The Spirit of Competition

It would be the spirit of competition that would bring me back to blogging. What else could possibly create such forcible motivation than the drive to rise above the rest, the determination to push past the limitations others set for us, or the ones we impose upon ourselves? 

But as I sit here, reveling in the rush that I feel when I take the stage and deliver a performance that brings the audience smiles, laughter, or tears, I am reminded of a similar swell: the kind that hooks you and pulls you along for the ride, as you think to yourself, "hey, I could go for more of this..." despite the fact that the hook has pierced you through the mouth and is slowly tearing through you.

Competition has brought me much joy over the years: from soccer and lacrosse rivalries, cross-country and track races, academic achievement, to very recently, singing on stage in the annual Keene Idol competition to benefit Monadnock Society for AIDS/HIV. But the spirit of competition, fickle beast that she is, wielding her double-edged sword, has also brought me sickness, weakness, depression, and pain. 

Everyone loves a winner. Everyone loves an underdog - a name for one from whom no one could possibly fathom much of anything, least of all the unexpected, or out of character. Who would have forseen the girl surrounded by a doting family, a jungle of friends, teammates and classmates alike, always smiling, always laughing, always achieving, breaking down under the weight of her own insecurities. The girl with the greatest support network falling through the cracks of her own mind. No one expected an eating disorder, of all things, to tear her down. 

As competition would have it, I WOULD be the skinniest, the prettiest, the most desirable; the one whispered about in hushed voices as she passed - not dull or plain, no! I would STAND OUT. And I did. Not so much like a sore thumb than as an emaciated pinky finger. I WAS the skinniest. They DID whisper in hushed voices as I passed by. But there is nothing pretty, or desirable, about a skeleton. Nothing fantastically attractive about swollen salivary glands and cheeks, tearing eyes, rancid lips and tongue that have felt the bite of bile 7 times that day. There is nothing inspiring about a girl who hides behind the reflection in the mirror and measures her self worth by the size of her clothes. 

This girl was me, or the hollow shell of what had once been "me." The very drive to be what all the magazines and movies boast as "beautiful" had driven away the ones I loved: had driven me right out of myself. I was happy to let the beast of "Ed" (eating disorder) inhabit my body, as long as I didn't have to confront him. For 7 years, I cowered. Occasionally, I've found an ounce or two of resolve and stood to face my demons, only to feel the weight of their girth, and would retreat, outnumbered, to the corner of my mind where I was allowed to live, in fear. 

But today, I am fighting. Battles are won and battles are lost, but in my war, I am winning. Simply by taking a stand on the battlefield, I cut away some of ropes that have bound me. And I do not stand alone. Others who have fought battles like mine stand with me, and others fight with me just because they care. The stranger who compliments me on my voice after a performance fights with me, because she or he has loaded my cannon with one more reason why I don't need "Ed" to stand out, or to be appreciated. 

And as I struggle to rediscover who I am, whoever that may be, I find a little piece of her every day, in my voice. When I sing, I feel at home in myself, which is a remarkable feat for someone  who has a hell of a time getting comfortable in her own body. The fact that I can even sing at all, considering what I have put my body through, is a miracle in itself. So, aside from the spirit of competition, I'm grateful to have a body that has harbored and healed my spirit, despite my abuse; and here's to many more days and nights of singing - whether on stage or not - and finding who I am. 

If you care to, take a look at me finding myself on stage in round 1 of Keene Idol 2014! 

http://youtu.be/W0WMMmwcdoc

Having Faith

It’s taken me a long time to write this entry.

Not because I’ve run out of things to say; actually, it’s quite the opposite. I have so much to say, but have no idea how to say it. Mostly because I am petrified of how certain people - whom I love, whose opinions I value, and whose respect I crave - are going to react. However, one of the most important things I have learned during my recovery, and perhaps the hardest to put into practice, is that I cannot live my life trying to please others and somehow expect to find my own happiness. While it is true that there is almost no greater satisfaction than seeing a smile on someone’s face and knowing you put it there, this kind of happiness pales in comparison to that felt when you see a smile on your OWN face, and know that you yourself put it there. I can’t remember the last time I smiled for myself.

I can’t remember the last time I did something for myself. It is as if, for every action I have committed over the past several years, I can easily find some sort of external motivation; someone else’s reasons, if you will. But I am hard-pressed to find MY reasons. Even when I first started my recovery almost six months ago, my main motivation wasn’t for myself. I was sick of hurting the people I loved: causing them worry, breaking their trust.

Now I’ve started doing things for myself. It’s hard. It means I have to ask people for help when I need it. It means I have to tell people when they say or do something that triggers Ed’s voice. I have to tell people “no” sometimes. I feel selfish.

But as my mom said today “Since when is that a bad thing? Somewhere along the way “selfish” got a bad rap.” And she’s right. Since when has taking care of yourself been a bad thing? Do people look down on you for showering? I hope not. I’m inclined to think most people would actually want you to shower.  

I want to get this right, but the truth is there is no easy way to go about this. And I thought going public with my eating disorder was going to be difficult. Compared to this, that was a piece of cake (and we all know how I feel about cake).  So I’ll just start. For those of you reading, I don’t expect you to understand. Some of you might, some of you won’t, and that’s okay. All I ask is that you believe me, and that you respect me for staying true to myself, because right now, it’s the hardest thing to do.

So here I go…  

"Ugh. That was not the response that I needed. Can't you just support my recovery, instead of telling me all the reasons I'm supposedly going to hell? I need 'I'm here for you, you can do it,' not 'you're a sinner.'"

