Some days I am full of motivation, full of hope. Some days I understand the concept of "one day at a time" and I act accordingly. Some days I review the myriad constructive tools I have learned to cope with my struggles, and choose one that fits the situation. Some days are good.
Today isn't one of those days.
There's a quirky little trait about people with unresolved trauma. Little things, insignificant to most, can propel us damaged folks right back to a place we desperately want to avoid. The memories come pouring in. Awful images seep into every crevice of our brains, crowding out everything else. It's suffocating. It's crazy-making.
In those moments, when reality is replaced by nightmare, it's awfully hard to maintain the recovery momentum. Sick just seems so much easier, promises so much relief. Being sick froze my emotions solid. Now recovery is thawing them out, and I feel like I'm drowning in the run-off.
My only solace is the knowledge that the worst is over. Memories, terrifying as they may be, can never be as bad as the original event. This pain, raw as it is, will not last forever.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Slow and Steady
I had this picture in my head of what treatment would be like this time. Since it was the first time I actually wanted to get better, I assumed the experience would go something like this: I would show up, understanding all the rules and accepting them without question. I would impress all the staff with my knowledge and insight, and gain their praise for my willingness and dedication. I would eat the prescribed amount, never questioning it, knowing that it was what my body needed. I would sail on through, getting out after four weeks, never to struggle again.
Boy was I delusional. Here's a more accurate picture of what transpired. I arrived, shell-shocked and clinging to my husband like a spider monkey. I tried to convince him, as he was getting in the car to leave, that this was all a big misunderstanding and he should just take me home with him. I looked at my first meal with great scrutiny, analyzing the calorie count and mentally murdering the dietitian who prescribed it. I walked into my first therapy session absolutely terrified, declaring that I was unable to cry and therefore could not partake in whatever "healing" was deemed necessary for me. I got mad. I yelled and fumed and swore. I crossed my arms and flatly refused some of the food. When my meal plan was increased (as it would be many times), I wrote scathing notes to my dietitian. Despite my previous admonition, I did cry. A lot. Sobbed. Heaved, even. I talked about things I haven't thought about in years. Those four easy weeks turned into ten agonizing ones. When I finally did get "out," I had to recognize that my healing had only just begun.
Recovery isn't neat and tidy. Rather, it's messy, excruciating, and painfully slow. I have been home for two and a half weeks now, attending my outpatient program five days a week, and to be honest I am more mentally exhausted than I ever have been. As I told my therapist a few days ago, "I am afraid of going backward, afraid of going forward, and miserable where I am." True, my eating disordered behaviors are under control; tomorrow will mark three months (!) since I have acted out by binging and purging, restricting, or over-exercising. While I recognize that as a true victory, I also know that the real work is only just starting. Now I am digging into the reasons I have abused myself for so many years, and frankly, it sucks. I don't enjoy that kind of brutally honest self-analysis. It hurts.
When I get discouraged by the slowness of my progress (which is, ummm, daily), I have to remind myself that it took me a lifetime to get as sick as I was. Healing is not going to take place overnight. It truly is one day at a time. And, for the first time, I see that I don't have to do it alone. For that I am very grateful.
Boy was I delusional. Here's a more accurate picture of what transpired. I arrived, shell-shocked and clinging to my husband like a spider monkey. I tried to convince him, as he was getting in the car to leave, that this was all a big misunderstanding and he should just take me home with him. I looked at my first meal with great scrutiny, analyzing the calorie count and mentally murdering the dietitian who prescribed it. I walked into my first therapy session absolutely terrified, declaring that I was unable to cry and therefore could not partake in whatever "healing" was deemed necessary for me. I got mad. I yelled and fumed and swore. I crossed my arms and flatly refused some of the food. When my meal plan was increased (as it would be many times), I wrote scathing notes to my dietitian. Despite my previous admonition, I did cry. A lot. Sobbed. Heaved, even. I talked about things I haven't thought about in years. Those four easy weeks turned into ten agonizing ones. When I finally did get "out," I had to recognize that my healing had only just begun.
