclaimed "It's a ten!" to be moved up a few spots before me on the triage list. I decide I played that hand wrong. Crap.
Many, many curse words and an hour later, I am finally taken back to a room. I curl up in a ball on the bed while The Mr. tries to finagle the gown to fit me. He gives up and just throws it on top of me to cover my body.
Enter Hot Doctor. Great, I think. I have to tell Hot Doctor all about my stomach issues. He asks the standard set of questions, and comes to the one I never know how to answer (and I doubt any anorexic, bulimic, or EDNOS patient does): "Any vomiting recently?"
"Um, like intentionally or unintentionally?" I'm not sure if he has read the clipboard and seen "anorexia- purging subtype" written next to my name.
He looks puzzled. "Um...I guess just vomiting at all?" (He clearly has not seen the clipboard).
"Yes. Some intentional, some unintentional." I leave it at that. He makes some notes and then leaves the room.
When he returns it is my chance to explain this whole thing. I tell him I am normally not the type of person to just run into the ER for pain, but that Dr. K has requested I do so. I explain the pain I'm in as best I can, trying to fight the urge to downplay it (my natural reaction). They do some chest X-rays, hook me up with an amazing little concoction that numbs my esophagus the whole way down, and an anti-nausea medication. I pass out on the bed.
Several hours later, I am discharged, referred to the GI specialist I am seeing Thursday anyhow, and told to get in touch with Dr. K. The pain had subsided for the most part, and I was free to go home and curl up in my own bed.
As I sit here blogging, the burning has stopped. However, the sharp back pain continues and this is Dr. K's main concern. When it comes on, it comes on strong and it is not easily sent away.
Despite the pain, trip to the ER, and overall fatigue I'm feeling from that experience, I still remain optimistic today. I plan to pop some painkillers and head off to see LA this afternoon no matter what. I've emailed Dr. K and Dr. Joe to keeep them in the loop (although they will probably get the medical records from the ER anyhow) and we'll go from there.
This time, I'm not being knocked down. Sure, there are many physical signs of the abuse my body has endured in the last year, and they need to be dealt with. But I intend to keep moving forward and using this time to break free of my eating disorder for good this time.
I also secretly imagine Dr. Joe sitting at home, jabbing a voo-doo doll in the back with a pushpin, thinking to himself: "I don't want her to forget just yet!"
Bastard!
Around midnight, my sleep (a rather sound one, too) was broken by the intense burning in my throat and esophagus, and the ever-enjoyable feeling of a knife stabbing me in the back. These are precisely the excrutiating symptoms I had been feeling before, and this time we followed Dr. K's advice and headed for the ER.
Given that I am a pretty tough person (thanks to years of sports, a tough-skinned father, and some brutal "I- don't-care-about-the-pain-just-do-it" coaches), I have had very few visits to the ER during my 28 years. I am more inclined to sit on a very serious injury or illness for a long period of time rather than to rush in to the ER or to a doctor for help.
I should note that this is exactly the mentality that perpetuates my eating disorder. Hunger pains? Just ignore 'em and go run 13 miles! Lightheaded from no food? That's ok, you're super woman, remember?! That shooting pain in your shin? Your bones aren't fracturing, just suck it up!
Yeah. It's working real well for me, let me tell ya.
I digress. Back to the ER visit...
I sign the clip board (M., age 28, anorexic- purging subtype, severe esophageal and back pain,) and am taken back immediately. Given my naivety related to the Ways of the ER, I think to myself: "Awesome, I don't even have to wait. In minutes I'll be lying down and pumped with painkillers to make this hell go away."
The nurse takes my blood pressure and temperature. She asks me to rate the pain on a scale of 1-10. Despite the stabbing sensation in my back, the fact that I am seconds from vomiting on the floor, and can hardly sit up straight, I tell her "um, maybe like a 5?". The Mr. shoots me a look of death. He knows I have no concept of pain, and my response is grossly underestimated.
"Ok, you can have a seat in the waiting room."
Well, shit. So I'm not being seen right away. Should've known better.
We take a seat amongst the late-night ER crowd: the college girl wrapped in a blanket who looks like she has gone days without so much as brushing her hair, the child screaming in Spanish to her mother, the wheel-chair bound older woman passed out with her mouth open.
The pain hits me hard. I instantly regret telling the nurse it was only a 5 on the stupid scale of 1-10. I get angry at them for even using that godforsaken subjective system of evaluating pain. I imagine the hoards of people with runny noses who have entered the ER and proclaimed "It's a ten!" to be moved up a few spots before me on the triage list. I decide I played that hand wrong. Crap.