I posted this status on Facebook two days ago. It was my raw reaction to an email I received from a very close friend – someone whom I have been out of touch with for quite some time (to be fair and clarify, this person was referring to something else, not my eating disorder, as sinful). This person has been one of my best friends over the last couple years. He is kind, funny, outgoing, and has a strong faith in his religion. He is a wonderful person and I value his friendship completely. However, after a lull in communication, when I revealed to him that I had been struggling with an eating disorder for the past few years, I was surprised that news of my life-threatening illness took a back seat to the other piece of information I disclosed: that I have been for the past 3 months, and am currently still, living with my boyfriend. 

Now, I know that this lecture came from a place of love. This person honestly believes that I cannot be happy unless I live by this rule, and many other rules of God. And he believes that I believe that. And I respect that. I see the reasoning behind these beliefs. I agree with a majority of them. They are not irrational.  But they (not all, but a few) are not for me. 

To be fair, I did at a point in my life commit myself to these rules. I did it for love. Love for God? Not exactly (although I do love Him). Love for a boy? Yes. 

Isn't that always how it goes?

But let me start at the beginning.

I’ll try not to bore you with the details: I don’t want to draw this out. A year and a half ago, I was baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Most of you know this as the “Mormon” faith. I love these people. They are kind, compassionate, and eager to befriend and lend a helping hand. They are energetic, happy, and fun-loving. They treasure the family above all else, and the entire congregation is such a tight-knit community, I’m surprised they don’t have their own zip code (minus Nelson, NH, which already has this phenomenon – shout out to all my Schillemats J).  

I love the Gospel. I love the Bible. I love the Book of Mormon. I love the strength and inspiration that I have drawn from them in times of need, and the comfort I have read whilst reading them. I have lost count how many times I refer to 2 Nephi 2:11 in the Book of Mormon:

“For it must needs be, that there is an aopposition in all things. If not so, my first-born in the wilderness, righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad. Wherefore, all things must needs be a compound in one; wherefore, if it should be one body it must needs remain as dead, having no life neither death, nor corruption nor incorruption, happiness nor misery, neither sense nor insensibility.”

I often remind myself of this scripture when I feel overwhelmed by unfortunate events. It reminds me that, although hard times suck, to be quite frank, we wouldn't be able to appreciate the better times without the contrast they provide. I love how these and countless other passages have lifted me up in dark times.

But…

I also have a tattoo.

I occasionally drink alcohol - in moderation. These occurrences are few and far between, rarely ever to a point of intoxication, and currently non-existent while I am in recovery.

I drink tea.

I will work on Sundays.

I believe in the power of love, whether  between opposite-sex or same-sex couples.

I live with my boyfriend. A wise relative told me “Who you love and live with is yours. And love is always right.”

I believe that I and the man I marry will have God’s blessing regardless of where we are married.

And last but not least, I believe God loves me for who I am, just as he loves all of his children, and that I will not go to hell for believing these things. I believe that if I live my life to the best of my ability, love as fully as I can, treat others with kindness and compassion, and stay true to who I am, I will be welcomed into heaven, where I will live eternally in bliss with my loved ones.

Today, I unloaded my anxiety around the consequences of staying true to my values to my therapist. She turned to me, leaned forward, and said “the sky is pink.”

Um, what?

Again, “the sky is pink.”

Me: “I’m not exactly sure what that means…”

She proceeded to tell me that just because someone else’s sky is pink, doesn’t undermine the fact that for my, my sky is blue. Or green. Or whatever color I please. She then used my favorite analogy of the day (sessions are often filled with metaphors):

Imagine you live your life sitting in a chair. Your chair is comfortable; you have had it for as long as you can remember.  It is perfectly shaped to the curves of your body, sturdy enough to carry your weight, and supportive of all your weak spots. Through the years you have tinkered with this chair: added arm rests – good  move! Made it swivel – eh, made you too dizzy. Added wheels – best decision EVER! Threw a bead massage cover over it – ugh, too lumpy. Through all the tweaks, some stuck, some just weren’t a good fit. But none were a waste. You love your chair. It is everything you need.

Everyone’s chair is different. But different isn’t wrong. There’s more than one way to build a bridge(this is the cat-friendly version – but the same applies to chairs, in case you were wondering). Just because someone tells me my chair is uncomfortable, or imperfect, doesn’t mean I have to throw it away. Some people may not approve of my chair: understandable, my chair is custom-built for me. But the beautiful thing about my chair is: if you don’t like it, you don’t have to sit in it. And that’s okay.  

What does this have to do with my recovery? I have been struggling with my identity ever since Ed came into my life. Ed’s biggest weapon against my attempts to do so is fear. Fear that people will not love me or accept me for who I am or what I believe in. Fear that I will lose people I care about. Fear that I will disappoint people. Fear that I will not measure up to peoples’ expectations. But to live a happy life, the only expectations I have to meet are those I set for myself.

This is the what I have struggled with the most the past two days, and is by far the hardest thing I have done this past week. The “people-pleaser” in me is not to be overlooked. But I cannot overlook my beliefs or values either. I hope my honesty falls upon warm hearts and is received with respect.  

As is often with true with recovery, I don’t need you to understand. I just need you to believe me.

I love you all. 

What's Up With "Ed?"

“Who the hell is Ed and do I need to talk to him?!?!”

This is an email I received from a friend before I had gone public with about my eating disorder. I completely understood her confusion. Up until that point, I had dabbled in posting a few Facebook status updates that mentioned him and how I was trying to stay away from him, but I would be surprised if more than 10 people actually knew what I was talking about. It probably looked like I was dealing with some sort of creeper stalker. And this is not untrue. At least, not in a metaphorical sense...

If any of you have ever seen "Star Trek: Wrath of Kahn,” you remember the scene involving earwig-looking creatures that entered your brain and controlled  your mind. For those of you who aren’t as ridiculously nerdy as I am, Spiderman III’s “Venom” might be a better analogy. Ed is an earwig. Ed is venom.