Recovery isn't neat and tidy. Rather, it's messy, excruciating, and painfully slow. I have been home for two and a half weeks now, attending my outpatient program five days a week, and to be honest I am more mentally exhausted than I ever have been. As I told my therapist a few days ago, "I am afraid of going backward, afraid of going forward, and miserable where I am." True, my eating disordered behaviors are under control; tomorrow will mark three months (!) since I have acted out by binging and purging, restricting, or over-exercising. While I recognize that as a true victory, I also know that the real work is only just starting. Now I am digging into the reasons I have abused myself for so many years, and frankly, it sucks. I don't enjoy that kind of brutally honest self-analysis. It hurts.
When I get discouraged by the slowness of my progress (which is, ummm, daily), I have to remind myself that it took me a lifetime to get as sick as I was. Healing is not going to take place overnight. It truly is one day at a time. And, for the first time, I see that I don't have to do it alone. For that I am very grateful.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Treatment: Redux
A funny thing happened on the way to insanity.
So. I went back to treatment. It was supposed to be 4-6 weeks. It ended up being 10. 10 weeks of residential treatment, followed by an indefinite number of weeks in Intensive Outpatient Treatment. How'd this happen, you ask? Hell if I know.
See, here's the thing. I lie exceptionally well. I have always had an uncanny ability to make people believe whatever I want them to believe (and, often, what they themselves want to believe). I had everyone convinced that my recovery was strong and reliable. That, though I still struggled with unhealthy thoughts, my behaviors had been under control for some time. That, my friends, was a collossal untruth.
The reality is, I've been in the midst of relapse for over two years. I have vacillated between periods of restricting (at times meeting full diagnostic criteria for anorexia) and binging and purging (nearly always meeting DSM-IV criteria for bulimia). My behaviors were easy to hide, my weight fluctuations easy to explain away. I even kept up this blog, extolling the virtues of healthy living. Oops.
The turning point came when my health began to really suffer and I could no longer deny the danger I was in. My heart, my stomach, my esophogus. All were ailing and teetering on the edge of disaster. I began to imagine dying on my bathroom floor (esophogus finally having ruptured or heart finally giving out), my husband or children finding my cold body covered in vomit. Terrifying, isn't it? Scared me shitless.
So I made the call to a treatment center. I only want a therapist and a dietician, I said. I'm not sick enough to need higher level care, I said. I met with said therapist and dietician, and was told in no uncertain terms that if I did not head immediately to residential treatment (do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars) I was risking my life. I looked at my family, considered their love and need for me. I threw in the towel.
Making the choice to return to treatment - this was my fourth go 'round - was perhaps the most difficult thing I have ever done. I have held tight to my eating disorder for half my life, believing at my very core that it was the only thing that could save me from the horrors in my mind. Living without it was impossible to envision. Giving it up was like giving up the very essence of who I am. I was scared to death. But I was also scared OF death. I knew I was on borrowed time and the end was imminent if I didn't change something drastically.
I will post more in the coming weeks on my experience in treatment, what I learned, what I gained (in knowledge, thank you very much), and how my appreciation for life has grown. Thank you for sticking with me. Please accept my sincere apology for misrepresenting my recovery as I have up until this point. Those of you familiar with eating disorders will understand that lying is part of the disease. To quote one of the many treatment-isms I have picked up, "Secrets keep us sick." No more secrets, my friends.
So. I went back to treatment. It was supposed to be 4-6 weeks. It ended up being 10. 10 weeks of residential treatment, followed by an indefinite number of weeks in Intensive Outpatient Treatment. How'd this happen, you ask? Hell if I know.
See, here's the thing. I lie exceptionally well. I have always had an uncanny ability to make people believe whatever I want them to believe (and, often, what they themselves want to believe). I had everyone convinced that my recovery was strong and reliable. That, though I still struggled with unhealthy thoughts, my behaviors had been under control for some time. That, my friends, was a collossal untruth.