Many, many curse words and an hour later, I am finally taken back to a room. I curl up in a ball on the bed while The Mr. tries to finagle the gown to fit me. He gives up and just throws it on top of me to cover my body.
Enter Hot Doctor. Great, I think. I have to tell Hot Doctor all about my stomach issues. He asks the standard set of questions, and comes to the one I never know how to answer (and I doubt any anorexic, bulimic, or EDNOS patient does): "Any vomiting recently?"
"Um, like intentionally or unintentionally?" I'm not sure if he has read the clipboard and seen "anorexia- purging subtype" written next to my name.
He looks puzzled. "Um...I guess just vomiting at all?" (He clearly has not seen the clipboard).
"Yes. Some intentional, some unintentional." I leave it at that. He makes some notes and then leaves the room.
When he returns it is my chance to explain this whole thing. I tell him I am normally not the type of person to just run into the ER for pain, but that Dr. K has requested I do so. I explain the pain I'm in as best I can, trying to fight the urge to downplay it (my natural reaction). They do some chest X-rays, hook me up with an amazing little concoction that numbs my esophagus the whole way down, and an anti-nausea medication. I pass out on the bed.
Several hours later, I am discharged, referred to the GI specialist I am seeing Thursday anyhow, and told to get in touch with Dr. K. The pain had subsided for the most part, and I was free to go home and curl up in my own bed.
As I sit here blogging, the burning has stopped. However, the sharp back pain continues and this is Dr. K's main concern. When it comes on, it comes on strong and it is not easily sent away.
Despite the pain, trip to the ER, and overall fatigue I'm feeling from that experience, I still remain optimistic today. I plan to pop some painkillers and head off to see LA this afternoon no matter what. I've emailed Dr. K and Dr. Joe to keeep them in the loop (although they will probably get the medical records from the ER anyhow) and we'll go from there.
This time, I'm not being knocked down. Sure, there are many physical signs of the abuse my body has endured in the last year, and they need to be dealt with. But I intend to keep moving forward and using this time to break free of my eating disorder for good this time.
I also secretly imagine Dr. Joe sitting at home, jabbing a voo-doo doll in the back with a pushpin, thinking to himself: "I don't want her to forget just yet!"
Bastard!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Day 2 Intensive: Double Teamed
Today I felt a little like a child of divorce going between homes. Dr. Joe jokes at times that I play him and LA as though they are my parents (running to one about something the other said, going to the one whose support style matches what I am looking for at that moment, and so forth), and today was no exception.
Though I am in constant contact with both of them almost daily (and they are in contact with one another about me), I rarely see them back-to-back. But since we're hitting the therapy hard these next two weeks, I had the pleasure of working with both of them within a three hour time span.
Today was, overall, another productive day. I can see myself really starting to break free of the eating disorder cycle and create some new patterns.
Appointment #1: Dr. Joe, 12:00 PM
Today I saw a side of Dr. Joe I have never really seen before: he seemed extremely concerned, worried, and serious. On the way down the stairs to his office, he said to me: "where is your lunch?"
Me: "Um, I don't have a lunch with me. You didn't tell me to bring a lunch today." I had been planning to stop by Subway on the way to LA's office.
Dr. Joe: "I thought that was the plan- you were going to eat lunch here?" (I was not aware of this plan...I think he thought he had mentioned this previously, but did not).
Me: "Ok, I will bring it with me on Thursday." I shrug.
I take my usual spot on the couch. I pull my knees up to my chest and sit like a kid, like I always do. I've been here so many times it has started to feel a little like home.
"I'm concerned about your teeth," he starts. Dr. Joe rarely talks about the physical side effects of my eating disorder, unless he has spoke with Dr. K or seen a red flag on my labs and medical records. To date, no one has examined my teeth, so this catches me off guard.
"Okay..." I look at him, puzzled. I am aware of the dental problems that can result from purging, but I have yet to experience any issues and had already planned to see a dentist...soon. I'm not in denial, it's just that other physical side effects have taken priority. I planned to deal with the teeth in time.
I sit there for a moment, with my closed food journal resting next to me on the sofa. Dr. Joe tells me to open it. I do what he says. He gets up, grabs a bright yellow post-it note and hand it to me. He sits back down, leaning forward on the front on his chair and looking me dead in the eye.
"You are feeling better, right?"
I nod.
"I want to make sure you never, ever forget the pain you were in last week." His tone is the most serious I have ever heard, and he is still looking me straight in the eye. "I was extremely concerned. I still am. You are not out of this yet, but you need to always remember how bad it got."
Dr. Joe then told me to write the following words on the yellow post-it note: PAIN, BLOOD, FRACTURE, HOSPITAL, SICKNESS, SCOPE. He tells me to keep the yellow post-it note front and center in the food journal.
