Are we "legitimate?"

When you've navigated the treatment and recovery world for awhile, you are inevitably exposed to some very tragic, heartbreaking stories. You hear about the fallout from truly dreadful people doing unspeakably horrific things to innocents, oftentimes children and youth. You acknowledge, and reluctantly accept, your own tragedies.

You see, very few people wake up one morning and think, "Today I'm going to do something really radical to destroy my body." It takes certain events, certain settings, certain genetic predispositions, to cultivate an environment in which eating disorders and self injury (and also alcoholism and drug addiction, though I have no personal experience with those) will develop and thrive. To summarize, it takes a lot of trauma to make a person not only willing but driven to self-destruct.

It is with this knowledge that I approach the recent media firestorm regarding what one ignorant and ill-informed politician called "legitimate rape." Now, I will not be addressing issues of abortion or pregnancy; though I have my own very strong opinions on those subjects, this is not the appropriate forum in which to express them. Rather, I want to go to the heart of the matter and address the act itself: what is rape, how is it defined, to whom does it happen, and what are the long-term ramifications.

Rape is a violent power-act wherein an aggressor sexually violates a victim. This can occur after a victim has clearly said no (is that "legitimate rape?"), when a victim is unable to give consent due to incapacitation i.e. mental/developmental problems or alcohol or drug use (is that "legitimate rape?"), or when the victim is below the age of consent (is that "legitimate rape?"). There are other situations as well, but the previous three are the most oft-cited.

Rape does not just affect young women of college-age, although many popular TV programs would have you believe that. It happens to children and the elderly, men and women, and people who inhabit socioeconomic spheres. Rapists, though they often personally have a "type," collectively do not discriminate.

The long-term consequences are many and dire. Some survivors (and I was very nearly one of them) simply choose to end their lives, too overwhelmed with pain and shame to imagine life will ever be okay again. Some survivors, like myself, develop very dangerous and violent self-destructive compulsions, starving and throwing up and cutting in an effort to numb out the constant onslaught of memories and emotions. Some survivors fall into the void of addiction, doing anything and everything necessary to escape the hurt.

Some survivors fare better than others. They have the support of family and community, professionals and spiritual leaders, and they are better-equipped to face the long and bumpy road to recovery. Even these people have certain inner scars that will always twinge.

My point is this. No person - certainly no politician without understanding of the intense, life-changing trauma of sexual assault - has a right to qualify any kind of rape as "legitimate" or "illegitimate." Unless someone has walked in these shoes (and I pray every night that no one else ever will), he has no business judging the journey of a survivor.

Crime and Punishment

I recently overheard a troubling conversation between two Penn State alumni. They were strangers, bound only by their alma mater, and yet the intensity of their discussion was palpable. And disturbing. (Disclaimer: I know very little about Pennsylvania State University, about the NCAA, or about college sports in general. As always, the opinions expressed in this blog are just that - my opinions.)

Man A and Man B were discussing the recent punishments handed down to Penn State by the NCAA in response to the far-reaching sex abuse scandal most of you have probably heard about. After several minutes of recounting football greatness, Man A said to Man B, "...and all of that gets taken away from us because a couple of fairy boys got their feelings hurt." Man B replied, "Makes you sick, doesn't it?"

At that point I had to get up and leave the room to prevent myself from going all Incredible Hulk on the both of them. My husband, short on words but long on wisdom, reminded me, "They're ignorant idiots, don't let them get to you." And he's right; I can choose not to let the insensitivity of clueless people bother me.

I can also choose to educate.

If you haven't survived sexual trauma, if you haven't personally endured the torture of abuse, you simply cannot fully grasp the lifelong ramifications. I'm going to try to paint a picture of just a handful of the consequences that face survivors: Post-traumatic stress disorder. Alcoholism. Drug abuse. Self-injury. Eating disorders. Suicide. Agoraphobia. Panic disorder. Fear. Hopelessness. Guilt and shame. Misplaced sense of responsibility for abuse. Isolation. Nightmares. Flashbacks. Depression. Insomnia. Low self-esteem. Sexual dysfunction. Disassociative disorders. Impaired relationships. Borderline personality disorder. That's not even a comprehensive list. Then there is the very, very small minority of victims who go on to become abusers themselves, thus perpetuating a horrible cycle.

A bit more than "hurt feelings," no? I have been challenged with the notion of 'time heals all wounds' as it relates to trauma, and it's just not true. Intensive therapy, interventions to resolve maladaptive behaviors and teach healthy coping skills, and in some cases medication, can help alleviate many of the symptoms. Even after all of those things, you never forget. It has been 22 years since my first traumatic event and 14 years since my last one, and I can say that I still battle with the consequences every single day. I have a wonderful family, a comfortable home, safety and security, and access to therapy. Even still, I wake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, shaking from the images that invaded my mind. I am afraid much of the time. Paranoid, even. And despite a great deal of work, I still struggle with the notion that if my body is starved of its beauty and allure, I will no longer be a potential victim. I am by no means the only one dealing with these things.

In short, I take comfort in the resolution of the Penn State situation. The perpetrator is in prison, and the survivors will have the financial means to access any form of help they need with their healing journies. For most of us survivors, we will never have the same sense of justice; for most of us, our perpetrators walk free and we have to fight for access to mental healthcare.

Be educated, my friends. Know what we're up against. Do your best to protect your children and yourselves. And above all, be kind. There are, after all, more important things in this world than football.

