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.