I placed it on the inner front cover. Dr. Joe and I talked a great deal after that serious moment. But to be honest, I don't remember much of our appointment except for that exchange.
That was probably his goal. He intends to never, ever let me forget the seriousness of what I am battling...and that's why he's an amazing doctor.
Appointment #2: LA, 2:00 PM
When I get to LA's office, she is coming up the stairs with an empty bowl and spoon. Without thinking, I say to her, "what did you have for lunch?"
LA: "Wait...you're asking me what I had for lunch?" She laughs, but tells me anyhow. It sounds healthy enough. I decide to let her off the hook. I tell her I had Subway. She is pleased.
I pull out my notebook. LA ignores the graphic yellow post-it note on the front as I flip to my homework assignment, a page I titled "My Rules About Food." This list reveals fourteen "rules" I have somehow developed about food; the rules I have rigidly adhered to throughout the past year.
These rules have led me to eating disorder destruction, sickness, bodily harm. These rules have destroyed my confidence, brought me to a place of such extreme darkness, and whittled my body down to nothingness.
I read them to LA one by one. She is quiet for a moment. There it was...the rules of my eating disorder hung between us. We both knew, without saying a word, that the only way to restore me to health was to begin to break the fourteen rules I have followed for months and months, one by one. It will not be easy. But at least we now have a list from which to work.
The details of the conversation that happened thereafter are not important, and I have chosen not to disclose the rules within my blog (for some reason, it is an incredibly personal piece of information I'm not sure I can ever share outside of my very close inner circle). So I will leave you with this positive note:
When I left LA's office, I had to go grocery shopping. Grocery shopping has become a very robotic activity for me during the last several months. After I had eventually restricted my diet down to about a half dozen items, the process of buying food didn't require much thought. I just bought the items The Mr. requested for himself, and that was that.
Given that I had the time to do so (the whole not working thing, if you recall), I decided to actually look around the store and try some new things. I did something I haven't done for about a year: I planned out a few meals for The Mr. and I. I kept them simple and mostly comprised of my "safe" ingredients...but meals nonetheless.
I tossed in about six new items. I used my Blackberry and emailed LA from the check-out line to share with her the new items I was bringing home. I texted Mama K too. And then I called The Mr. and told him I would be cooking dinner tonight when I get home from teaching a class at the gym.
Only those who have watched me try to overcome this can truly appreciate the accomplishment and growth represented by those extra food items in the cart. It sounds absolutely ridiculous, but it was hard to fight back tears while standing there in the checkout line. I can see an end to this. I'm starting to break free.
Though I am in constant contact with both of them almost daily (and they are in contact with one another about me), I rarely see them back-to-back. But since we're hitting the therapy hard these next two weeks, I had the pleasure of working with both of them within a three hour time span.
Today was, overall, another productive day. I can see myself really starting to break free of the eating disorder cycle and create some new patterns.
Appointment #1: Dr. Joe, 12:00 PM
Today I saw a side of Dr. Joe I have never really seen before: he seemed extremely concerned, worried, and serious. On the way down the stairs to his office, he said to me: "where is your lunch?"
Me: "Um, I don't have a lunch with me. You didn't tell me to bring a lunch today." I had been planning to stop by Subway on the way to LA's office.
Dr. Joe: "I thought that was the plan- you were going to eat lunch here?" (I was not aware of this plan...I think he thought he had mentioned this previously, but did not).
Me: "Ok, I will bring it with me on Thursday." I shrug.
I take my usual spot on the couch. I pull my knees up to my chest and sit like a kid, like I always do. I've been here so many times it has started to feel a little like home.
"I'm concerned about your teeth," he starts. Dr. Joe rarely talks about the physical side effects of my eating disorder, unless he has spoke with Dr. K or seen a red flag on my labs and medical records. To date, no one has examined my teeth, so this catches me off guard.
"Okay..." I look at him, puzzled. I am aware of the dental problems that can result from purging, but I have yet to experience any issues and had already planned to see a dentist...soon. I'm not in denial, it's just that other physical side effects have taken priority. I planned to deal with the teeth in time.
I sit there for a moment, with my closed food journal resting next to me on the sofa. Dr. Joe tells me to open it. I do what he says. He gets up, grabs a bright yellow post-it note and hand it to me. He sits back down, leaning forward on the front on his chair and looking me dead in the eye.
"You are feeling better, right?"
I nod.
"I want to make sure you never, ever forget the pain you were in last week." His tone is the most serious I have ever heard, and he is still looking me straight in the eye. "I was extremely concerned. I still am. You are not out of this yet, but you need to always remember how bad it got."
