Finding Purpose

I got something of a bombshell dropped on me today. I showed up for my regularly scheduled therapy appointment, and when I went into my therapist's office, the clinical director of my IOP program was also in the room. I immediately went on high alert. Imagine showing up for a chat with your teacher and seeing the principal sitting there.

The two of them told me that, effective this Thursday, I am discharged from the program and no longer eligible to see my therapist. The reason given was that they consider me to be "spinning my wheels" in treatment; not really making any progress, lacking motivation, and, from a practical standpoint, wasting my own money. They said that this situation is somewhat common in people who have been in treatment for a long period of time. They told me I need a break from focusing on the eating disorder. They recommended I immediately begin group therapy for sexual trauma survivors, and shift my full attention to those issues. The eating disorder, they speculated, may ease up once the underlying causes are more intensely addressed. The only remaining tie I will have to this program that has been my lifeline for the last 11 months is my weekly dietary session, which is considered necessary from a medical standpoint. My therapist insisted that I try this new arrangement for the next three months, and after that period of time, should I find myself appropriately motivated, I can return to her care.

Needless to say, I left the appointment feeling confused, angry, and very, very sad. I understand their reasoning, and accept the part I played in the decision. That doesn't make it easy, though. I went right from that session to lunch (how appropriate), then into my dietary session. When I asked my dietitian for her opinion on the matter, she was frank: "I just don't think you care enough right now, and that scares all of us. You need to reassess your reasons for coming here a year ago. You need to find your purpose again." She gave me an assignment: write about the legacy I would leave to my children if I died today, and what I would leave them if I were given more time on this earth. I got home, sat down with my pen and paper (considerably shaken by the idea that I won't have my therapist to discuss this with), and got to work. Here's what I came up with.

PURPOSE

1. If I died today: If I died today, the legacy I would leave to my children would be one of desperate want. I have made it clear to my kids from day one that they deserve to be loved, to be happy, to be cared about, and to be whoever and whatever they want to be. Even at their young ages they seem to understand that I want those things for them. But they also see me refuse to accept those things for myself. If I were gone, they would be left to reconcile that disparity on their own. I know from my own childhood that what kids observe is infinitely more powerful than what they are told. So far, what my kids have seen from me is pretty grim.

2. If I had more time: If I had more time to be an example to my children, there are a number of goals toward which I would work. Most importantly, I would hope to teach them that they are worth fighting for. That no matter what might happen in their lives, they have the strength and the inherent value to keep going. I want the chance to show them that no situation will ever be bad enough, no damage ever deep enough, to make giving up an option. I also want to help them see that, even with all of its challenges, life is precious and beautiful. Every day contains miracles if we're quiet, still, and willing to look for them. I never want the wondering, joyful light to go out of my children's eyes. I don't want it to go out of mine, either.

The Second Time Around

Two weeks pass in the blink of an eye when you're in treatment. I checked in on December 18th, checked out on December 31st, and worked my ass off in between.

Truth be told, the first week and a half were pretty stagnant. I followed my restoration meal plan (translation: weight-gain meal plan), yes, but did very little emotional work. I blamed that fact on the staff, because there were many vacations and sick days taken and clinical treatment was pretty inconsistent. The truth is, though, I didn't want to do the work. I used the situation as an excuse. "I don't feel safe or supported enough to talk about what I need to," I cried. Bullshit. "I don't want to do it," would have been more accurate. Then this past Tuesday, a therapist I worked with during my last stay returned from her vacation, and my pity party was over. "You're being deceitful," she said. I balked. "You're pointing the finger at everyone and everything but yourself," she said, "because you're scared. You have two choices: run back to your eating disorder and play the victim, or do the work and get your life back." Whoa.

So I started talking. And I started crying. And I kept on eating. Those last four days were excruciating, but I learned something very important: it is the things I refuse to name and talk about that pose the greatest threat to me. Nothing will ever be fixed by pretending it doesn't exist. To quote a fun little treatment-ism, "Feelings won't kill you, but ignoring them will."

In all honesty, two weeks was not a sufficient amount of time to bounce back from this relapse. I still have a deep, passionate hatred of my body. It remains number one on my hit list. But I got started, I am following my restoration meal plan (even though it's huge and difficult to sustain on my own), and I am committed to doing what I need to do. I can say that I truly used the opportunity I was given, and I will continue to do so. This isn't easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I have to keep reminding myself that it's worth it.