So now that you all know who Ed is, you probably think I’m also schizophrenic. But the reality is we all talk to ourselves, albeit usually not aloud. The only difference between your “Let’s see, I have to finish reading that chapter for chemistry, but I’d really rather play video games…I can just do it in the morning, oh, and don’t forget to take out the trash…” and my dialogue with Ed is, you don’t debate with yourself about sticking your finger in an electrical socket, or lighting your hair on fire, (or maybe you do, I’m just guessing) or some other self-destructive behavior, like going a week only eating an apple every other day. I’m sure you’re wondering why I, and many others who have also struggled with eating disorders, refer to this illness as an individual being - a separate person with his own thoughts and actions.

Mental disorders are some of the most misunderstood illnesses. It’s no secret that there is still a stigma that accompanies any mental diagnosis. Although more recently society has become slightly more accepting of their widespread prevalence, the prejudice is still there, and none feel the burden of discrimination more than those who suffer from mental disorders.

But not in the way you might think.

I can only speak for myself, and perhaps some of the people I have gone through treatment with, but when I had finally come to terms with and accepted the fact that I had an eating disorder, I beat myself up about it. How could I LET this happen to me? I should be stronger than this. I should be smarter than this. I know this is killing me, why can’t I just stop? Every time I purged, I told myself I was pathetic. Stupid. Weak. A failure. Eventually, I was convinced I would never recover, because I was only capable of doing the wrong thing.

When I entered recovery, I still considered Ed and I to be the same person. I had never heard of “divorcing Ed” or any other such reference to personifying an illness. Girls in treatment sometimes referred to thoughts or actions coming from their eating disorder, but to me, even then, the distinction was not great enough. I still owned my disorder.

It wasn’t until I started reading Jenni Schaeffers’ book, “Life Without Ed,” that I was introduced to the concept of viewing my eating disorder as an entirely different person. At first I thought it was a bit ridiculous. I am NOT going to go between two chairs facing each other and have a conversation between myself and Ed. I’m already bonkers enough. I still haven’t done that. But those of you who have been reading regularly are aware of the dialogue with Ed that I have documented.

Of course, these “conversations” were written in hindsight. Separating Ed’s voice from my voice is still not necessarily something I recognize immediately when I’m in the moment. But using discourses to analyze my past thoughts and actions has helped me to make sense of the myriad emotions I experience.

One of the greatest, and most challenging, steps I have taken in my recovery is to realize that I am NOT my disorder. Yes, my disorder is a part of me. But it does not DEFINE me. I am not a “bulimic person.” Bulimia has found me. To put it in perspective: if you got into a car accident, would you from that day forward refer to yourself as a “car accident?” Probably not. I mean, we’ve all had the occasional “I’m a train wreck” moment, but I do not believe that’s a literal reference.      

Ed is how I took back my identity. All the things I had hated myself for, they were not, and are not, who I am. I can blame Ed for a lot of things: my depression, misery, self-loathing, anxiety, behaviors around food. But in the end, it does come down to whether I let Ed get the better of me. I can’t always use him as my scapegoat. When I make poor decisions, and believe me I do, I can’t point the finger and say, “it was HIM! I’m innocent!” I may not be guilty of murder in the first degree, but if I helped bury the body, I’m still an accessory.

One of the hardest things about recovering from an eating disorder is taking responsibility. Yes, I can blame Ed all I want. And that helps me to remember that I am still me, and that I deserve so much more than Ed gives, or takes away. But my recovery is MY responsibility. No one else can kick Ed out. I cannot rely on others to take the steps for me. All I can do is ask for support; the rest is on me.

But even though taking responsibility is the hardest thing any adult has to do, it is also the most empowering. Ed isn't something I "let" happen to me. He just did. And it's unfortunate. An old proverb states: "We cannot change the direction of the wind, but we can adjust our sails." I didn't choose to suffer with Ed. I didn't wake up one morning and say, "Bulimia sounds fun, I think I'll give it a try..." Who would? But I do choose to live. And I'm choosing it now. 

The Chocolate Cake

No one is invincible.

No matter how “on top of the world” we feel, sometimes it only takes one small breeze to knock us off our pedestal. And the higher up you are, the harder you fall.

It’s Tuesday night. I had just spent a fantastic weekend with the love of my life moving into our new apartment. I had just started my second week of treatment earlier that day. I had four days of “sobriety” under my belt and, by dinner time, was still looking good for five days. My stepmom had cooked a fantastic dinner: pasta, turkey meatballs, freshly baked bread, and a garden salad – delicious AND healthy. To top it all off, we were actually going to attempt a sit down dinner at our dining room table. During the summer, everyone needs to be in a different place at a different time. Normally each one of us files through the kitchen whenever our schedules allow, serve ourselves, and rush off to our various nooks: usually either the TV trays by the couch, or off to a bedroom. But this night, all of us were home: myself, my dad, my stepmom Holly, my stepbrother Nik (well, almost all of us… stepbrother #2, Cam, was not present), and Nik’s girlfriend Beth.   

Holly, my dad, and I had all served and seated ourselves. Nik and Beth had not yet joined us at the table, though they had been issued the traditional “dinner’s ready!” prompting. It looks like it’s just going to be the three of us… or at least for a while until Nik and Beth join us. But the food’s not going anywhere, we might as well start if they’re going to be tardy… several bites in and my father reminds us, “aren’t we going to wait for everyone to be seated?” Holly and I exchange looks. “They’ll get here when they get here, Peter,” she laughs. “We’re going to have dinner as a family.” Apparently, we are waiting.

My anxiety skyrockets. It seems so silly… why am I stressing out about something so trivial? I may be waiting five minutes, tops. Is that so bad? It is. It’s HORRIBLE. I just want to eat my food. It is what I am supposed to do. I already compromised my meal plan by waiting an extra two hours after I was supposed to eat to have this family sit-down feast. And it’s not even the whole family!

