Lies?

"Sure, you talk the talk when you need to; I fear the whole world is starting to believe you." -Tori Amos, "Taxi Ride"

At what point are you considered a fraud? I ask because everyone I know seems to think I'm 100% recovered. They believe that my eating disorder was "just a phase," and I'm past it now. My friends and family seem to believe that once the hallmark behaviors have subsided, the disease has disappeared.

Here's the thing. Even though I'm not actively sick, I still have disordered obsessions and compulsions. Maybe I quit therapy too soon. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Maybe there's a heap of issues I chose not to deal with. Whatever the reason, anorexia and bulimia still exist in my mind.

I eat when I'm hungry, stop when I'm satisfied, indulge in the occasional treat. But I also count calories, drink diet soda, and obsess about the way my clothes fit. Is an eating disorder a life sentence? Am I being deceitful by letting people think I'm entirely absolved? Is this simply the reality of recovery?

Eight years.

December 26, 2002. Eight years ago this Sunday. That was the closest I've ever been to dying.

It had been three straight days of non-stop chaos. Bingeing, purging, taking laxatives, diet pills, ipecac syrup. Going to work at the ski resort and forgetting why I was there. Spending hours in the bathroom. I was unhinged. I was malnourished and very, very disturbed. I had lost touch with reality. All that existed in my universe at that time was food and self-destruction. Merry Christmas.

The 26th. 72 hours into the bender. Therapist appointment. Had to climb stairs. Couldn't do it. Couldn't see the stairs, they seemed to be moving an awful lot. Therapist hoisted me up to her office. Couldn't talk. So dehydrated, tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Therapist panicked.

Back to the hospital. For a long time. Tubes. Pills. White coats. No therapy, too disoriented to carry on a conversation. No visitors. Will she make it? It doesn't look good. Lots of damage, maybe too much.

Wait, this isn't what I wanted. Didn't really want to die. How did this happen? I just wanted to be thin. I just wanted to be happy. I just wanted to be good at something. To matter. Hard to matter when you're dead.

Girl got better, somehow. Body got stronger, mind got stronger. Did that really happen? Yes it did, eight years ago.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Every once in awhile I take a step back and marvel at how far I've come in the last seven years. There's truly no doubt in my mind that miracles happen.

Nine and a half years ago, I was sitting in an Eating Disorders Anonymous meeting (I have to mention, I neither had any interest in attending that meeting nor any motivation to get well at the time). I was wearing a short skirt and sitting unaccompanied in the back row. Somehow I had managed to get my hands on a sharp object. As the participants shared their struggles, I carved a symbol into my upper thigh. It was a symbol of my own creation, a single letter that, when looked at from different angles, spelled the word "FAT."

I still have that scar, white and imposing against my tan skin. A reminder, every time I'm unclothed, of how much I hated myself. It wasn't enough to declare myself fat, or even to slice open my own body; I actually branded myself. That kind of self-violence is appalling to me now, and when I look at that scar, I can scarcely believe I was the person who put it there.

There are many scars on my body I would like to get removed someday; some that I put there, some put there by others. But that "FAT" scar, disturbing and sad as it is, will stay forever. Whenever I look at it, I am reminded of just how far I've come.

Thankful

"Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone..."

Things worked a bit opposite for me. I tried to get rid of everything, and then I figured out how much I had.

When you're down at the bottom of the hole, you truly feel like there's no way out. You're convinced that your despair is eternal, impossible to shake. But it's not.

I wish I could grab hold of all the desperate, hopeless people in the world and let them know just how temporary their situations are. You can't see the forest through the trees, as they say... but that doesn't mean it isn't out there.

I am thankful that I had the opportunity to survive my desperation, make it through my hopelessness. I never could have imagined a life as rich as the one I have now.

Wait, what?

Made an appointment with a new psychologist. My message on her machine went something like this: "Hi, my name is Cassie. My insurance company gave me your number. I'd love it if you called me back. My number is ###-####. Oh, and if you get my answering maching, please don't say why you're calling, because my husband has no idea I'm contacting you."

Firstly, I'm not relapsing, I could just use a steady hand on my shoulder to guide me through my stress.

Secondly, I hope my husband doesn't catch on and think I'm having an affair with a lovely-sounding young woman.

Lastly... why the hell do I always do things to complicate my life?