You Know My Name, You Don't Know My Story

A wise and wonderful woman once taught me, "You know my name, but you don't know my story." How true those words are. I used to claim open-mindedness when it suited me, but I was often guilty of jumping to conclusions based on appearences. My worst example of this flaw was evident when I was behind the wheel: if somebody cut me off, it was because he was an obvious douchebag with no consideration for other people. Now I am able to rein myself in and think, "Maybe that person just got some bad news. Maybe he's had a rough day. Maybe he or someone he loves is sick. Or maybe - just maybe - he didn't even see me there." That little shift in thinking has worked miracles for my own peace of mind.

I want to take it a step further, though, and use this point to shed a little light on the silent sufferers in our midst. I have had occasion over the last year and a half to share my story - my whole, unedited, often unpretty story - with a lot of people. I can't tell you the number of times I have heard, "I would never have guessed you'd been through that." There's the truth - we can never guess what another person has endured, what she has seen and survived and experienced. Even the people we think we know best often have little pockets of shame within them that keep their secrets hidden. Part of my own past - childhood sexual abuse and trauma - is one of the most intensely concealed skeletons in people's closets. The disgusting and tragic reality is that one in every six women and one out in every 33 men will survive a rape or attempted rape in their lifetimes, and that 500,000 babies born THIS year in THIS country will be sexually abused by their 18th birthdays. This problem is not just prevalent, it is epidemic.

You know survivors, I guaruntee it. It may be your sister, your best friend, your dad, the sweet teenager who babysits your kids, the older gentleman who sings in the church choir, or even that guy who cut me off on the freeway. We are everywhere, in every walk of life, in every socioeconomic sphere. We are Christians, Jews, and Muslims, we are children and the elderly, we are gay and straight, we are white, black, and every other color in the crayon box. You may know our names, but you probably don't know our stories.

My intent in sharing this is not to repulse you with the statistics nor to shame you for passing judgement without having all the information. My goal is to make you aware, as I have been made aware, that survivors are all around us, sometimes candid about their stories but often struggling in silence. Be kind to each other, my friends. You never really know what anyone else has gone through.

(And a little sidenote, my beautiful friends: my page has been viewed over 4,000 times now. I am incredibly humbled and immensely grateful to have reached so many people, and I pray that all of you will take a little something away from my story. Peace be with you all!)

Why It's Worth It, and Why Now

Why do I do the things that are hard to do? Why do I work so hard, fight so valiantly, to overcome the insidious voice in my head? Why do I do the right thing when every cell in my body seems to scream for me to do the opposite?

To put it simply, I do it because I know the payoff is worth the struggle. I have a clear picture of what I want - what I deserve - and I will no longer allow that deceitful voice to convince me that I cannot achieve it.

I have so much to give this world, and I will be unable to do so if I continue to punish myself unnecessarily. I have a message to spread; on of hope, one of triumph, one of power. I cannot deliver that message if I am living in a place of despair, defeat, and helplessness.

I know now that the long-held belief in my innate sinfulness is incorrect, untrue. I know now that the idea of being inherently bad is a false one that was put in my head by external sources, and I can choose to believe otherwise. Trusting in my own free agency allows me to have the courage to act positively, protectively, and hopefully.

So why now? Why not? I have spent enough time repeating the abhorrent abuse inflicted upon me in years past. I have proven to myself that there is nothing to be gained from self-desecration. There will never be a cut deep enough, never be a number low enough, to undo what has already been done. There can be, however, a voice loud enough to transcend the pain. That voice is mine, and the time is now.

Unforeseen Consequences

"If I had known then what I know now..."  Yeah. 

I have been to the doctor more in the last five months than I think I ever have.  I have had more blood taken than I thought was humanly possible.  The results?  Not so good.  I've known for awhile that my heart isn't so healthy.  Now, apparently, my kidneys and liver are sick too.  I don't know yet exactly what I'm facing, but I do know that my kidneys are not functioning properly, and that my liver is showing signs of distress.

I am so, so frustrated.  I have been loyally following my (colossal) meal plan since I've been home from my last treatment.  I even bought and faithfully imbibe, twice a day, a medical-grade weight gain supplement that would make most people gag at the first smell.  I do it because I vowed that I will beat my disease come hell or high water.  What is maddening is that despite my best efforts, my body is still in pieces.

Fourteen years ago, when the thought, "I'll just lose weight, that will make everything better," occurred to me, I KNEW it was the answer I'd been looking for.  A decade and a half of coming precariously close to killing myself proved one thing: eating disorders are lying, manipulative, deceitful mother fuckers, and they bring nothing but devastation and misery.  I understand that now.  There's no doubt in my mind.

The trouble is, the damage has been done.  My body, previously healthy and resilient, is now beaten down and defenseless.  I am doing everything in my power to rehabilitate it, but it seems to be too little too late.  I've said it before in this blog, and I'm sure I'll say it again: anorexia and bulimia KILL.  My cardiologist pointed out that Karen Carpenter - perhaps the most famous casualty of an eating disorder - died AFTER she had begun the recovery process.  That's the reality, my friends.  Skipping meals, taking diet pills, throwing up once in awhile... it can all seem so innocent, until it's not anymore.  One day you may wake up wanting nothing more than to live a long, healthy life, only to find out that your body has been damaged beyond repair.

I'm not giving up.  I will continue fighting every day I am blessed to walk this earth.  I fight not only for my own survival, but for the healing of the millions of men, women and children who battle this illness in secret and in desperation.  Please help me, friends.  Get the word out.  Tell your stories, tell MY story, do what you need to do to raise the awareness necessary to stamp down this disease once and for all.  It's never too late.  Not for me, not for you, and not for the masses.

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.