Ed: “This was such a waste. They made you starve yourself for two hours just so you could eat as a family, and now they’re STILL keeping you from eating, and the whole family won’t even be here.”

Allie: “They didn’t starve me. I volunteered to wait an extra little bit so I could enjoy my family’s company. I had an afternoon snack to tie me over.”

Ed: “That was over five hours ago. Now your meal plan is ruined. They are setting you up for failure. You might as well give it to them. Binge.”

I stare at my plate in silence. But in my head, the conversation is deafening.

Nik comes to the kitchen, serves himself, and sits down. Bethany is nowhere to be seen. Ah, so close…

I continue to stew, staring at my food. What once looked so wholesome and healthy now seemed so ominous. I am hungry, and I can’t eat my food. Hungry and angry are a recipe for Ed. Have you ever said an everyday, ordinary word over and over to yourself until it starts to sound completely peculiar? Or similarly, stared at something so long that it seems the dimensions are playing tricks on your eyes? In this way, I have found that food grows, on my plate, when I pay too much attention to it.

Ed: “You took too much. But you have to eat it all, because that’s what normal people do; they clear their plates.”

Allie: “I’ll eat until I’m not hungry anymore.”

Ed: “Who are you kidding? We both know you don’t have that kind of will-power.”

Allie: “My family is here to support me. I don’t have to listen to you.”

Ed: “If that’s so, why am I still here?”

Allie: (silence)

Beth finally joins us. What had probably only been 10 minutes seemed like an hour. I feel like I can breathe again. More importantly, I can EAT again.

Ed: “Stuff it in. There are tons of leftovers you can binge on later.”

Allie: “You stuff it, Ed.”

I’ve got a good pace going. Bite, chew no less than 15 times, take a sip of water, deep breath in and out. Repeat. It’s my greatest defense mechanism against Ed while eating. Not two cycles in…

Holly: “So Nikky, I saw you brought a piece of cake home from the BBQ yesterday?”

CRAP.

Cake? I didn’t know there was cake. There’s CAKE in the house?!

As if Ed hadn’t already been yelling in my ear that my recovery was falling to pieces and I might as well give up and give in, now he was ecstatic.

Ed: “Cake! Hooray!”

Allie: “I hate you. I will focus on my food and just breathe.”

The cake talk doesn’t stop. What kind of cake? Double, or triple, or some other ridiculous multiple of chocolate! How much is there? Just on piece. You should have brought home more so we could all have some! Yes, you should have brought home more, so I could have it all. What other food was there at the BBQ? Why, there was this! And that! And every other thing! Have you ever realized how much we talk about food? Even when we’re EATING food, we can’t stop talking about it. Several times I almost had the courage to politely ask if we could change the subject, but who gets their knickers in a twist over a piece of cake? I’ll just wait it out…

To any other individual it would have seemed like a perfectly normal conversation. To me, it was torture. If Ed had a body other than mine, he would be jumping in circles all around me, making faces, taunting jeers, poking and pushing every weak spot he could find.

Time was not flowing for me today. In reality, the cake talk probably only lasted 5 minutes. It felt like forever. Eventually the conversation shifted to something else, but I honestly couldn’t tell you what. I thought about that cake for the entire rest of the meal.  

I did not eat the cake.

Nor did I binge. I didn't even eat everything on my plate. I listened to my body cues and stopped when I was full. I even had an evening snack, just like my meal plan said, and that was that.

But it’s a good thing my birthday doesn’t roll around for another seven months. It’s going to take me a while to get used to cake… 

My Friend "Resi"

Not convinced that our Health Care System is in shambles? It took me three days to check into a residential treatment center. A three day period, during which, I probably binged and purged another 10 times.

Tuesday

I wake up at 6:30am, grab two slices of bread and a yogurt, and shuffle off to the car. Dad is driving me to Waltham, Massachusetts, where we will meet my mom and I will check myself into a residential care facility. The two hour drive is brutal. Normally, considering my long-term relationship with long-term driving, this would be nothing. However, checking yourself into a mental care facility isn’t something you can trivialize and blast away with the musical stylings of ELO.  I passed the time wondering what life was going to be like for the next couple of… days? weeks? months? I know they will not let me run. No exercise of any kind. This alone puts me on edge; running is probably the only healthy thing I have been doing the past several months. What will they make me eat? I hope they don’t make me feel stuffed… When can I have visitors? How many other girls will be there? I bet they’ll all be skinnier than I am… I’ve never done group therapy. Do we HAVE to do yoga? I really hope we don’t all sit in a circle and mutter “ohm” for an hour.  

We arrive at 9am. Paperwork commences. Mounds and mounds of paperwork. It feels like every time the assistant takes my completed forms, she gives me a new stack. So many release forms… my wrist hurts. And to make things worse, there’s a bowl of snacks sitting on an end table in the waiting room. Really? I spend more time resisting the bowl than writing my information down. How cruel. I hate this place already.

One hour later…

The paperwork is finished. Now: blood work. Finally, something I am good at! The nurse tells me “just a little pinch” and upon rolling up my sleeve to reveal my antecubital area, she marvels at my glorious veins. “I donate blood all the time,” I boast. Or at least, I used to, before a) I screwed up the chemical balance of my body, b) developed anemia (as a result of the former point), and c) got a tattoo. She takes five vials and sends me on my way.

More waiting.

Then, psych evaluation.

This is where I wish I had “The Hard part 1-2” already written out. It would have been so much easier to hand that to the case worker than to verbally ramble through everything Ed and I had been through together, while keeping chronological order and not skipping any of the juicy parts. She asks questions, I answer them. Once she’s satisfied, she applauds me for seeking help and then proceeds to explain why I will most likely be waiting for at least another hour: she has to present my case to the insurance company and convince them that I screwed up enough (these were not her words, I have taken some artistic liberty here for your reading pleasure) to warrant coverage. She sends me back to the waiting room. I have spent more time here than anywhere else today.