It's Getting Old

I can't tell you how many times I've wished I could wake up without any memory of my eating disorder. Just awaken, blissfully untethered to negative body image, feelings of inadequacy, insidious compulsions. Fix myself a nice hearty breakfast, put on my favorite sweater, and get on with the day.

You see, even when "in recovery," the eating disorder is still there. Dormant, yes, but ever-present. Much like a city at the base of a volcano, I am always aware of its looming threat. And you know what? I'm getting tired of it. There's no longer any novelty to "feeling fat." There's no emotional rush to eating breakfast - or, worse yet - NOT eating breakfast. There's no haughty sense of power to be had from drinking water while everyone else is eating their lunch.

But the thoughts remain. Hard as I try, I can't resist staring at my body in the mirror after a shower. Pinching, measuring, judging. Hard as I try, I can't stop myself from checking the calorie count of every single thing I put in my mouth. Hard as I try, I can't shake the shadow of that sinister twin, that doppelganger who's been my companion for far too long.

It's getting old.

Having A Purpose

For much of my life, I have felt inadequate. Like I just didn't have anything to offer the world. When I got married and had children, that changed, of course. My purpose was to nurture and care for the family I had made.

I still had a nagging feeling, though, that my contribution to the world as a whole was lacking. That insecurity had plagued me for years. I remember the first time it occurred to me: In fifth grade, my class took a field trip to the planetarium. We sat in the round, reclined and staring upward. The narrator explained to us that, in the grand scheme of the universe, we were absolutely insignificant. At the tender age of 10, I began to feel like my life was meaningless.

At the ripe old age of 25 (26 next week, thank you very much), my perspective has changed. I don't need to change the world in order to create meaning in my life. I simply need to be the best person I can be. Smiling at strangers, being polite, reaching out to those who are struggling, putting others before myself... maybe those small actions will have a ripple effect. Maybe, by being kinder and more attentive to the needs of others, I will have earned my place in the universe.

Telephone

The following is a telephone conversation I had this morning with a receptionist at a doctor's office:

Receptionist: "Such and Such Internal Medicine, how may I help you?"

Cassie: "Hi, I am looking for a new primary care doctor and was wondering if any of the physicians in your practice have experience with eating disorders."

R: "I'm sorry, could you repeat that last part?"

C: "Do any of your doctors have experience treating eating disordered patients?"

R: "What do you mean by 'eating disorders?'"

C: "Like anorexia or bulimia."

R: "Oh. Um, well, they're all internists, and they've probably seen patients with eating disorders before, although I'm not sure. Are you looking for yourself?"

C: "Yes."

R: "Oh. Okay. We'll see what we can do for you."

Now, maybe I'm just extra sensitive, but doesn't that conversation seem a little ridiculous? It's 2010. Chances are good at least someone in that office has encountered an anorexic or bulimic person before. I also have to add that this is the THIRD office I called. The first told me I should check with a psychiatrist, and the second simply said they didn't "deal" with eating disorders.

I don't want a psychiatrist. I don't need a therapist. I want a medical doctor to tell me if my laundry list of physical ailments is a result of past years of self-abuse, or if there's something else wrong with me. I want a physician to check my blood pressure - sitting, standing, lying down - and tell me that while yes, I royally fucked up my body, there's a good chance he can fix it.

I don't want to be humiliated every time I make a doctor's appointment. I shouldn't have to feel like a leper. Yes, I have a disease. No, I'm not contagious. Yes, I'm in recovery. No, I'm not a lunatic.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. My appointment is next week. My next issue: admitting to my dentist that I DO have a history of bulimia - which he has long suspected - and asking if all my teeth are going to fall out. Wish me luck.

It Lingers

Sometimes I get really, really scared. About my health. About the ways I've damaged it. About the possibility that, because of years of self-abuse, I will die young.

My resting heartrate is 54 bpm. My blood pressure hangs out around 90/60. My hands and feet are freezing when it's 100 degrees outside. My teeth are sensitive to hot and cold. I'm tired all the time. My hormones are wacky. I have headaches almost every day. My digestion hasn't been normal in years.

All this, and I'm in my seventh year of recovery.

So yes, I get really, really scared. What if I came this far, worked this hard, and the eating disorder STILL wins?

