Two Week-A-Versary

Today is Tuesday and it is the 14th day that I've been in treatment. It's weird because it has gone by so fast but I feel like I've been here forever and a day. It's going pretty well. This past weekend from like Friday through Sunday were the "worst" days that I've had so far. And when I say "worst," I mean that in terms of in comparison to the other days that I've been here, they haven't been as great. but they weren't terrible...just not as good. On Friday I decided to print out a picture of myself from last year when I was weight restored. I wanted to try and look at it and accept myself, as well as write down whatever emotions came up or how I felt. Well, it was a good exercise in terms of bringing up emotions because I felt muy scared. I am TERRIFIED of going back to that, so it was good to look at it and deal with the emotions that came up because I'm more than likely going to back to looking like that soon. I know that I didn't look bad and that I was healthy, but that doesn't make up for the fear of gaining weight, or going back to that appearance, that I'm currently battling. I just associate the way that I looked with a great deal of self-hate and sadness. When I first got to that weight/appearance, I was fine. I was totally happy and gung-ho about recovery. However, it proved that "all good things come to an end" was the case in my situation as I eventually realized what I looked like, I (or, at least, my eating disorder) didn't like it, and I hated myself. I couldn't walk pat a mirror without balling my eyes out. I saw myself as the fat, overweight, lonely, attention-seeking little girl that I once was and I freaked...hence the relapse that landed me where I am now. #swag. I'm learning that I place so much importance in my weight because of the feelings that I experienced when I was a higher weight. I never got the attention of boys, the same kind of attention that other girls got, I felt like the only thing I was really good at was being the "funny fat girl." I've realized that the eating disorder gives me the attention and nurturing from my parents that I feel as though I missed out on as a kid because they were either working or helping my dependent brother (note to parents: this isn't about condemnation, it's about how I feel). I've realized that the eating disorder is my means of coping with stress and anxiety. I've realized that my eating disorder provides safety: in my eating disorder, I don't have to deal with the hassle and stress of "normal life." I can starve my way into a mini-vacation where I don't have to make decisions or do work, in the form of a treatment center. So while the eating disorder really sucks and ruins my life, it provides something for me that I have a hard time getting outside of it. I have no complaints as far as treatment goes, except there are only like 2 groups a day and they aren't mandatory, and there is wayyyyy too much free time. I've seen/heard at least two incidents of people trying to run away (a.k.a. "elopement"). I've realized all treatment centers smell the same and that scent is fart because everyone's digestive system is whacked out. The food here isn't as good as when I went to Rosewood, but I've had some tasty meals. We go on outings every weekend, and this past weekend we went bowling (which was fun for bowling). I pooped at the bowling alley and it was exciting not to have someone check the toilet before I flushed (which we have to do whenever we go to the bathroom here). We have "fresh air" breaks where smokers can go upstairs to smoke, or you can go downstairs to get some fresh air, or you can just stay inside. The past couple of days have been sunny and in the 70's; I actually got hot yesterday which was a refreshing change of pace. A couple of people and I meet every morning after breakfast to read the day's passage of "Jesus Calling" and pray, and then we meet on Saturday mornings to have a Bible study over the book of Exodus. It's a good group because it's the only spiritual aspect of the facility besides going to mass on Sundays which is...mass-y. More than that, though, it's a good reminder of God's presence. I believe is and I feel God with me in this process. I pray that He won't make me "fat", but I ultimately want His will no matter what. It's hard for me to accept and it's hard for me to think about, but I believe that God will use me and love me no matter what size I am. I just really, really, REALLY hope it's not huge...

Helllo, Denver

Hello anyone who still actually reads this! I'm sorry for not posting in forever and a day. I would like to say "I've been busy," but in reality, I've been lazy and caught up in myself. I feel like a lot yet little has happened or changed since I last posted, but things certainly have changed. I want to try and tell you about my life since my prior post... So, my first semester back at Lee was...okay. Like I said before, I was having a hard time with not having new friends and not knowing what I wanted to do. Well, that was a little more than a hard time apparently. In my Foundations of Western Culture class, we were assigned to read "The Iliad" and I did not read "The Iliad" because I had a hard time focusing and understanding the language...that is until a Friday when I realized "Oh....I have a test over this next week." I then decided to take it upon myself to read the entire Iliad in two days. Bad. Choice. I did nothing but read. I started getting dizzy, having headaches, shortness of breath, and my heart would beat really fast. That Sunday, I woke up at like 4 in the morning with chest pain and my breathing was off, so I texted my dad (who I knew would be awake), and told him what was going on and what to do. He advised me to go to the health clinic when it opened (if I didn't think the ER was necessary), so I did. They told me it was anxiety and if it happened again or persisted to go to the ER, which I ended up doing later that night. They also told me that it was anxiety (after making a snarky, rude comment about eating that ticked me off). Later, I looked up anxiety and anxiety attacks, and as it turned out, I was experiencing my first REAL (I faked one my sophomore year to get out of golfing an 18-hole golf tournament) anxiety attack. Apparently my weekend with "The Iliad" provoked a full on panic attack, which ended up lasting about two weeks on and off. Frickin' Homer. I researched anxiety more, gave