They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab and I Said...Dang

Who's ready for a big surprise?! On the count of 3, ready? 1..2...3.. I'M IN TREATMENT AGAIN! Yayyy! Hazaa! Who would have guessed?! Third year in a row! WA-FREAKIN-HOO!

So, if you got caught up in the dramatic amount of sarcasm in that, I'm in treatment...again. Here's what's been going on since I last posted...

It was about five weeks ago. I was sitting at downtown River Road on a Saturday having my Jesus time, reading the Word, and God just hit me with something: "you need to go to treatment." The moment He revealed that, that I freaked. I sat there for awhile and journaled, begging God not to let that be His will. He didn't change it. I begged Him to wait. He said now. After resolving that He wasn't going to change His mind, I left feeling very scared and very angry. I wasn't angry at God, but I was angry at what His answer to prayer was. People had been praying for me since I got back from Tennessee for guidance and direction on where He wanted me. I wanted those prayers so badly to be directed into terms of if God wanted me in school or working full-time. I secretly prayed that treatment wouldn't be in my future, but I knew deep down and locked away that it was going to be the outcome. "Zoe, why would you think that? I thought you were doing so well!" Well, I was. At least, I convinced myself that I was. Honestly, I haven't been doing well since the day I got back to Tennessee. I think it was quite literally the day after my parents dropped me off at school Fall semester that I was walking, having a mini-mental-freak out, and I thought "I'm not going to follow my meal plan. I'm not going to eat like I'm supposed to. I need to go home." I convinced myself that I was just nervous about starting back at Lee and I needed to give myself time to settle and adjust. I decided that I wasn't going to follow my meal plan because I finally had freedom to eat what I wanted with no one telling me what to do and having zero accountability. I decided I wouldn't go see a counselor at school until my parents threatened to make me come home, so I never did. That's when I started to relapse. Then you know the rest: I went to Cali, had panic attacks, came home, got my dream job, etc. etc.

Like I've said before, River Road is the second best thing that has ever happened to me (Jesus being the first). My co-workers are basically all of my best friends, I love the customer service aspect of it, I love the atmosphere, I love my bosses, I love the product, and the benefits are pretty great too (free shift drink, hollaaa). The only problem that arose with my job is that I began to use my shift drink to replace meals. A latte has milk which has calories and a combination of protein, carbs, and fats (depending on the type of milk you use). Lattes can be used for caloric intake...but not every day. Which is what I did (at least whenever I worked). My eating began to become a major issue of control for me. I planned out every thing I would eat in a week and if I strayed from that, I wigged out a bit. But it was no big deal because I had everything under control, right? I convinced myself that the area that I was weakest in and needed the most prayer for was in my issues of control and being so rigid that I wouldn't let God work. My control issues are what I asked people to pray for me for. Food and eating was always in the back of my mind, but I never wanted to or tried to bring it to the forefront. I pushed it and hid it in the dark recesses of my mind, so not even I would have to deal with it.

In mid-January, the Lord put the idea of meat on my heart. I had been having conversations with people where my being vegetarian came up, and when they asked why I gave them my reasons: because it sounds cool, it's what I'm used to, I really don't like the taste of meat, etc. After those conversations, I would think about it more, and I realized that the real reasons were because it's how I "control" my weight and I placed a lot of my identity in being vegetarian. When I realized that, God said "Hey! Your identity should be in Christ and Christ alone, home girl, (the Message version)" So, I decided to give up on eating meat. The first thing I got was the grilled chicken kids meal at Texas Roadhouse. I really wanted my usual (a baked sweet potato with no butter or brown sugar and steamed vegetables with no butter), but I felt God pressing me to get meat, so I did. It wasn't bad. It wasn't something that I'm crazy about, but it was good. I was worried that when I started eating meat, my eating would get bad because when I tried to eat meat in the past, I freaked out and it caused me to restrict more. Well, it was confirmed that it was God's will for me to start eating meat because I had no negative feelings about eating meat and my eating didn't get any worse than it was...but my eating wasn't very good at that point anyway.

