A Fifty Dollar Note and Two Twenties - There's Your £90

You'd think that planning a wedding would be horrific for someone who has trauma surrounding weddings. You'd also think that wedding planning would drive a woman into an eating disorder (KE Diet, anyone? -- that's ANOTHER blog). But the truth is, I have never been happier, healthier, more in love, more giddy. I love this whole wedding planning thing.

Alex -- Life makes sense with you in it, pancake. I have tried to convey to you how you make me feel numerous times, but I just can't find the perfect way to say it. I don't know how to formulate sentences that describe how perfect for me you are. Every girl imagines her dream wedding and with that her dream husband. You put my dream husband to shame. I couldn't have imagined someone as perfect for me as you are. Since we started dating, I have never had a doubt in my mind that you and I were meant to be together forever. You do things for me and say things to me that no one has ever done. You let me be me, and you love me as me. I know I have said it before, but you make me feel like a person again. People took so much away from me when I was younger that I was without -- without choice, independence, rights, ideas that were worth listening to, a voice... That was all taken away, and when you don't have any of that, the fundamental qualities of being a person are taken away. You lit up my world, showed me where all the things I had lost were, and encouraged (and still do) me to seize everything I had lost.

Thank you for making everything so easy. I love you :)

Old Draft Finally Published & The Puzzle Theory & Alex

I took a vacation to Virginia. I planned this for a total of 60 minutes before piling into my Camry with a suitcase. This is who I am. I am the girl who gets an itch to do something and does it. I like to do what I want, within reason of course. I don't like to be controlled; I spent too much of my life being controlled... but that's another blog.


I went to Spotsylvania, Virginia, which I feel happier when I call it "Spotsy"! It's a quaint little town, and I didn't come here for the tourist appeal. I came here to see a friend, someone I haven't seen in nearly five years. I'm sitting on his couch while he works the night away at TGI Friday's, and even though he isn't here right now, I'm so thankful to be here. I get a bit stir crazy, and I need to get away. Coming here was a great idea. My friend knows everything there is to know about my eating disorder. He knows more about my past than most of my oldest friends do, even the ones who lived through it with me. Most importantly, he genuinely cares about all of this. He genuinely cares about me. When I haven't eaten, he gives me this look, a look that lets me know he notices what's going on and he's wanting to be sure that I'm okay. He laughs at my silly quirks (when I first arrived he burst into laughter when seeing my need to turn around all of the nutrition labels so that they were not facing me -- then, he proceeded to turn around the labels on three different boxes of cereal!). He can sense when I'm weary about food, and he...

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I wrote what is found above at the beginning of March. I kept it as a draft, planning on publishing it in time. I never really got around to doing it though. The friend I went to visit soon became my boyfriend. Not long after that, we got engaged. Alex and I are the happiest couple in the world. Never have I met someone I am more in sync with.  We mesh perfectly.
For a long time I considered myself damaged goods, something that no one would want for a long time, just to tide them over, help them get their fix, and have them move along. I once told my therapist at Castlewood that being a victim for so long gave all my future boyfriends a free pass to beat the hell out of me. I called this "the puzzle theory".
The puzzle theory works like this: imagine a puzzle on the floor, a child has been working on it for months. One day, the child is careless and loses a piece of the puzzle. Then, he spills some soda on the puzzle. Slowly, the puzzle becomes more broken and less appealing. The child keeps working on the puzzle though, trying to make it beautiful. The child's dog eats a piece or two. Eventually, the puzzle becomes so mangled that the child doesn't care at all. It reaches a point where no one would even notice if the puzzle had any damage beyond what had already happened. That's where I was -- I was beyond the point of being put back together. Because of how broken I was, like the puzzle, no one would ever realize if more damage was done. This, in my mind, was like a free pass for every person I would ever let into my life to beat the ever living hell out of me.
Somewhere in all of this, I opened up enough to Alex to let him know the horrific happenings of my past. I've told him harrowing tales that once defined me, and he never saw me as the destroyed puzzle. He saw an ornate, beautiful, and intricate puzzle, one more fragile than most. He soon assumed the job of holding up a mirror, showing me what he saw, showing me that I was beautiful and I had not been destroyed by my past. He became my protector while always giving me room to fly and understand my independence.
Our engagement happened after 19 days of dating, crazy I know. But I know he is my world. He will never leave or forsake me. I know it's cliche, but I just know that this is God's plan for me. This is the man I have been praying for, and God brought him to me. I can't imagine my life without him. We speak the same language -- finishing each others sentences, making the same jokes with each other, and our communication is stronger than that I have with anyone. The way we communicate reminds me of how well my parents communicate, and that means so much to me. People might raise an eyebrow to what's happening between us, but I don't care. I'm finally focusing on having a happy and healthy life -- and being with Alex makes me happier than I have ever been, and he brings out the healthiest side of me!