I Had No Right

I have a friend who is very, very sick. Breast cancer. She's 35. Married with two young kids. She's fighting harder than I've ever seen anyone fight, but it's an uphill battle.

I think about her often. I consider how something insidious invaded her body, barged in uninvited and left chaos in its wake. I think about her body "then" - strong, healthy, exactly the way a young woman's body should be. I think about her body "now" - delicate, painful, nothing that someone her - anybody's - age should be. I think about what her husband, her children, her parents, her siblings are facing.

I also think about my years of self-imposed sickness. Trips to the hospital, medical bills, worried family and friends. And I can't help but think, "I had no right to do that. Not to my body, not to my loved ones."

Health is precious. That's another thing no one tells you when you're toying with an eating disorder, or if they do tell you, you just don't appreciate. Health is a blessing, it is fragile, it is not guarunteed. It is to be treasured, respected. Health is not to be taken for granted, not to be trampled on, not to be destroyed in the name of "thin" or anything else.

I had no right.

Pigeonholed

There are so many roles that I play. So many categories that I fit into. Among them are the following:

-Recovering anorexic/bulimic.

-Recovering self-injurer.

-Periodic depressive.

-Sexual abuse survivor.

There are also these identities:

-Wife

-Mother

-Daughter

-Sister

-Friend

And then there are these:

-Volunteer

-Student

-Church-goer

-All-around cheerful person.

There are many, many more. Too many to list, perhaps. And everyone has their own list. So many people in just one person. How do you choose, then, which of them is your primary Self? Or is the very definition of "Self" a combination of attributes, experiences, personality traits, and memories that form one cohesive individual?

Maybe when people ask me who I am, I'll just say "Cassie," and that will be enough.

"Fat Is Not A Feeling."

I don't know how many times I've heard the treatment-ism "Fat is not a feeling." I also don't know how many times I've uttered the words, "I feel fat." I still do.

In fact, I was getting dressed just yesterday, and in my utter exasperation, I declared to my husband, "I feel fat!" Being a man, and a well-adjusted one at that, he replied, "What does 'fat' feel like, exactly? Because you certainly don't LOOK fat." I was unsure how to respond. "I don't know. It feels... big. Wrong. Overflowing. Excessive." He raised an eyebrow and resumed his morning routine.

I started analyzing the feelings, in true recovery fashion. Just what am I experiencing when I "feel fat?" Sure, sometimes I just don't like the way my pants fit. More often, though, it's a lot more complicated than that. Perhaps it's a response to my own confusion. Maybe "fat" isn't fat, exactly, but more like fear. Instead of "I feel fat," maybe the truth is more like, "I feel afraid."

That's okay, too. It's okay to feel afraid. It's okay to feel uncomfortable. It's okay to feel like things aren't quite right. As long as you can keep yourself from turning your emotions into negative behaviors, you're still on the right track. I know I am.

One Day at a Time

Very interesting sermon in church today about the phrase, "lead us not into temptation." The basic gist was that in order to truly overcome temptation, you have to subit to a higher power. Give up your feigned image of self-control and accept that you need guidance, absolution.

Relevant, wouldn't you say? The pastor made many references to AA, and I sat there thinking how similar alcoholics are to people with anorexia and bulimia. I thought about some other AA sayings that relate to our recovery experiences:

"It's easy to talk the talk, harder to walk the walk."

"Fake it til you make it."

"F.E.A.R. - Face Everything And Recover!"

"Try it for 90 days, and if you don't like it, we'll refund your misery."

"We have a disease that tells us we don't have a disease."

"There's no gain without pain."

"If you don't want to slip, stay away from slippery places."

"Progress, not perfection."

And finally, my favorite of all - "Change happens when the pain of holding on is greater than the fear of letting go."

Lonely

Sometimes recovery is very lonely. The people around you have deemed you "recovered," and no longer look upon you as a person with needs. The thing is, we're all needy sometimes. Every once in awhile it would be great to say to someone close to you, "I'm feeling down. I need to talk." But it's out of the question; once "well," you forsake the right to admit vulnerability. Any indication of negative emotion leads people to believe you've slid back, relapsed.

I haven't relapsed. I'm as healthy as ever, and my life truly is great. But sometimes I feel alone. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a weird sort of limbo... better, but not quite 100%. Unable to express my loneliness for fear that some red flag will be raised. I do not want to attract any scrutiny. I do not want to be eyeballed at every meal. I simply want a chance to act like a human being once in awhile. Fragile, imperfect, fallible.

