I fell, hard. It started about eight months ago, when I was unceremoniously dismissed from my outpatient treatment program for what can only be described as "failure to thrive." I was told that I needed something different, something more intensive. "You think I'm sick now?" I thought. "I'll show you what sick is." In retrospect, cutting off your nose to spite your face is very misguided.
Over the course of several months I lost weight, lots of it. I yelled. I was mean. I overcommitted. I grandstanded. I lied. I made promises I knew I wouldn't keep. I disappointed people. In other words, I submitted to my eating disorder. I looked that conniving trickster in the face and said, "Fine, have it your way." I went weeks on fumes. Had a family vacation I can only remember in terms of the photographs I (thankfully) took and the arguments I (regrettably) had with my husband. Threw myself into work. Navigated the holiday season on dry toast and wine. Bought clothes in sizes no full-grown mother of three has any business wearing. Anorexia inhabited my body, suffocated my soul.
Sometime around the first of the year it occurred to me that I had two choices. (By "occurred to me," I mean, "was plainly pointed out to me by the people who love me," as I had no capacity for self-awareness.) I could either die, which was the way things were heading, or I could face the disease head-on and fight. There was no middle ground. There could be no status quo. You see, I'm no spring chicken. Much like elite athletes, eating disorder sufferers have a limited life expectancy. Early on you burn brightly, bounce back from injury, appear invincible. As the years march on, the body starts to break down. You get sidelined more easily. Your audience begins to think, "It's time to retire," but you keep on pushing, because maybe, just maybe, you haven't achieved your best yet. And then, with everyone watching your desperation, you hit the ground and just can't get up. Your body won't - CAN'T - do it anymore. Like that athlete past his prime (insert Peyton Manning commentary here) you profoundly disappoint everyone around you, but even worse, your age becomes painfully clear to you.
Every relapse has brought with it new ailments, a longer recovery period, deeper threats. This time was no different. On the precipice of my 30th birthday I face cardiac arrhythmia, hypotension, imbalanced electrolytes, impaired liver function, and, new to the playing field, bowel obstruction. To put it simply, my body doesn't want to play anymore. So that choice, "Get real or get dead," was quite the ultimatum. I had only to look around my own home, at my husband whose fear and frustration sat on his shoulders like a sack of lead; to look at my children, whose innocence is rapidly being replaced by guarded pain, awareness that Mommy's sick and we can't make her better. Some people may have chosen death, and I understand that despair. I, however, decided that my husband deserves better, my children deserve better, by friends deserve better, my students deserve better, and maybe - just maybe - I deserve better.
So the choice was made to face the hurt. Face the fear. Eat. Put on weight. Acknowledge the shame of falling down (AGAIN), but not be consumed by it. Deal with the medical complications of the refeeding process, which were many and nearly crippling this time around. Cut out the things in my life that are not necessary. Learn to clear my schedule. Relax. The choice was made to look at all the chaos in my life and accept it, not starve it away. The choice was made to set an example to my children that sometimes life is terribly, terribly painful, but it is always, ALWAYS worth living.
I am scared, my friends. This is hard. When I happen to glance in the mirror, my skin crawls at the sight of my changing body. Putting fork to mouth is a victory marred by the screams of my dying disease. The disease wants me to believe that I am a worthless failure, a waste of space that inhabits entirely too much of it. My challenge - the challenge of MILLIONS of us who wage this war every day - is to recognize the lie. Starving is easy. Eating... feeding my body, yes, but also feeding that very hungry part of my soul... that's the hard part. I know I can do it. My childrn need their mom, my husband needs his wife. The stakes are high. I can be victorious, and I need all the help I can get. Thank you, as always, for your understanding and love.