The wait lasts longer than an hour.

Apparently, “Memorial Day” is “Memorial Days” for insurance companies. With no luck reaching an agent by 4:30pm, I am told to go home and expect an update tomorrow. Ed feels my dismay. My walls are down and he gladly steps in.

Allie: “All that for nothing?”

Ed: “You might as well give up, this is never going to happen. These people clearly don’t care about helping you.”

Allie: “It’s not their fault. Yesterday was a holiday, I’m sure the insurance people are just backed up.”

Ed: “They just know that you really don’t have a problem. You’re not skinny enough to need rehab.”

Allie: “That doesn’t mean I should keep living like this.”

Ed: “I will never make you go to rehab. I will take care of you. Now, let’s go home and numb these feelings with a nice binge.”

Allie: “That does sound comforting… alright.”

Ed won. Ed won three times that day.

Wednesday

Around 2:00pm, I get the call. “You’ve been approved for seven days in residential. You can check in as early as 8:00am tomorrow.”

Allie is thrilled. Ed is afraid. When Ed is afraid, he gets nasty.

Ed: “Well congratulations, tomorrow you’re throwing away everything we have built together.”

Allie: “You mean the misery you have caused me?”

Ed: “You were never miserable. I give you control. You could finally have an absolute effect on something with me.”

Allie: “No, you took away my control.”

Ed: “Let’s not fight. If you’re determined to do this, it’s our last day together. Let’s make it a good one. For old time’s sake. Then you can tell me if you still want to leave me.”

Allie: “Fine. But only because I will miss you, and I feel badly for you.”

Ed is incredibly tricky. Sometimes he pretends to be on your side to make you feel like you still have power, but then he guilts you into crawling right back to him. That day Ed convinced me it was okay to binge and purge because starting tomorrow, I would never do it again. But Ed is a master strategist. He knows I will do it again. He may have to concede a few battles, but when I am least expecting it, he will ambush me and win the war. You know the feeling you get when someone you love is leaving for an extended absence, and you want to spend every last second with them, as if you could absorb enough of their presence to keep them there with you always? Ed and I spend a lot of time together that night.

Thursday

Another 6:30am, bread and yogurt, long drive morning. Since last night, Ed has made a peaceful departure. It’s just Allie this morning. I’m relieved that this day has finally come. Today I kick Ed’s sorry bum to the curb, once and for all. I already feel like I’ve won.

There is more paperwork upon arriving, but only briefly. They check my bags, make sure I’m not hiding food or drugs, and take away anything I could possibly use to hurt myself. Then they take my phone. I knew this would happen, and took care to record all the numbers I would need in an address book. With no Facebook, no texting, and rarely any time with visitors or the sunlight, this address book was my only link to the outside world. I said goodbye to my parents; it was just like summer camp all those years ago… minus the “fun in the sun” part, and I don’t think s’mores would have been considered much fun either.

It’s snack time. I am surrounded by girls like me yet I feel so alone. I know no one. I mosy over to the kitchen counter and ask the nearest MHC (mental health counselor) what I should do. She hands me a meal plan and politely points out the list of exchanges (food types and portion sizes), which I am to use to build my snack. I am browsing through what seems to be an encyclopedia of options, overwhelmed. A petite girl, smiling and very pretty, introduces herself and asks me humorously “what I’m in for.” “Bulimia,” I respond. “Me too, I think I was the only one here before,” she says. Thank God. Someone who gets it. Immediately I feel welcome. Each and every one of these girls is bright, bubbly, kind, and funny. As I look around the table at each of these beautiful women, I ask myself how we could have all ended up here, feeling hopeless, worthless, and ugly, when clearly we all have so much to offer?

I guess that’s what we’re here to find out.

I love residential. I love the structure. I love having therapy groups where we just COLOR (when was the last time you used a coloring book? Get on that, it’s a beautiful thing. I don’t know why we ever stop). And even though I DON’T love having to ask a MHC to unlock the bathroom for me, and I love even LESS having to show her the contents of the toilet before I flush (talk about embarrassing), I DO love being free of Ed. Would I rather have more than three 15-minute breaks outside? Yes. Would I rather have more than two hours with my loved ones? Definitely. Would I rather keep my bodily functions private? Good God, yes. Would I temporarily sacrifice these things to ensure a lifetime of unlimited access to them? There is not a doubt in my mind.

And I love the girls. They are some of the sweetest, most fun-loving, crazy (in a good way) people I have ever met. And they are inspiring. They make residential actually seem like summer camp.

But, like summer camp, Resi (as we so fondly refer to her) also has rules. We are not allowed to talk about food during meals or snacks. We are not allowed to exercise. No push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks, and when you walk as fast as I do, even that is frowned upon. We are not allowed to wear inappropriately tight or short clothing. We are not allowed access to mirrors other than when we are in the bathroom. But these rules allow us to live in an environment that is as trigger-free as possible, which isn’t saying much, because when Ed sits on your shoulder, it seems everything is a trigger. But it’s a start.

I spent a total of 10 days in Resi. I watched girls I had bonded with “fly the nest” and spread their wings in the outside world. I watched new girls come in and observed as they began the same excruciatingly slow but exponentially rewarding process of recovery, as I was doing. When it came my time to go, I was sad to leave. Sad and scared. I wanted to stay and support these women as much as I could. And I was afraid of what would happen when I returned home. Would Ed be there waiting for me? Would I be able to maintain everything Resi had taught me?

One thing I learned at Resi is that life is unpredictable. Even in the most structured of environments, things rarely ever went as I planned. We are creatures of habit, but so is Ed. He thrives on routine, because the moment you break it, which you inevitably will at some point, he cuts in on your dance and steps all over your feet.  We crave consistency, and it is not a bad thing. Patience, trust, reliability, and perseverance are all valuable traits that rely on repeated practice. It is when life becomes rigid and inflexible that we welcome chaos into our lives. As my mom has often told me, “be like the willow and bend with the wind: the oak’s branches will crack during a storm.”