Dr. Joe then told me to write the following words on the yellow post-it note: PAIN, BLOOD, FRACTURE, HOSPITAL, SICKNESS, SCOPE. He tells me to keep the yellow post-it note front and center in the food journal.
I placed it on the inner front cover. Dr. Joe and I talked a great deal after that serious moment. But to be honest, I don't remember much of our appointment except for that exchange.
That was probably his goal. He intends to never, ever let me forget the seriousness of what I am battling...and that's why he's an amazing doctor.
Appointment #2: LA, 2:00 PM
When I get to LA's office, she is coming up the stairs with an empty bowl and spoon. Without thinking, I say to her, "what did you have for lunch?"
LA: "Wait...you're asking me what I had for lunch?" She laughs, but tells me anyhow. It sounds healthy enough. I decide to let her off the hook. I tell her I had Subway. She is pleased.
I pull out my notebook. LA ignores the graphic yellow post-it note on the front as I flip to my homework assignment, a page I titled "My Rules About Food." This list reveals fourteen "rules" I have somehow developed about food; the rules I have rigidly adhered to throughout the past year.
These rules have led me to eating disorder destruction, sickness, bodily harm. These rules have destroyed my confidence, brought me to a place of such extreme darkness, and whittled my body down to nothingness.
I read them to LA one by one. She is quiet for a moment. There it was...the rules of my eating disorder hung between us. We both knew, without saying a word, that the only way to restore me to health was to begin to break the fourteen rules I have followed for months and months, one by one. It will not be easy. But at least we now have a list from which to work.
The details of the conversation that happened thereafter are not important, and I have chosen not to disclose the rules within my blog (for some reason, it is an incredibly personal piece of information I'm not sure I can ever share outside of my very close inner circle). So I will leave you with this positive note:
When I left LA's office, I had to go grocery shopping. Grocery shopping has become a very robotic activity for me during the last several months. After I had eventually restricted my diet down to about a half dozen items, the process of buying food didn't require much thought. I just bought the items The Mr. requested for himself, and that was that.
Given that I had the time to do so (the whole not working thing, if you recall), I decided to actually look around the store and try some new things. I did something I haven't done for about a year: I planned out a few meals for The Mr. and I. I kept them simple and mostly comprised of my "safe" ingredients...but meals nonetheless.
I tossed in about six new items. I used my Blackberry and emailed LA from the check-out line to share with her the new items I was bringing home. I texted Mama K too. And then I called The Mr. and told him I would be cooking dinner tonight when I get home from teaching a class at the gym.
Only those who have watched me try to overcome this can truly appreciate the accomplishment and growth represented by those extra food items in the cart. It sounds absolutely ridiculous, but it was hard to fight back tears while standing there in the checkout line. I can see an end to this. I'm starting to break free.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Day 1 Intensive: Play Date with Fake Food
Here we are...Monday and Day One of intensive work with the team over the next two weeks.
This morning, I woke up, showered, threw on jeans, my favorite long-sleeved t-shirt, glasses, beloved North Face jacket, and running shoes. I have to admit, despite the way I dress in my professional life, I am much more in tune with my tomboy side, and dressing this way for the next two weeks falls in the "positives of treatment" column.
LA's office is located in a wellness facility that also includes a gym, so it's familiar territory for me. I enjoy going there because I have grown to trust her, can be completely open about my fear of weight and foods, and she respects me a great deal for my drive and insistence on kicking this disorder. This morning, we caught up a bit at first: her relaying information from Dr. K in exchange for my account of the weekend and how I've been feeling. She tells me I look totally different in my glasses, I ask her about her weekend (which consisted of swiping the credit card repeatedly to purchase all the necessary items for her girls' upcoming formal dances). Then, we get down to business.
LA grabs a giant box from the corner of her office and sets it on the desk, brushing away the dust that had settled on the top (LA no longer works exclusively with eating disorder patients now that she is at the wellness center, so it's probably been awhile since this magic box has made an appearance). She opens it up and pulls out plastic versions of the following: a slice of cherry pie, a chocolate chip cookie, a baked potato, an orange, a glass of orange juice, strawberries, a slice of wheat bread, and a rather disgusting looking pile of pasta. I know by looking at them that the theme of the day is carbohydrates.
The sight of the rubbery imitation pasta makes me want to hurl immediately. I start cracking up. Then LA starts cracking up. She tells me to imagine the pasta is of a whole grain variety, thinking this will help me accept the pasta model. I can't stop laughing...it is the worst imitation of a plate of pasta I've ever seen. She agrees with me, shoves it back in the box, and pulls out a pile of equally-disgusting fake brown rice.
