The Plight of the "Sick Mom"

I want to quickly and succinctly address a common misconception: eating disorders are not, have never been, "teenage girl diseases." It is true (although not an absolute) that most eating disorders first manifest in adolescence, but there are children as young as five and six who suffer, and men and women in their "golden years" who struggle. In that vein, I want to discuss the unique and intensely painful reality of mothers with anorexia and bulimia. There are far more of us than you may realize. I know several from my own treatment experience, and I can pick out many "sick moms" from the elementary school drop-off line... those unfortunates who, through their own ambivalence or circumstances, have not ventured forth into recovery. I was severely bulimic when I got pregnant with my first child. I continued acting out in my behaviors straight through the first trimester, and only relented when I began to feel the tiny child move inside me. I would like to say that things remained good from then on, but obviously that's not the case. I spent a fair amount of years pregnant and nursing, and although my eating was within the realm of "normal" (albeit decidedly orthorexic), I exercized compulsively. I recall a certain Christmas morning, about three years ago, when I laced up my running shoes and headed to the gym as soon as the gifts had all been opened. Things took a dangerous and extreme turn as soon as my youngest weaned, an event that signified to me that I no longer had a reason to care for my body. Shortly after my daughter's first birthday, I relapsed spectacularly into anorexia and reached the lowest weight I had ever been. I was at the gym for hours every day, kids in tow, and ate as little and as infrequently as I could manage. Here is the frightening truth of "sick moms," myself included: we appear shockingly high-functioning. I can't tell you how many times I heard, "How do you do it all?" And even more destructive, "How do you have three kids and stay so THIN?" I was active in church, active in my kids' school, I volunteered, I went to school, I managed a household, I had a social life. On the surface - if you could look past the protruding collarbones and taut tendons - I was Supermom. Here's the truth, ladies and gentlemen: it was all an elaborate ruse, a ploy to distract myself from gnawing hunger and insecurity, and to distract others from my obvious problem. There are so many of us. So many Supermoms, obsessed with keeping up appearances (physical and familial), consumed by fear. We are terrified that our children will learn and mimic our fatal behavior, but even that threat is often not enough to stop us. We are scared to be found out, scared that people will realize how very little we actually have it together, scared to admit that what we're doing, rather than keeping us safe and strong, is killing us. We need help. We need people to say, "Listen, I'm concerned about you." We need hugs and love. We need - often for the first time in our lives - to be taken care of, rather than continue the pattern of taking care of everyone but ourselves. Please be aware of us. Know that oftentimes we are sicker than the "teenage girls," both because our illnesses have been around for so much longer, and because we are so much better at hiding them. Reach out. Be patient. Pray. And give yourselves a pat on the back for being educated, open-minded, compassionate, and kind. We need you.

It Didn't Kill Me, It Made Me Stronger.

Well, another month spent in sunny Wickenburg, Arizona. Another four weeks' worth of tears, fear, grief, anger, joy, laughter. Another shot at redemption.

I went away this time because my physical health was failing. My blood pressure was dangerously low. My heart rate was erratic. The capillaries in my fingertips and toes were bursting. My hands and feet were swollen. I was in bad shape. Before I left, I desperately told my therapist, "I'm drowning slowly." She replied, "No, Cassie, you're dying quickly." That's a hell of a reality check, especially given the fact that I'm only 27 years old.

I spent a great deal of my time at Rosewood getting physically rehabilitated. I was taking 27 pills a day in an effort to stabilize and correct the myriad problems I was facing. I found out that my tricuspid valve is damaged (there goes the marathon I had in my 5-year plan). I was terrified. I agreed to surrender to the treatment team absolutely; I allowed them to make decisions for my health, despite any mental or physical distress they caused me, because obviously I was in no state to make positive decisions for myself.

By the grace of God, my body began to even out. My blood pressure, which had been the most immediate concern, returned to a normal range. The burst capillaries healed. The swelling in my feet went down (and my hands are getting better). I had bloodwork taken a few days ago, just before I came home. I hoped it would all be normal, but unfortunately that wasn't the case. I am still anemic. My immune function is compromised. My kidneys are very taxed. It was disheartening to say the least, but a sobering reminder of the destruction my eating disorder has wrought on my body.

In addition the the medical healing, significant emotional work was done as well. I was blessed to have as my therapist a woman I knew from my prior stays at Rosewood, the music therapist, J. She showed me more compassion and kindness than I ever could have asked for. She guided me gently through some of the most painful work I've ever done. I didn't just cry, I wailed. A lot. I told her before I left that if recovery is measured in tears, then I'm cured.

Perhaps the most striking part of this experience was how much closer I drew to God, how much I surrendered to His will, how much gratitude I feel in knowing that He wants what's best for me. I reminded myself day after day, meal after meal, that God created me in His image, and He has a divine plan for my life. He has brought remarkable, spiritually gifted people into my life who bless me with the proof of His mercy every day. He is my endless source of strength and inspiration. He answers my prayers, not always as I want them answered, but in the way that is best for me.

I have a long way to go, physically and emotionally. My doctor told me the day before I came home that she would have kept me for another month had my insurance benefits not run out. I know, though, that I have all the tools at my disposal to stay on the right path. I must be vigorously honest, accountable, and willing to submit to the help I'm offered. I must fall on my knees whenever and wherever I need to, trusting that God will see me through.

Thank you all for your support. It means more to me than you'll ever know.