up/tried to give up caffeine, and there was that. I had BAD anxiety. My new found anxiety was completely new to me and I didn't know how to deal with it. On top of that, I was in a biology class that made me want to throw and break things, the rest of my classes were slightly challenging (but I enjoyed them), and I was just stressed. I interviewed for a group on campus called S.W.A.T. (Students With A Testimony), and I LOVED the people and the ministry in itself (essentially, they lead small groups on weekend retreats for kids from 6th-12th grade). I made it into the group, and I was so stoked for my new friends and the opportunity. The same week as the interviews, I went to talk with an academic advisor in the business program, told him what I kind of wanted to do with my life, and asked if that program would work for my goals, and he said it would be perfect for it. The next day, we had something called "Celebration" to celebrate all of the accomplishments and donors and people and what not of Lee, and all of the students were required to go listen to one out of a ton of speeches being given by people that Lee brought into speak. I went to a speech from this dude who opened a coffee shop and travels around the world to source the beans. I don't know if I ever wrote about the idea I had last year of a career, but one thing I had toyed around with was opening a coffee shop (like Starbucks, or River Road for those in the 740), travel to 3rd world countries, make it a mission field for Christ, source the beans there, and then travel back to the states and sell the coffee in the shop and tell the stories of the people. Hearing that talk confirmed it. I had to do my coffee shop thang. I declared my major as Business Administration with an emphasis in International Business as soon as I could and I was so excited for my life and all of the opportunities and blessings God was giving me...and then I got a call from mom... The same day as the Celebration, I received a very frantic phone call from my mother, who I could tell was balling her eyes out. All she said was "Your dad called the health clinic, and he told me what you weigh. We're coming to get you and you're going to treatment." My heart stopped. I was devastated. I spent the next two hours talking to my mom and my dad on the phone, convincing them that I was okay. My parents, being the loving yet enabling people they are (sorry, but you know that it's true), let me stay on the condition that I would eat and go to the health clinic every week for weigh-ins. Of course, I agreed to it but didn't follow through. Ah yes, the eating thing...well, that didn't happen. I would eat, but VERY little and nothing of substantial caloric count. There was a day where I decided to just say "eff it" and I decided to feed my body what it wanted and just eat what I wanted; that ended quickly The only thing that I would consume before noon was coffee, vegetables for lunch, and then something like cereal and soy milk or vegetables and a veggie burger for dinner, copious amounts of diet soda to satisfy my hunger through the night, and then always something before bed. Carbohydrates from grains became my biggest fear, calories became the enemy, and I continued to spiral. I experienced my first "binge" on Halloween day after I hadn't eaten anything but carrots all day. I know it was a binge because I completely lost control and was almost out of my body yet shoving fistful after fistful of Fritos, candy corn, and other candies into my mouth with no real reason to. As I was doing it, I would tell myself "I'm just feeding myself what my body wanted," but it soon became "You're so stupid," "guilty," "how could you have done that?", "fat", "moron," etc. I hated myself. I told my friends that it was happening and asked for them to pray for me. I called my dad on the verge of tears. I told myself to restrict and make up for it the next 3 days, but after those 3 days were over, the guilt remained and I continued restricting the best I could. I went to my best friend/roommate's house for Thanksgiving and ate little to nothing. It was the strangest and "best" Thanksgiving of my life because they didn't have a normal Thanksgiving meal, so I got away with eating vegetables for dinner. My eating disorder behaviors had gotten worse and they were bad while I was on campus. I ordered skim milk and sugar free syrups in my coffee specialty drinks, I HAD to watch them make it to ensure that it was made in the right way and if not it had to be re-made, I had to customize all of my foods to make them have the least calories possible, and the list goes on. My eating disorder had taken over, and I didn't care. I didn't care that I was destroying myself. I didn't care that I was light-years away from God (but He was always right besides me). I didn't care that, from hundreds of miles away, I was destroying my family. I didn't care that my speech was beginning to slur, I wanted to sleep all of the time, my feet and hands fell asleep very easily, my ears started to ache in a way that they never had before, and I was freezing allllllllllllll of the time. My hair never fell out, though, so there's a plus. When exam time came around, I came to a point where I just didn't care and I wanted to go home. I wanted the stress of eating and spending money and life to be over, so I didn't care at all what my grades were. I ended up getting 3 A's, a B-, and a C (in biology, which I was NOT expecting), so I guess I did well despite my deteriorating self. 3 of my absolute, best of the best ever best friends came home took a little road trip to Ohio with me to spend a few days exploring my fatherland. It was so much fun. When they left, I was so upset because I wanted to be back at Lee with them and not at home. I LOVE my friends so much! We grew so super close over the semester. We made plans to get a house together next year, plans for our weddings, and our lives were in the palms of our hands and we could be together through all of it. The rest of my break was okay. I didn't do much because I didn't work, but I made plans, which stressed me out to the EXTREME. I had to make sure that I did all of the things that I planned to do with my friends from back home. A lot of what I planned centered around food and eating, so I would have to plan my days around that which added stress. If I went out for coffee with a friend in the morning and got a muffin, I'd