"Ok...we'll use this instead. How's that?"
It looks like a pile of vomit to me, but I agree to let it go and move on.
LA asks me to separate the plastic food into two groups: what I would eat, and what I would not. I immediately move the cookie and slice of cherry pie to the side. I hesitate for a minute, and eventually move the baked potato over to join them. I ask her if the orange juice has added sugar. She says no. I decide it is acceptable.
"I'd eat it all except for those." I point to the offending desserts and the baked potato.
I know what is coming next. I now have to explain my decisions. I tell her I immediately moved the desserts because I have no idea what is in them, therefore no idea how many calories they contain. The amount of sugar in them freaks me out too. It's just easier to say no to them, as my mind starts to go into overdrive trying to process through their nutritional content. She nods. She knows how my mind works at this point.
The baked potato surprises LA, though, so she probes. I just shrug on that one. It's been so long since I've eaten one, I guess I automatically moved it to the "no" group. Also, it is a white starch and I have forgotten the fact that potatoes actually carry a lot of nutrients. This illustrates her point exactly...I was unable to articulate why I moved the potato to the "no" side of the desk, so I immediately realize my decision to remove it was irrational.
LA turns to her computer and pulls up a nutritional breakdown of the baked potato. We go through it together. I see it is ok. I add baked potatoes back to my list of "acceptable foods"...and that's that.
Now on to the desserts...more complicated. We talk about the need for treats. We discuss my recent "binges" (in quotation marks because the term 'binge' is relative) and why they are happening. My body is craving sweets. It wants me to indulge a little from time to time. LA explains that the body doesn't care where the energy comes from, it just needs it; and that foods are simply chemical combinations and there are no "good" or "bad" foods. The foods on the desk before me are all just carbohydrates that will eventually be turned into glucose by the body. I cautiously agree with her, remembering this from my personal training studies.
I decide cookies are probably okay now. But the pie is out. I'm not eating that jelly-like filling crap. No thanks. Maybe after a few more play dates with her plastic food.
LA tells me her strategy on handling treats, and I decided to adopt it as my own. She indulges, but makes sure that when she does, it's worth it. For example, if LA is going to eat a cookie, she's going to eat a damn good cookie (not a Chips A'Hoy, if you get what I'm saying) and gets a gourmet one or makes a batch herself. She treats herself daily, but is a self-proclaimed food snob. I decide to do the same.
I'll begin to indulge a little, but only if I really want something and know I will enjoy it. And now it is Dr. Joe's turn to help me let go of the guilt associated with doing so and avoid purging...we'll tackle that during my appointment with him tomorrow.
LA gave me homework, too, and I will oblige because I like to learn, am a perfectionist, and want feel accomplished (it works in my favor at times). I have to 1. Go an entire week without checking labels or googling ingredients in the foods I decide to eat, and 2. Make a list of the statements that run through my mind related to food choices.
After my meeting with LA, I went into work just to teach my college orientation/ career exploration class (the only piece of my job I kept on the calendar this week). My students this semester are outgoing, energetic, and engaged, and today's activities provoked great conversation, debate, and interaction. For an hour, I forgot about what I am currently trying to overcome and just enjoyed their company. Those 28 college freshmen will never know that their instructor is battling an eating disorder, or have any sense of the motivational impact their laughter and jokes had on me today. I felt a little like myself again: creating community, kidding around with them, and helping them learn.
I also went to lunch with an extremely supportive friend, K, and her two kids and nephew. I planned ahead, ordered safe food, and unloaded some of my frustration and stress onto her (she didn't mind and was happy to listen).
I am now at home for the rest of the day, and plan to take a nap, read, and do my homework for tomorrow's meetings with LA and Dr. Joe. All in all, a successful Day One.
I'm just hoping we're done with the revolting plastic noodles and vomit-like brown rice pile for the rest of the week!
This morning, I woke up, showered, threw on jeans, my favorite long-sleeved t-shirt, glasses, beloved North Face jacket, and running shoes. I have to admit, despite the way I dress in my professional life, I am much more in tune with my tomboy side, and dressing this way for the next two weeks falls in the "positives of treatment" column.
LA's office is located in a wellness facility that also includes a gym, so it's familiar territory for me. I enjoy going there because I have grown to trust her, can be completely open about my fear of weight and foods, and she respects me a great deal for my drive and insistence on kicking this disorder. This morning, we caught up a bit at first: her relaying information from Dr. K in exchange for my account of the weekend and how I've been feeling. She tells me I look totally different in my glasses, I ask her about her weekend (which consisted of swiping the credit card repeatedly to purchase all the necessary items for her girls' upcoming formal dances). Then, we get down to business.