I am a human being, after all.

Life Story

I just finished writing my "life story," with an emphasis on the events that led to my eating disorder. In the beginning, it was really hard. It's not fun to revisit all of the traumatic events that warped your psyche. It's not fun to write the words on paper that you rarely ever speak out loud. It's not fun to remember.

However, when I got into the meat of my illness, my attitude towards the project changed. As I detailed the extremely disturbing behaviors of a very sick person, I started to feel better. Not because the memories were pleasant; they were anything but. Rather, sometimes it's nice to be reminded of how far you've come.

Sure, I still struggle with my share of unhealthy thoughts. But I'm lightyears away from being the girl who threw up into garbage bags and hid the bags in the closet. I'm not the perfect picture of recovery, but I'm not sick anymore, and that's enough for now.

The Bathing Suit Paradox

The other day, I was at the pool with my kids. I was naturally feeling very self-conscious, my concerns threefold: 1- That I looked like a beached whale, 2- That my bathing suit was somehow inappropriate for and offensive to the uber-conservative community pool, and 3- That my scars, over 80 of which are visible when I'm in swimwear, would call even more attention to me. My boys floated around on their own, not giving their old mom any mind whatsoever. My baby girl, all 26 lbs. of blonde hair and joy, was splashing at my side. Instead of relishing in the sweet heat of Summer, I was rehashing my pool worries, my brow furrowed.

Then I saw her. Across the pool was a tall woman of about 30, backstroking in the sun. She had on a black bikini, mature but stylish. She was at least four dress sizes bigger than me, but she looked stunning. I was caught completely off guard. How, when thinness is coveted and revered, could this woman look so gorgeous at her size? And in a bathing suit, no less? I couldn't help but stare. The black material hugged her body close, carressing her skin. Instead of angles, to which I have always aspired, she was full of curves. It occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, it was her attitude that was even more beautiful than her body. She was relaxed. She was confident. She was enjoying herself. In a swimsuit. How profound.

There I was, all thin and petrified, missing out on my children's fun. There she was, all full and wonderful, soaking up life. I learned something that day, and I hope I don't forget it.

Break it down, Sylvia Plath style

I stumbled upon this Sylvia Plath poem, "In Plaster," when I was in high school. I think it sums up the dichotomy of eating disorders very well. Here is the last stanza; I like to think this is the point I'm at in my own recovery. Read the entire poem sometime, if you get the chance. I wish Ms. Plath had stuck around to see what a difference her words made in other people's lives.

"I used to think we might make a go of it together -
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
but she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
and she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me."

What is normal, anyway?

Today I didn't eat much, drank a little more wine than I should have. Normal people do that sometimes, right?

Last Saturday, I worked out so hard my muscles burned for days. Normal people do that sometimes, right?

Occasionally I step on the scale and stare at it for a good ten minutes, wondering if the numer will change. Normal people do that sometimes, right?

Every time I put on a pair of pants, I analyze the exact position at which they fall on my hips. Normal people do that sometimes, right?

What is normal, anyway? Am I someone recovering from an eating disorder? Am I a normal woman in 21st century America? Is there that much of a difference?

The Why

I have been thinking about starting a blog for years. Since the term "blog" still conjured up images of something nasty on the bottom of your shoe. Despite the desire, I have held back. My recovery, now six years on, didn't feel real enough yet. I didn't feel "well enough" to espouse my wisdom and clarity. Therein lied the problem.

I am not wise. I possess very little clarity. While I am much more "well" than I have been in a decade, I am still not cured. You see, there's something no one tells you when you're just starting out on the path to an eating disorder. It is this: you can never go back, not all the way. You will never be the same. As "recovered" as you may get, you will still remember. It's impossible to forget.

It is with this insight that I finally decided to start the blog. I cannot pass on any valuable pieces of advice or offer any inspired guidance. What I can do is relate. I know how hard it is to get better. I know how badly you want to go back sometimes. I know how distressing it is to remember vacations in terms of what you ate and where you threw up. I've been there. I made it out. I went from being absolutely convinced of my own demise to being absolutely awestruck by my future. I believe in change. I have been given a second chance.

Take my hand and climb with me, one step at a time, out of the rabbit hole.