Resi, with the help of IOP, gave me over a month of “sobriety.” And although I’ve experienced relapses since then, the experience was not wasted. By anyone else’s standards, my stint at Resi could be classified a failure. But I don’t use anyone else’s standards. I define what success is. Not Ed, not you, and not society. I do.

And today, I define my life as a success. 

The Hard Part - 3

Does everyone have their glasses?

This blog is brought to you in 3D, since the final installment in every movie franchise EVER is always in 3D. I will also be including go-pro footage, so this blog is not for the weak of stomach.

It’s not like any of us here are bulimic...

For those of you who may be experiencing similar struggles, I apologize if some of my comments seem crass and insensitive. Eating disorders are NOTHING to joke about. Eating disorders have the highest mortality rate of any mental illness. The mortality rate associated with anorexia nervosa is 12 times higher than the death rate of ALL causes of death for females 15 – 24 years old. Only 30-40% of people diagnosed with eating disorders will ever fully recover.

But I love me some humor. Have to have it. I believe that the ability to laugh at one’s self is the greatest form of acceptance, and an integral part of learning to love one’s self. However, as he often does with any person, place, or thing that provides solace, Ed will twist humor to fit his agenda.

And Ed has a side-kick.   

Although ever-funny and often a life-saver in awkward situations, Sarcasm is probably second only to Ed when it comes to self-deprecation. He can provide great comic relief, but he and Ed get along way too well when it comes to snide remarks. Ed uses Sarcasm to disguise the fact that he is telling me something truly awful. Example:

Rich: “You are my world.”

Sarcasm: “Well, I’m about as big as one. Plus, the only way I could ever get a guy like you would be if I had my own gravitational pull, so I guess that makes sense.”

Ed’s underlying message: “You’re fat.”

This became the conversational norm.

I was on top of the world: I was fresh out of rehab with almost 2 weeks of “sobriety” under my belt, newly moved in with the man I love, and attending IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program) in Northampton three times a week for four hours. I had no cravings or urges to engage in Ed’s riff-raff. Ed will have none of this. He’s scheming to bring his little lost lamb back into the fold. But I’m wiser now. Ed knows this. He can’t just come out guns blazing, screaming “eat it all! Then flush it away!” I will call him on it. It’s easy to escape your enemy when you can hear them coming from miles away. No, he needs a sneak attack. So he takes my perfectly witty sense of humor (I imagine him looking somewhat like a Santa Claus, round and jolly), breaks his arm, and tells him that if he doesn’t do exactly what he says, there will be no Christmas.

No! NOT CHRISTMAS!

Ed has found his way in. I love to poke fun at myself. It’s all in good fun, and as long as it brings a smile to someone’s face, I’m willing to take a few jabs. I will watch the “All About Mormons” episode of South Park and laugh harder than anyone else watching. It’s all about perspective. However, little by little, Ed is turning my once jovial jesting into a vindictive commentary. Example:

Friend: “You look healthy.”

Allie: “Yeah, I don’t have to worry about being carried away by a light breeze anymore.”

Ed: “You’re too fat for the wind to even affect you. You’re a house. A tornado couldn’t move you.”

I had almost a month’s worth of no binging or purging. And then Ed found his golden opportunity…

I had lost weight. How much, I’m not exactly sure. I wasn’t really keeping track; I kept away from the scale like it would give me leprosy.  I attributed this to the running I had recently been doing. In part, this is true. But I had also been skimping on my meal plan. Instead of three meals and three snacks daily, I had whittled down to two meals and two snacks daily. Not a horrible difference, but with the added exercise, I might as well have been eating nothing.

The treatment center decided to increase my level of care from IOP to PHP (Partialized Hospitalization Program). I would now be attending treatment five days a week for six hours. Ed was THRILLED.

Ed: “How terrible. You’ve been doing EVERYTHING RIGHT and now they’re punishing you for it.”

Allie: “But…I have been restricting….not a whole lot but I’m not supposed to restrict anything…”

Ed: “Who cares? You haven’t binged or purged in a month! You’re losing weight the healthy way and they think you still have a problem. They want you to stay fat.”

Allie: “That’s not true. They want me to get better and eat 100% of my meal plan.”

Ed: “You don’t need to get better, you’re fine to begin with. And now they’re taking away more of your freedom. We’ll make them regret this. We’ll GIVE them a reason to be in PHP. You are going to binge and purge tomorrow. That will teach them.”

Allie: “Ok.”

I sunk into a relapse my first week of PHP. I was so embarrassed that I had essentially obliterated all the progress I had made, I didn’t want to tell anyone. Not even the counselors or group members at treatment. I don’t know how or what prompted me to come forward, but I finally did. It was the hardest thing I have ever done throughout my recovery. There is no way to describe how low you feel after your first relapse: like you are back at square one, a lost cause. Ed telling you to just give up, you will never be able to beat him. But then your case worker hosts a family meeting, with your loving parents and boyfriend, and you realize how much you have to fight for. But with only three insurance-approved sessions left, it’s hard to get your feet back on solid ground before corporate America rips the rug out from underneath you.

I had my good days. Only a few bad days here and there. But even a couple bad days is enough wiggle room for Ed. He’s like Houdini. Give him an inch and he takes a mile.