LA grabs a giant box from the corner of her office and sets it on the desk, brushing away the dust that had settled on the top (LA no longer works exclusively with eating disorder patients now that she is at the wellness center, so it's probably been awhile since this magic box has made an appearance). She opens it up and pulls out plastic versions of the following: a slice of cherry pie, a chocolate chip cookie, a baked potato, an orange, a glass of orange juice, strawberries, a slice of wheat bread, and a rather disgusting looking pile of pasta. I know by looking at them that the theme of the day is carbohydrates.
The sight of the rubbery imitation pasta makes me want to hurl immediately. I start cracking up. Then LA starts cracking up. She tells me to imagine the pasta is of a whole grain variety, thinking this will help me accept the pasta model. I can't stop laughing...it is the worst imitation of a plate of pasta I've ever seen. She agrees with me, shoves it back in the box, and pulls out a pile of equally-disgusting fake brown rice.
"Ok...we'll use this instead. How's that?"
It looks like a pile of vomit to me, but I agree to let it go and move on.
LA asks me to separate the plastic food into two groups: what I would eat, and what I would not. I immediately move the cookie and slice of cherry pie to the side. I hesitate for a minute, and eventually move the baked potato over to join them. I ask her if the orange juice has added sugar. She says no. I decide it is acceptable.
"I'd eat it all except for those." I point to the offending desserts and the baked potato.
I know what is coming next. I now have to explain my decisions. I tell her I immediately moved the desserts because I have no idea what is in them, therefore no idea how many calories they contain. The amount of sugar in them freaks me out too. It's just easier to say no to them, as my mind starts to go into overdrive trying to process through their nutritional content. She nods. She knows how my mind works at this point.
The baked potato surprises LA, though, so she probes. I just shrug on that one. It's been so long since I've eaten one, I guess I automatically moved it to the "no" group. Also, it is a white starch and I have forgotten the fact that potatoes actually carry a lot of nutrients. This illustrates her point exactly...I was unable to articulate why I moved the potato to the "no" side of the desk, so I immediately realize my decision to remove it was irrational.
LA turns to her computer and pulls up a nutritional breakdown of the baked potato. We go through it together. I see it is ok. I add baked potatoes back to my list of "acceptable foods"...and that's that.
Now on to the desserts...more complicated. We talk about the need for treats. We discuss my recent "binges" (in quotation marks because the term 'binge' is relative) and why they are happening. My body is craving sweets. It wants me to indulge a little from time to time. LA explains that the body doesn't care where the energy comes from, it just needs it; and that foods are simply chemical combinations and there are no "good" or "bad" foods. The foods on the desk before me are all just carbohydrates that will eventually be turned into glucose by the body. I cautiously agree with her, remembering this from my personal training studies.
I decide cookies are probably okay now. But the pie is out. I'm not eating that jelly-like filling crap. No thanks. Maybe after a few more play dates with her plastic food.
LA tells me her strategy on handling treats, and I decided to adopt it as my own. She indulges, but makes sure that when she does, it's worth it. For example, if LA is going to eat a cookie, she's going to eat a damn good cookie (not a Chips A'Hoy, if you get what I'm saying) and gets a gourmet one or makes a batch herself. She treats herself daily, but is a self-proclaimed food snob. I decide to do the same.
I'll begin to indulge a little, but only if I really want something and know I will enjoy it. And now it is Dr. Joe's turn to help me let go of the guilt associated with doing so and avoid purging...we'll tackle that during my appointment with him tomorrow.
LA gave me homework, too, and I will oblige because I like to learn, am a perfectionist, and want feel accomplished (it works in my favor at times). I have to 1. Go an entire week without checking labels or googling ingredients in the foods I decide to eat, and 2. Make a list of the statements that run through my mind related to food choices.
After my meeting with LA, I went into work just to teach my college orientation/ career exploration class (the only piece of my job I kept on the calendar this week). My students this semester are outgoing, energetic, and engaged, and today's activities provoked great conversation, debate, and interaction. For an hour, I forgot about what I am currently trying to overcome and just enjoyed their company. Those 28 college freshmen will never know that their instructor is battling an eating disorder, or have any sense of the motivational impact their laughter and jokes had on me today. I felt a little like myself again: creating community, kidding around with them, and helping them learn.
I also went to lunch with an extremely supportive friend, K, and her two kids and nephew. I planned ahead, ordered safe food, and unloaded some of my frustration and stress onto her (she didn't mind and was happy to listen).
I am now at home for the rest of the day, and plan to take a nap, read, and do my homework for tomorrow's meetings with LA and Dr. Joe. All in all, a successful Day One.