have to make sure I could get around having other grain-type carbs the rest of the day; stuff like that. I slept with my mom the entire time (despite Ringo [my dog] trying to guard the bed from me) because my room was the coldest room in the house. Even then, my mom got to a point where she could barely look at me because she couldn't stand the sight of what I was doing to myself. We couldn't have a conversation where I didn't get mad and yell at her for bothering me about my eating stuff, or the conversation just feeling forced and unnatural. I eventually agreed to go see my old physician, which never happened...but this time for a different reason than the usual "I don't want to go to the doctor" bit... On New Years Eve, I felt a lot of pressure in my chest, my breathing was really off and weird, and I felt so weak. I told my dad, and he asked if I wanted to go to the hospital, which I said "not right now" to. The next day, we went to see "The Hobbit" (our tradition; though I don't know what we'll do now that the saga has ended...) and we spent the night at home. Around 8, one of my best friends was on his way over when I told him that I felt sick and to go home. I knew it was coming, so I wanted to get it over with ASAP so I could have a chance of making it back to school on time: I asked to go to the hospital. I was admitted on New Years Day and spent 10 days in there. The moment I was admitted, I knew going back to school wasn't an option. If it was, my parents were the biggest morons on the face of the earth. I ultimately decided to admit myself (since I'm 19), but the only reason that I did was because my parents told me to; I would have been completely fine with going home, though the thought of a break from all of my eating disorder stress did sound appealing. I spent my first 3 or 4 days in the hospital feeling guilty, ashamed, and stupid for admitting myself: I could have gone back to school and my life would have been normal. On top of that, they made me either eat meat or take Ensure because I had eaten meat last year; I was hungry so I ate the stinkin' animal flesh...gross. The discussions of treatment centers followed, and the calls to places ranging from Florida, to Indiana, to Oklahoma began. I began to be okay with the thought of treatment. I started to look at schools online so I wouldn't fall terribly behind, and I might even be starting class this coming Monday (that's still up in the air). I asked if I could be discharged before breakfast when I was told my release date so dad and I could go to one of my breakfast places in the C-Bus, which they agreed to! Unfortunately, after being discharged on Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m., dad and I went to Tasi, where I got my usual (Greek yogurt with granola, fruit, and honey) despite really wanting a pancake. As I watched the chef prepare my dish, pouring on calories on top of calories of honey, I instantly regretted my choice. As I ate it, I thought of how stupid I was for ordering something higher in calories and price because I was scared of the grain-carbs in the pancake. Stupid. Just stupid. The next two days were rough because there was nothing but arguing over me not eating, my parents having the biggest fight I've ever heard them have over me, and just a bunch of stupid stuff that I caused. Oh yeah, I ate and did perfectly fine in the hospital, but eating at home, I realized, is hard for me/I just can't do it. On Monday, after 300 phone calls and a lot of anxiety, I booked a plane ticket to Denver, Colorado to go to treatment (which is where we had decided that I would be going to treatment, btw.) So, here I am: at the Eating Recovery Center in Denver, Colorado. It's Saturday and virtually nothing happens on weekends. I've been doing very well. When I'm in treatment, I have no problem eating (it's home where the challenge lies), and I've already moved to what they consider to be a level two...in only 4 days! WOO! I've been my real happy and positive self, though on Wednesday I thought about how I would soon be gaining weight and my clothes would start to get tight, so that will be telling once it really begins to happen. The food here is decent; not as good as Rosewood, but decent. I haven't really slept since getting here (or for quite some time leading up to it). I still have rolly veins that make it difficult to draw blood...nothing very new. I've started reading two devotion books a day, books about spirituality and God, and talking to my peers about God...why does it take something as devastating as my life getting rocked off the wagon wheel with Darius Rucker (I've also started to enjoy country music...I don't know what's happening to me), dropping out of school (I dropped out of Lee...again), going to treatment, and essentially having no control of my life to draw me into seeking God? I guess that's the way most humans work. Right now, I feel happy and content. I'm okay with being here because it's what my family wants. I'm okay with leaving Lee because I realized the only reason I was there was for my friends (which isn't the best reason to drop so much cash on a school). I'm okay with where I am in life. However, I'm terrified of gaining weight because no one really knows what my "normal weight is"...I've never had one. I'm terrified because I remember what I looked like and how massive I felt last year when I got out of treatment and I don't want to go back to that. I'm terrified that my treatment team is going to make me bigger than I should/want to be. The funny thing is, I'm not afraid of my eating disorder. I certainly don't want it, but I'm not afraid of it like I am gaining weight. If you ask me if I want to get better, I'll tell you the honest truth: no. I really don't want to get better. There is too much safety and certainty in my eating disorder that I'm not ready to give up. However, I'm going to get better for my family because I can't stand the sight of seeing my little brother cry his eyes out because he doesn't think I'm going to wake up in the morning to tell him about a poop I took. My family is my inspiration. God is my inspiration. I guess this is just one of those things where I'm going to cast my anxieties upon the Lord, and try and rest knowing that I'm made in His perfect image. Life doesn't suck yet, but when it does, I hope that I can turn to God and really rely on him versus relying on starving myself for peace.