I soon fell into the worst relapse I had ever had. I was binging and purging at least five times a day, if not more. Already ate all the food in the house? That’s what delivery is for: meet Mr. Pizza Hut and Ms. Domino’s. I spent all my money on binges, and when that ran out, I spent money I didn’t have. I told no one, and left no evidence. Except the empty cupboards. I could only hide those for so long…

It was barely two weeks ago that Rich realized I had been struggling. It was a long and teary discussion. I was ashamed and confused. I felt worthless. How could I have fallen so hard after coming so far? Ed was questioning everything that made me feel like a human being. “You don’t deserve to be healthy, you don’t deserve to be happy, and you certainly don’t deserve this love, this boy who has shown you nothing but support and trust and you betrayed it.” He was doing such a good job of ripping the cornerstone from my foundation. Then…

Rich: “I think you should go back.”

Ed: “Ha. Right. Go back to the scoundrels that caused your relapse in the first place.”

Allie: “Shut up Ed. Here I have fallen down again and the people I love are still picking me up off the ground. They care. I matter. I should go back. And I will.”

Since checking back into IOP (this time in South Windsor, CT), I now have 8 days of “sobriety” under my belt. Monday is my last day of treatment. I feel stronger than ever, but that doesn’t mean I’m not scared.

But I am no longer afraid of fear. Like I told a fellow patient today, fear keeps you from doing stupid things. Fear means you value your life and are actively fighting for it. Fear means that I am aware of the dangers that I face. Fear means I know Ed’s real game, and I know nobody wins when he plays. Fear means I have a chance. Fear means I will win.     

The Hard Part - 2

Have you had enough time to remove the layer of glaze from your eyes? Good, now slap it on a donut and eat it. On second thought, don’t do that… I imagine eye glaze is significantly less appetizing than sugary donut glaze. At least, to you, it is. Where you see a glistening ring of doughy perfection, I see guilt and self-loathing. I see an additional 10 pounds overnight. I see the beginning of what will be a 2-gallon binge and an exhaustive purge that will leave me curled up on the bathroom floor shaking violently.

Ever since Ed came into my life, I’ve been afraid of food in some way, shape, or form. Afraid it would make me fat, afraid I would lose control, eat too much of it, and find myself once more heaped over the toilet. Afraid that no matter how hungry I was, or how delicious the food smelled or tasted, I would never be able to actually enjoy another bite of food for the rest of my life.

There came a brief reprieve though. My senior year of high school was one of the best years of my life I can remember: physically, emotionally, academically, completely. I ran cross-country and track, I sang in an acapella group, I aced all my classes, I had many friends, a loving family, and spent time enjoying their company. I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was free of Ed.

But Ed doesn’t give up. He’s like a scab on a wound; one wrong move and he opens right up.Ed sees the door cracked open and he invites himself in.

Syracuse University opened my door.

I was thrilled to go to college. I was sure of the direction I had chosen. The school, the program (architecture), the roommate, I had it all figured out. Only one of those things turned out to be right. Annie was a great roommate, and our pseudo-third roommate Lexi was also great. Those girls were probably the only redeeming thing about my stay at SU.

My very first class of my college experience threw my entire train off the tracks. The profession I had so voraciously pursued for over a year was now top 10 on my list of “things I never want to do with my life” (which, turns out, was a good thing. According to a fairly recent Yahoo! article, architecture is the most useless degree to have in the current economy).

Now what?

“I only came here for the architecture program, I have no idea what I want to major in now, I’m failing a class for the first time in my life, the ghetto is right next to my dorm, I have maybe three friends here, I completely shredded my hand during crew practice yesterday, I’m four hours and $36.00 worth in tolls away from home, have an almost exclusively Skype-relationship with my boyfriend who lives seven hours away… and I’m getting fat.” Those were the thoughts that ran through my head on a seemingly continuous loop. I didn’t want to admit it at the time, but I was depressed. All I did was sit in my tiny room, watch bootlegged movies, and eat cookies and other such sugary foods all day.

Numb.

Numb, numb, numb.

This was my brain’s immediate response to the onslaught of questions that caused me so much anxiety. Turns out “numb, numb, numb,” is really code for “nom nom nom.” I numbed myself with food. Before long I found myself at a whopping 170 lbs. Although this only BARELY classified me as “overweight” by typical BMI standards, I felt morbidly obese. Nothing fit. Walking the three flights to my dorm room left me winded. I wasn’t doing anything I loved: running, or any sport of any kind (crew doesn’t count, I quit after 3 weeks), singing, painting/sketching, spending time with people. I could no longer describe myself with the adjectives I had always associated with my identity: athlete, musician, friend, brainiac, perfectionist, artist.

I didn’t know who I was anymore.

So I got out. I transferred. It didn’t take long to make the decision. There wasn’t a single reason to stay. Even my roommate was transferring (yes, we got along SO well we even shared a mutual hatred for Syracuse).

I spent my winter break trying to reclaim the girl I used to be. I ran every day, I ate healthier. And when January 18^th rolled around, I started classes at Keene State College. I loved it all: the campus, the people, the professors, the size, the city. Here was the clean slate that I had so desperately needed, the proverbial “beacon of light” to guide me out of the dark place I had crawled into during my Syracuse days. I found a major I loved (exercise science), and thanks to my cousin Rachel and her gaggle of Mormon cohorts, I had friends. I took a lifeguarding class and frequented the gym… a little too frequently. I was also restricting my food intake like crazy. Some days I would have naught but a bowl of peas for dinner (I know, of all the things, you picked PEAS?! Allie, come on).

For the next couple years, I could never seem to find a happy medium; it was always one extreme or the other. I yo-yoed (gah, that looks so wrong…) a bit with my weight and my habits. Restrict and exercise like crazy, pig out and stay as sedentary as possible, so was the cycle every few weeks.  

Although Ed still lingered in the back of my mind and stomped on my self-esteem every now and again, for the most part I was happy. I had new friends, a new environment, and even new love.  I may not have been 100% happy with the way I looked, but that could take a backseat to the other more important things in my life. Little did I know then, and I still struggle with this now, that I am my number one priority.