I'm just hoping we're done with the revolting plastic noodles and vomit-like brown rice pile for the rest of the week!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Panic Setting In
It's Sunday night, which means I am in my usual spot on the sectional sofa in the basement, watching Sunday Night Football. After yet another Browns loss, it's nice to be able to watch my beloved backup team (the Colts) play textbook football against the Redskins. Hey, every Browns fan has to invest some energy into a second team, as it keeps us watching football long after the season appears to be "over" (that feeling sets in around Week #3 when you are a Browns fan).
This Sunday night feels strange to me, as I know I will not be going into the office tomorrow or tackling another crazy, jam-packed week. Instead, my calendar has been cleared with the exception of medical appointments, therapy appointments, and the daily work with LA.
This weekend has been a bit of a blur, as I'm still feeling a little beaten down physically and mentally. On Friday night we had dinner and drinks with our neighbors and friends. While we are all busy living our separate lives (popping out kids, working our jobs, being grown-ups), it was nice to touch base and catch up. I taught back-to-back classes at the gym on Saturday morning, ran a bunch of errands, met another friend to catch up, and took the dog for a long walk in the woods before becoming a vegetable and watching the OSU-Wisconsin game (for the record, I hate OSU). We also went to a late-night showing of the movie "Social Network" (thank you, Mark Zuckerberg for making "relationship status" and "poking" the conerstones of my generation's social interactions).
This morning involved a lifting/ swimming morning workout during which I felt like crap (and Dr. Joe watched it all unfold from a few lanes over, giving me that parental look of disapproval...I sometimes hate that we use the same gym), listened to my body, and surrenderred to the couch for the rest of the day to watch the NFL games.
Medical leave will begin tomorrow at 9:00 am. Instead of putting on my high heels, trying to cram as much as possible into a 12-hour day, and making the professional decisions I'm paid to make, I'll be fully engaged in eating disorder treatment and resting my deteriorating body. It's an odd feeling, and I am still talking myself into this decision even as it is lingering on the horizon.
One of the feelings that keeps creeping up is a sense of urgency. While I know the anxiety about getting better is probably self-induced, I can't help but feel that "this-is-your-last- shot" message from those in my life. I sense it from those I work with, my husband, and my close friends who have been watching my eating disorder take over my life. This pressure, whether real or sensed, motivates me at times, yet frustrates and cripples me during others. Many times this weekend, I found myself experiencing thinking "everyone in my life is going to walk away if I don't get it together immediately" or "my husband, friends, and coworkers cannot possibly put up with this much longer; I have two weeks to fix this".
Bring on the panic.
I may be sick. I may need to rest, but that doesn't mean my natural inner drive has been turned off like a light switch. Just as it has been the catalyst driving my eating disorder, I'm feeling an (unjustified) drive to overcome this quickly, to show others I can beat it, to restore a sense of normalcy to my life (and the lives of those around me) as soon as possible.
That is going to need to change, or else these two weeks are sure to end in disappointment.
I wish eating normally and having a balanced relationship with food was easy; I want nothing more than to indulge in life's pleasures (I really do), but it is a very slow and painful process. At times, I simply want to scream "it's not as easy as you think!" when people gently encourage me to have a slice of pizza, a few beers, some chips and salsa...I want to be normal. I really do. But it isn't going to happen overnight, and it certainly isn't going to happen over the next two weeks, especially given the physical challenges I currently face. I'm honestly not sure what to expect out of the next two weeks (although I highly doubt I'll be indulging in junk food or ripping up the "not acceptable" list of foods by the end of this leave), but I am hoping LA and Dr. Joe can help me set some realistic goals within the next few days...
...and get me to settle the f%&* down.
So what do I need from others right now? I'll just be blunt and say it:
1. Patience- It's didn't take me two weeks to get here, and it's going to take a hell of a lot longer to get better. I'll be working my hardest, but I'm after long-term success and recovery, not a temporary fix. Eating a slice of pizza is not a sign of progress if it is followed by extreme guilt and a burning desire to purge.
2. Understanding- I've been amazed by friends (or the small group I have trusted in confidence, anyhow) who have started to read up on eating disorders, watch documentaries, and ask questions. I can honestly say that striving for understanding and knowledge is the best way to support a loved one who is trying to be refed, learning to eat again, and tackling the psychological motivation behind the disorder. Those efforts mean the world to someone who is going through this because it's tough to verbalize it all the time...trust me!
3. Encouragement- Hey, when your own mind screams at you that you can't do anything, are nothing, and have failed miserably, you need a few positive comments to pull you up...at least until you can start to say them to yourself.