The reality is, I've been in the midst of relapse for over two years. I have vacillated between periods of restricting (at times meeting full diagnostic criteria for anorexia) and binging and purging (nearly always meeting DSM-IV criteria for bulimia). My behaviors were easy to hide, my weight fluctuations easy to explain away. I even kept up this blog, extolling the virtues of healthy living. Oops.
The turning point came when my health began to really suffer and I could no longer deny the danger I was in. My heart, my stomach, my esophogus. All were ailing and teetering on the edge of disaster. I began to imagine dying on my bathroom floor (esophogus finally having ruptured or heart finally giving out), my husband or children finding my cold body covered in vomit. Terrifying, isn't it? Scared me shitless.
So I made the call to a treatment center. I only want a therapist and a dietician, I said. I'm not sick enough to need higher level care, I said. I met with said therapist and dietician, and was told in no uncertain terms that if I did not head immediately to residential treatment (do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars) I was risking my life. I looked at my family, considered their love and need for me. I threw in the towel.
Making the choice to return to treatment - this was my fourth go 'round - was perhaps the most difficult thing I have ever done. I have held tight to my eating disorder for half my life, believing at my very core that it was the only thing that could save me from the horrors in my mind. Living without it was impossible to envision. Giving it up was like giving up the very essence of who I am. I was scared to death. But I was also scared OF death. I knew I was on borrowed time and the end was imminent if I didn't change something drastically.
I will post more in the coming weeks on my experience in treatment, what I learned, what I gained (in knowledge, thank you very much), and how my appreciation for life has grown. Thank you for sticking with me. Please accept my sincere apology for misrepresenting my recovery as I have up until this point. Those of you familiar with eating disorders will understand that lying is part of the disease. To quote one of the many treatment-isms I have picked up, "Secrets keep us sick." No more secrets, my friends.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Letter to My Disease
Dear Liar,
So many, many broken promises. So many nights lying awake, hungry, head pounding, pinching fat and feeling bones. So many dollars flushed down the toilet. So many people deceived. So much hurt.
You walked in with a James Dean swagger, all bravado and empty promises. You told me I'd be free. You told me I'd be strong. You told me I'd be happy. You knew all along.
I hate you for robbing me of myself. I hate you for convincing me, time and again and year after year, that I'm not worth anything. I hate you for what you've done to my body. I hate you for making me manipulate the people I love. I hate you for everything.
Now go. Leave me alone. Let me pick up the shattered pieces of my soul and attempt to reconstruct them into something meaningful. Don't come back again. You are unwelcome. You are a liar and a cheater and a thief. I can get by without you. I WILL get by without you.
Ungratefully Yours,
Cassie
So many, many broken promises. So many nights lying awake, hungry, head pounding, pinching fat and feeling bones. So many dollars flushed down the toilet. So many people deceived. So much hurt.
You walked in with a James Dean swagger, all bravado and empty promises. You told me I'd be free. You told me I'd be strong. You told me I'd be happy. You knew all along.
I hate you for robbing me of myself. I hate you for convincing me, time and again and year after year, that I'm not worth anything. I hate you for what you've done to my body. I hate you for making me manipulate the people I love. I hate you for everything.
Now go. Leave me alone. Let me pick up the shattered pieces of my soul and attempt to reconstruct them into something meaningful. Don't come back again. You are unwelcome. You are a liar and a cheater and a thief. I can get by without you. I WILL get by without you.
Ungratefully Yours,
Cassie
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Asking For Help
A lot of people have trouble asking for help. I'd venture to guess that most people have a hard time with it. Humans are a proud bunch (probably some evolutionary adaptation). In addition to pride, shame and guilt play a big role. I can't count the number of times I've begun a request with, "I'm so sorry to ask this, but..." or, "Please don't hate me, but could you..." We are supposed to be able to fix our own problems. We are supposed to be independent. We are supposed to be self-sufficient. Above all, we are supposed to be strong.