It is the end of my sophomore year. I am moving in with my cousin for a month or so before I move into my very own apartment off-campus. I am taking four summer courses, which will, on certain days, require me to dedicate 12 hours of cognitive acuity to classes. And I am going to get in shape. ONCE AND FOR ALL. No more of this chub-rub, belly-flab, cellulite nonsense. Jeans from freshman year of high school, here I come!

This is my mentality, May 2011.

My day:

5:30 – Wake up, drive into Keene from Westmoreland

6:00 – Go to gym

8:00 – Class

12:00 – Go to gym. Again.

2:00 - Class

6:00 – Another class

10:00 – Drive home to Westmoreland

10:30 – Homework

12:00 – Sleep

On the days when I only had one class in the morning, any other class time was filled with either “work” or “gym.” Notice there are no “breakfast,” “lunch,” or “dinner” slots to be seen…

June 10^th 2011 – I move into my apartment. The schedule looks about the same, just without the 20 minute drive to and from Westmoreland. What does that mean? More time for sleep? Homework? NO! More time for GYM!

Later in June – I am at a weight I like. It’s not Ed’s ideal weight, but he has me working hard to get where he wants me to be. I am an athlete again. I am happy again. I am also anorexic again.

And then everything changed…

There was nothing particularly special about the day. No tremendous occasion, just a visit from dad, checking up on his little girl, living on her own for the first time in her life. He took me grocery shopping to fill my barren kitchen, the cupboards of not someone who just ran out of food, but someone who never ate any.

We made pizza and watched a movie.

(Do you like my spacing? I find it makes for a more dramatic read)

I never intended to eat an entire pizza by myself. There’s a certain mindlessness that sets in when your brain is focusing on Sam Worthington drive his bloodied sword into the Kraken’s face. Hard to believe that guy was in a wheelchair not one movie and several galaxies ago… hey, where’d my pizza go? Oops, I ate it… and now I’m so full I can’t stand up straight and I feel like Sam Worthington has redirected his sword into my stomach. Dad has gone and I am left with this horrible feeling that a bomb has gone off in my intestines. I have never been in such excruciating pain. Not even stepping on a lego compares to this. I will do anything to make it go away…

Ed: “Throw up.”

Allie: “That’s crazy. I’ll never be able to do it. I’ve tried it before and my gag reflex just isn’t sensitive enough.”

Ed: “There’s no harm in trying. Even if you have to spend a half hour hunched over the toiled, if it means you can get rid of this pain, it will be worth it.”

Allie: “Well… this does hurt a lot…”

Ed: “It’s only this one time. Now you know how painful this is, and you will never eat to this point of discomfort again, so you’ll never have to throw up again.”

Allie: “As long as it’s just this one time…”

Ed: “Just once, I promise.”

There are two things you need to know about where this conversation ended up. 

1) I purged. 

2) Ed lied.

That was not the last time I binged and purged. Now, I didn’t immediately fall into a day-to-day pattern. Most days I stuck to my regular restriction techniques. But some days…the kitchen called to me…

Ed: “One more time. It can’t hurt”

Allie: “You said that last time…”

Ed: “But this time I mean it. Trust me. Haven’t I always gotten you what you wanted before? Tomorrow we can go back to good ol’ restricting.”

Allie: “Okay, fine. This one more time. But tomorrow it’s back to anorexia, ok? I don’t like bulimia.”

Ed: “Fine by me.”

Ed lied again.

Before I knew it I was binging/purging up a storm. But I never reached out for help. My Addiction and Compulsive Behaviors professor had a particular allegory he liked to use when referring to an addicts mentality: “It’s like the sign above the bar that says ‘Free beer tomorrow!’ but tomorrow never comes.” Tomorrow didn’t come until I broke down in tears in front of my best friend/at-the-time-boyfriend Matthew. “I think you need to call your parents” he said. I did, they came, and we set a course of action in place. At the time it seemed that little talk was all I needed. I went a month and a half without an “episode.” But Ed was still on my back, and before long I had relapsed. I didn’t tell anyone. The shame was crippling. So was Ed. I confided in no one but Ed. He is not much of a comfort.

I withdrew from the fall semester. Too many missed classes spent curled up shivering, shaking, and dizzy in bed would have resulted in four failing grades. I started seeing a therapist, but Ed was relentless. Where I thought Spring semester would be different, it was the same as before. I had to withdraw. Ed is a creature of habit.

“I think now is as good a time as any for you to check into a short-stay residential program” said my therapist earlier this May.

Ed: “Oh HELL NO.”

Allie: “Calm down, I know, I got this.”

Ed: “They will ruin your life. Take away your freedom. I will let you do whatever you want.”

Allie: (sudden realization) “No….you do whatever YOU want. I’m tired of it. I need this…”

Ed: “No you don’t, you are Allie: strong and independent. If you really wanted to get rid of me you would have.”

Allie: “I do want to get rid of you. But I can’t do it alone.”

Ed: “You need me. Every accomplishment in your life you owe to me. I am the love of your life.”

Allie: “Actually, that’s not you anymore. I have another relationship I’d like to nurture.

Allie-out-loud: “I think you’re right.”

Ed: “NOOOOOOOOOO!”

Allie: “Yes.”

Residential was not as terrible as Ed made it out to be. It was structured, supervised, welcoming, and safe. Everything I had lost to Ed. I spent 10 days creating a solid foundation upon which to build the rest of my life. It was liberating! Not only was I able to go without using “behaviors” (this is how I will refer to my bulimia/anorexia cycle from now on, it’s a bit less jarring, and less triggering for any other ED victims who may be reading this blog), but I was surrounded by people who understood what I was going through. I also had a loving family, boyfriend, and friends to visit with and keep in touch with for support.

Sorry guys, I’m going to have to cut this one short again (I know, you’re all DYING to hear the rest). This is already so terribly long I’m afraid your eyes have glazed over to the point that they have become rock candy.

No donuts tonight!