4. Hope- I am not myself right now. But I will be back soon. Just keep hanging on.
I am not perfect. If I were, I wouldn't be writing this blog, now would I? But I do give everything in my life my all, and I intend to do the same during my intensive treatment over the next two weeks.
Deep breath...here we go.
This Sunday night feels strange to me, as I know I will not be going into the office tomorrow or tackling another crazy, jam-packed week. Instead, my calendar has been cleared with the exception of medical appointments, therapy appointments, and the daily work with LA.
This weekend has been a bit of a blur, as I'm still feeling a little beaten down physically and mentally. On Friday night we had dinner and drinks with our neighbors and friends. While we are all busy living our separate lives (popping out kids, working our jobs, being grown-ups), it was nice to touch base and catch up. I taught back-to-back classes at the gym on Saturday morning, ran a bunch of errands, met another friend to catch up, and took the dog for a long walk in the woods before becoming a vegetable and watching the OSU-Wisconsin game (for the record, I hate OSU). We also went to a late-night showing of the movie "Social Network" (thank you, Mark Zuckerberg for making "relationship status" and "poking" the conerstones of my generation's social interactions).
This morning involved a lifting/ swimming morning workout during which I felt like crap (and Dr. Joe watched it all unfold from a few lanes over, giving me that parental look of disapproval...I sometimes hate that we use the same gym), listened to my body, and surrenderred to the couch for the rest of the day to watch the NFL games.
Medical leave will begin tomorrow at 9:00 am. Instead of putting on my high heels, trying to cram as much as possible into a 12-hour day, and making the professional decisions I'm paid to make, I'll be fully engaged in eating disorder treatment and resting my deteriorating body. It's an odd feeling, and I am still talking myself into this decision even as it is lingering on the horizon.
One of the feelings that keeps creeping up is a sense of urgency. While I know the anxiety about getting better is probably self-induced, I can't help but feel that "this-is-your-last- shot" message from those in my life. I sense it from those I work with, my husband, and my close friends who have been watching my eating disorder take over my life. This pressure, whether real or sensed, motivates me at times, yet frustrates and cripples me during others. Many times this weekend, I found myself experiencing thinking "everyone in my life is going to walk away if I don't get it together immediately" or "my husband, friends, and coworkers cannot possibly put up with this much longer; I have two weeks to fix this".
Bring on the panic.
I may be sick. I may need to rest, but that doesn't mean my natural inner drive has been turned off like a light switch. Just as it has been the catalyst driving my eating disorder, I'm feeling an (unjustified) drive to overcome this quickly, to show others I can beat it, to restore a sense of normalcy to my life (and the lives of those around me) as soon as possible.
That is going to need to change, or else these two weeks are sure to end in disappointment.
I wish eating normally and having a balanced relationship with food was easy; I want nothing more than to indulge in life's pleasures (I really do), but it is a very slow and painful process. At times, I simply want to scream "it's not as easy as you think!" when people gently encourage me to have a slice of pizza, a few beers, some chips and salsa...I want to be normal. I really do. But it isn't going to happen overnight, and it certainly isn't going to happen over the next two weeks, especially given the physical challenges I currently face. I'm honestly not sure what to expect out of the next two weeks (although I highly doubt I'll be indulging in junk food or ripping up the "not acceptable" list of foods by the end of this leave), but I am hoping LA and Dr. Joe can help me set some realistic goals within the next few days...
...and get me to settle the f%&* down.
So what do I need from others right now? I'll just be blunt and say it:
1. Patience- It's didn't take me two weeks to get here, and it's going to take a hell of a lot longer to get better. I'll be working my hardest, but I'm after long-term success and recovery, not a temporary fix. Eating a slice of pizza is not a sign of progress if it is followed by extreme guilt and a burning desire to purge.
2. Understanding- I've been amazed by friends (or the small group I have trusted in confidence, anyhow) who have started to read up on eating disorders, watch documentaries, and ask questions. I can honestly say that striving for understanding and knowledge is the best way to support a loved one who is trying to be refed, learning to eat again, and tackling the psychological motivation behind the disorder. Those efforts mean the world to someone who is going through this because it's tough to verbalize it all the time...trust me!
3. Encouragement- Hey, when your own mind screams at you that you can't do anything, are nothing, and have failed miserably, you need a few positive comments to pull you up...at least until you can start to say them to yourself.
4. Hope- I am not myself right now. But I will be back soon. Just keep hanging on.
I am not perfect. If I were, I wouldn't be writing this blog, now would I? But I do give everything in my life my all, and I intend to do the same during my intensive treatment over the next two weeks.
Deep breath...here we go.
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