Ha. When you find that perfect, needless person, call her a liar right to her face. There IS no such person. We ALL need help sometimes. The ability to ask for it is absolutely necessary to survival (physical AND emotional). I go to school with a nice but very insecure girl. We get out of class late at night, and she has no car. She walks home, in a sketchy neighborhood, by herself. She will not ask for help. Think of the dangers: she could fall and injure herself. She could become the victim of a crime. She could be struck by a vehicle. This girl knows there are plenty of us from whom she could get a ride, but is afraid to ask for help. (Luckily there are enough of us who recognize her risk to talk her into one of our cars most nights.)
Let's take that example, and apply it to an eating disorder. We'll call our subject Leah. Leah is sick, has been for some time. She restricts, binges and purges, exercises too much. She's worked very hard to hide her behaviors from the people around her. Now, though, Leah is starting to have health complications. Her hair is falling out, she's frequently dizzy, she's cold all the time. Leah knows she needs help before it gets worse, but she's afraid to ask. Let's explore the danger Leah could be in: she could pass out while driving. She could have a heart attack. She could choke while binging. She could have a gastric or esophageal rupture while purging. She could develop osteoporosis and fracture a bone while exercising. She could fall into a deep depression and be at risk for self-injury or suicide.
Does Leah need help? Absolutely. Is Leah scared? Extremely. Is Leah ashamed, embarrassed, guilt-ridden? Without a doubt. Is it more important that Leah keeps her secret, or that she reaches out for help? We all know the answer to that.
Every person in this world needs help at one time or another, and we usually need to ask for it in order to get it. If you need help right now, please put your health and safety first and ASK for it. If someone needs help from you, please extend your arms in gratitude, for it is a great gift to be needed.
Ha. When you find that perfect, needless person, call her a liar right to her face. There IS no such person. We ALL need help sometimes. The ability to ask for it is absolutely necessary to survival (physical AND emotional). I go to school with a nice but very insecure girl. We get out of class late at night, and she has no car. She walks home, in a sketchy neighborhood, by herself. She will not ask for help. Think of the dangers: she could fall and injure herself. She could become the victim of a crime. She could be struck by a vehicle. This girl knows there are plenty of us from whom she could get a ride, but is afraid to ask for help. (Luckily there are enough of us who recognize her risk to talk her into one of our cars most nights.)
Let's take that example, and apply it to an eating disorder. We'll call our subject Leah. Leah is sick, has been for some time. She restricts, binges and purges, exercises too much. She's worked very hard to hide her behaviors from the people around her. Now, though, Leah is starting to have health complications. Her hair is falling out, she's frequently dizzy, she's cold all the time. Leah knows she needs help before it gets worse, but she's afraid to ask. Let's explore the danger Leah could be in: she could pass out while driving. She could have a heart attack. She could choke while binging. She could have a gastric or esophageal rupture while purging. She could develop osteoporosis and fracture a bone while exercising. She could fall into a deep depression and be at risk for self-injury or suicide.
Does Leah need help? Absolutely. Is Leah scared? Extremely. Is Leah ashamed, embarrassed, guilt-ridden? Without a doubt. Is it more important that Leah keeps her secret, or that she reaches out for help? We all know the answer to that.
Every person in this world needs help at one time or another, and we usually need to ask for it in order to get it. If you need help right now, please put your health and safety first and ASK for it. If someone needs help from you, please extend your arms in gratitude, for it is a great gift to be needed.
Friday, March 11, 2011
There is no "try?"
I was out for drinks with a dear friend last night. For most of the evening we laughed so hard we nearly fell off our chairs, but occasionally the conversation turned to more serious issues. She asked about my recovery. My response was that I continue to "try to be well." She quoted Yoda (told you she was awesome) and said, "Do or do not. There is no 'try.'"
Now, had anyone else said that to me, I would likely have slapped them. But since this gal is who she is, I tried to take the comment as constructive criticism. Do we - people who have struggled with eating disorders for years - have the power to simply CHOOSE to be well? Does it boil down to deciding to be healthy or sick? Is it that easy?
A few years ago much was made about the book "The Secret." For those who aren't familiar with it, the premise is that you can accomplish anything simply by thinking positively. While I agree with this idea in certain situations - careers, personal relationships, financial goals - I don't believe it can be applied to disease. A person with cancer can have the most positive outlook in the world and still die.