So, back to that one Saturday at River Road. The next day, I worked my usual 11-7 shift at 21st street. That is a very stressful shift because a) there's a drive-thru b) we close 2 hours earlier c) there is more to do to close than working in the day d) for some reason, all of Licking County thinks River Road frozen drinks sound best at 6:30 at night. Before, it didn't bother me as much, but that day, it really hit me with mass stress and chaos. After that Saturday, I entered a horrible depression. What was I going to do? I would have to take time off work, I would have to tell people that I was struggling EVEN THOUGH I was announced to be in full remission, and worst of all, I would have to let someone else be in control of what I ate. No. Absolutely not. Can't do it. I went about a week hiding what God had told me. I didn't know what to say or how to admit it. For months, I couldn't even admit to myself that I was struggling with food. How was I supposed to tell anyone else that not only I was struggling, but I needed treatment? I first told my best friend, Madison. I then told my mentor, Terry. I didn't want to tell my parents because once they knew, then I would actually have to do something about it...so I put it off. Oh, I forgot to mention this: I had felt like I was dying for the past 2 months. I don't mean to sound dramatic, but I could feel my body deteriorating. My acid reflux had just come up and gotten bad because I hadn't been eating. My parents would ask what was wrong and tell me I needed to go to the doctor to get looked at, but I ignored it because I knew it was because I wasn't eating properly. I stopped going to Bible Study because I became too depressed and I didn't want to let anyone into what I was struggling with. I also stopped taking my anxiety medicine about a month before because I didn't want to have to go to a doctor to get it refilled and then them tell me I needed help. My anxiety and depression became unbearable. I eventually told my parents, and then I had to start making plans.

We got a family membership at the YMCA for Christmas. At first, I went two or three times a week, and just did one zumba or yoga class or something like that. As time went on, I discovered there were different classes that I could keep up with and I slightly enjoyed (f.y.I.: I hate exercise). I also found that going gave me something to do when I wasn't working. I started waking up early and going to the gym to get it out of the way. If I didn't, I felt immense guilt. For about two weeks, I would wake up at 4:30, go to a Spinning class then yoga (on Tuesdays and Thursdays), then Pilates, then I would walk on the treadmill for an hour and listen to VGF (my church) church sermons (which I actually did genuinely enjoy because walking is probably the only form of exercise I like and I enjoyed hearing the sermons). I began obsessively keeping track of how many calories I burned and how many I consumed. I began going to the gym, going to work, and not consuming anything with calories until I got off at 2 or 3. Even then, I switched my usual latte "lunch" to an iced Americano with a splash of soy milk....as few calories as possible. I started to eat nothing but steamed vegetables for dinner, and I would have something low carb/calorie for a bedtime snack. I had zero energy. I would come home from work and just lay around all night because I couldn't move after working out and working. I became very mean, irritable, grouchy, etc. because I just didn't have energy to be nice or keep up a conversation (which unfortunately was always directed at my mom).

