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!