Maybe the real issue is whether mental illness is viewed as an actual disease or just an excuse for bad behavior. There has been extensive controversy on this topic. Knowing what I do about neuropsychology, I count myself among the group that believes in genetic, biochemical, and physiological causes of genuine organic illness. There are a fair bunch of folks out there, though, who believe mood, anxiety, and personality disorders, eating disorders, chemical dependencies, etc. are simply manifestations of weakness, laziness, defiance, confusion, and lack of will.
If mental illness falls into the latter category, then it stands to reason that people should quite easily be able to choose between sickness and health. If, however, the causes of psychological disorders are much more complex and largely neurobiological, "The Secret" method doesn't hold water.
So let's turn this into a discussion. Do you believe mental illnesses - eating disorders in particular - can be "willed" away? Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share on the origins of psychological disorders?
Now, had anyone else said that to me, I would likely have slapped them. But since this gal is who she is, I tried to take the comment as constructive criticism. Do we - people who have struggled with eating disorders for years - have the power to simply CHOOSE to be well? Does it boil down to deciding to be healthy or sick? Is it that easy?
A few years ago much was made about the book "The Secret." For those who aren't familiar with it, the premise is that you can accomplish anything simply by thinking positively. While I agree with this idea in certain situations - careers, personal relationships, financial goals - I don't believe it can be applied to disease. A person with cancer can have the most positive outlook in the world and still die.
Maybe the real issue is whether mental illness is viewed as an actual disease or just an excuse for bad behavior. There has been extensive controversy on this topic. Knowing what I do about neuropsychology, I count myself among the group that believes in genetic, biochemical, and physiological causes of genuine organic illness. There are a fair bunch of folks out there, though, who believe mood, anxiety, and personality disorders, eating disorders, chemical dependencies, etc. are simply manifestations of weakness, laziness, defiance, confusion, and lack of will.
If mental illness falls into the latter category, then it stands to reason that people should quite easily be able to choose between sickness and health. If, however, the causes of psychological disorders are much more complex and largely neurobiological, "The Secret" method doesn't hold water.
So let's turn this into a discussion. Do you believe mental illnesses - eating disorders in particular - can be "willed" away? Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share on the origins of psychological disorders?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
How Many Lies?
"I ate a late lunch." "I'm not feeling very well." "I had a friend over, and she ate all the ice cream." "I don't know why the bathroom smells funny; maybe the plumbing isn't working right."
How many lies have you told in the name of your eating disorder? I lost count of mine about 10 years ago. I have lied to so many people about so many things for so many years. I have to add, I'm a terrible liar. I have an overactive conscience. Even "little white lies" make me queasy. But I would tell anybody anything to protect my disease. Even as the words sting like bile when they come out of my mouth.
There's that saying, "The truth hurts." Maybe we need to acknowledge that for once. Lies protect our disease because our disease masks our feelings. The truth exposes our feelings, in all their raw, painful, ugly glory. It's no surprise that we'd do anything to make those feelings go away. But we have to realize that we're not helping ourselves at all. For every lie we tell, for every meal we skip, for every binge and every purge, we lose a little of ourselves.
Hold my hand, and we will tell the truth together. The truth is, life hurts sometimes. But if we're honest about it, we can help each other through it.
How many lies have you told in the name of your eating disorder? I lost count of mine about 10 years ago. I have lied to so many people about so many things for so many years. I have to add, I'm a terrible liar. I have an overactive conscience. Even "little white lies" make me queasy. But I would tell anybody anything to protect my disease. Even as the words sting like bile when they come out of my mouth.
There's that saying, "The truth hurts." Maybe we need to acknowledge that for once. Lies protect our disease because our disease masks our feelings. The truth exposes our feelings, in all their raw, painful, ugly glory. It's no surprise that we'd do anything to make those feelings go away. But we have to realize that we're not helping ourselves at all. For every lie we tell, for every meal we skip, for every binge and every purge, we lose a little of ourselves.
Hold my hand, and we will tell the truth together. The truth is, life hurts sometimes. But if we're honest about it, we can help each other through it.
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