My brother has never been involved in anything. He did Boy Scouts for like half a year, he played Viola for about a month once, and he played Upward basketball when I was a freshman in high school...that's pretty much it. Last year, he entered my high school territory of theater. I was stoked when I found out he was involved in it! BUT I was in rehab and missed him in his first show. I was real upset. So, when I found out this year that he was in the play, I was stoked out of my mind to be able to see him. The night of the show, dad and I sat in our seats at the theater chatting before the show started, while mom went to buy my brother flowers at the school. Then, all of a sudden, the left side of my body went numb. I started breathing heavily and crying. I thought "this is it. I'm actually having a heart attack." My dad said we needed to go to the hospital, so we did. And I missed my brother in his play...again. It turned out that my blood sugar was just low and everything else was fine. Nothing wrong with my heart, nothing wrong with my blood...just my sugar. This event caused me to fall further into my depression. Not only did I miss my brother's play, but I also wasn't sick enough to be admitted into the hospital. I knew my weight wasn't that bad, but I had secretly been hoping my insides were failing so I could be hospitalized. I prayed to be that sick. But I wasn't. The next day I had to work the busy Sunday shift, and I had another small panic attack. I had to follow up with my doctor the following Friday, so I did as much as I could (i.e. working out, eating as little as possible) to try and be hospitalized that time. Nope. My blood pressure was low, but I still wasn't sick enough to be admitted. I sunk further into my depression, worked another busy Sunday and had another mini panic attack. The next week, I had a phone screening with the Center for Balanced Living (the treatment center I went to for PHP, IOP, and Outpatient last year in Columbus). They scheduled me for an in-person assessment the next week. When I went to that, I struggled to speak and say what had been going on because I just had no energy. They recommended that I start doing their PHP program....again. But before I started, I would have to get an EKG, blood work, and a physical done. So the next day I went to a place in Columbus that did all of that. They told me that my heart rate was really abnormally low, and asked if that was normal for me. I said "yes" because it is normal for me to have a low heart rate... when I'm really malnourished. They let me go,  and I felt a sense of excitement because I thought if my heart rate was that low, I would most certainly have to be hospitalized. I thought the Center would call me the next day and tell me that I needed to be hospitalized ASAP. The next day, I worked, had a latte (which was the highest calorie thing  I had had for a "lunch" in weeks), then went home and waited for them to call to tell me I needed to go to the hospital. They did call and they told me they couldn't treat me because my heart rate was so low. SCORE! So I was told to go to the hospital and get looked at. I excitedly went to Children's hospital (because that's where I've always been hospitalized) with my dad. We sat in the ER for 4 hours. They did a chest x-ray, EKG, and blood routine. "Unfortunately" for me, my heart rate was at a stable beat and they didn't need to keep me. But my blood sugar was low again, so they made me drink orange juice. I had a nervous break down. I wasn't planning on drinking orange juice. There are a ton of carbs and calories in orange juice. I couldn't do it. But I did through a lot of ugly crying and hyperventilating. They took my blood sugar a few minutes later...still low. Another glass of OJ....another nervous breakdown. After that, my blood-sugar was fine and they let me go. And I entered a pit of depression. I really wasn't sick enough to be hospitalized. I was so looking forward to a break. I didn't want to "be in control" anymore. I wanted someone else to take over for me. I wanted to be free from my eating disorder. But if I wasn't "sick enough" I couldn't be. I called off work the next day because I mentally couldn't handle it. I laid in bed until 1 in the afternoon because I was too depressed to move. I received a phone call from the Center saying that I was medically cleared to be treated there, and I was starting Monday. I was excited for it because I didn't want to fight anymore. I worked short shifts the next two days, and then I started PHP, for the third year in a row, the following Monday.

So what happened this time? I'm not entirely preoccupied with my weight (though I don't want to gain weight). I'm not entirely using my eating disorder as a means to cope with stress and anxiety. It was something I could control. This time, my eating disorder manifested itself as a control issue. My mom has been asking me what makes it okay for me to eat if I'm in treatment, but not if I'm in control. My answer: I don't know. I can't help it. Like, if I'm in control, I have the power to restrict. If someone else is in control, I don't have any say and only then can I let my guard down. So how have the past three days been in treatment? Great. I've eaten 3 meals and 3 snacks and I feel good. I texted a couple people on Monday and said "It's amazing how much better you feel when you eat." And it's sad that I forgot, but it's true. I'm actually enjoying and super stoked to allow myself to eat again. I could hardly sleep last night because I was so excited to wake up, spend time with Jesus, drink some coffee, then go to treatment and see what they made me for breakfast. And I was super stoked to eat breakfast. When I knew I would be going to treatment, I was at first embarrassed. I know, I can't control it and there's nothing to be embarrassed about, but I held myself to a higher, recovered standard and I shouldn't have relapsed. But I did, and I acknowledge it. I've started telling people what I'm doing and I'm okay with it. I started an Instagram account documenting my recovery (my name is Hecalledmetorecover, if you wanna follow my insta-journey). Things are going up. I'm probably going to be in longer than I was last year because of where I am physically and mentally. I'm struggling because I don't know what to eat when I'm not in treatment, and it's giving me a lot of anxiety. But as far as eating itself goes, I'm golden, pony-boy. I'm nervous to find out what my weight range is too. If it's what it was when I was in treatment last year, I'll be okay (because I was very comfortable and confident with it). If it goes out, I'll probably have a nervous break-down...but that is TBD. And I'm still not mad at God. In the midst of my depressed weeks, I was hardly in the Word at all. I'm trying to get back into a routine of reading, and the Lord is already revealing things to me. I know that no matter how far  I wander, I am NEVER out of His reach. He is always calling me, pursuing me, loving me, reminding me that He is in control and He only has my best in store. So while I'm disappointed that I have to give up the life of working, drinking nothing but coffee for breakfast, eating "what I want", and not being accountable to anyone, I'm deciding (and it's a decision I have to make daily) to fix my eyes on Him and what He has in store for me. For now, I'm going to enjoy not having to make too many decisions about food and just letting someone other than my eating disorder be in control