Pure Goodness in Humanity

I lost some friends. I thought this would kill me, but it made me stronger.
I gained some new friends. I grew closer to old friends. I thought these friendships wouldn't last, but in a short period of time, these friendships have taught me what real friends are.
Because I have been strong enough to keep the mean friends away, I have (for the first time in a long time) started to trust, respect, and even love these new people in my life. Not only that, I feel that I deserve to have these people in my life. After treatment, I had a hard time loving people -- not just loving people in a romantic way, but loving anyone as a human. I had lost a lot of hope in humanity, and was afraid to put any faith, in anyone let alone care enough to love someone. The mere fact that I am starting to see pure goodness in people amazes me. Liking what I see in someone is something new, something I haven't let myself see in a very long time.

I thought it was easier just to assume that all of humanity had the capacity to hurt me and would if given the chance. I thought living life that way was safer, and safer was better. I don't care if it's safer. I like believing in the goodness in people. I like liking people. It's scary and it isn't what I'm used to, but I am starting to believe in a pure goodness in humanity.

New Steps

This is my detailed plan of action. This plan came about after having severe internal conflict about continuing with my current dietitian. The purpose of this plan is to help me construct the greatest post-treatment environment I can to protect myself and my recovery. I am making this plan open to my team, my family, the girls from EDA, and my friends so that they may voice their concerns, suggest alternatives, and help me maintain the most healthy lifestyle I can.

First and foremost, I have decided to stop seeing my current dietitian. The reasons for this are…

-          I have left every appointment in tears

-          I believe her style and mine do not mesh well

-          I would prefer more encouragement as opposed to criticism

-          I feel that my current meal plan is creating more eating disordered thoughts and actions

-          I feel that I have gained a great deal of knowledge from my dietitians and nutritionists since July of 2011, and I can implement this knowledge in my everyday life

-          I currently have a great mindset about weight gain, recovery, and food. I fear that continuing with my current dietitian will make me hyper-vigilant of my intake and hinder my growth in recovery.

-          My dietitian has stated that she does not trust me, and I am under the impression that she does not believe what I tell her.

-          I do not have the money to continue seeing my dietitian.

So that I do not relapse, I am committing myself to these promises…

-          I will continue to go to EDA

-          I will eat three meals a day at “normal” meal times.

-          I will eat two “Castlewood sized” snacks or one “Castlewood sized” double snack a day.

-          I will go to the grocery store at least twice a week, more if necessary, with a friend or family member (to keep myself in check so that I don’t buy fat free cheese or stuff like that)

-          I will continue to eat meals both with my family at home (not isolating during meals at home) and eat alone in public (something I’ve been trying to challenge recently)

-          I will entrust a doctor (probably Dr. Gomez if I like her, or Dr. Herrmann if I choose to remain with her) to monitor my weight. I will not weigh myself.

-          I will continue to see Thom weekly

-          I will continue to keep daily logs of all the food I eat. I will make comments about my meals/snacks as I currently do for my dietitian

It is my purpose in doing this to keep myself healthy. Personally, I don’t think that having anxiety around food and seeing my dietitian is helping my eating disorder. I am very comfortable with eating now. I like my current relationship with food. I see myself changing, and I love it. I am realizing that a large part of my disorder is my perfectionism. My perfectionist qualities are linking themselves so tightly with my meal plan that I am getting hooked on this idea of perfect recovery, which is just killing me. I do better with food and meals and getting in my minimums when I am not forcing myself to be as hyper-vigilant over my food as my dietitian would like (or what I perceive her to want from me). I am not saying that I will not ever see a dietitian again, but I would like time away from a dietitian to see if it is what is best for me. Different things work for different people, and there is no single way of recovery that is right for everyone. I really feel that I can do this without a dietitian at the moment. If I can’t and my family, friends, or team see me relapsing, I would immediately reconsider going to a dietitian and going about all of this in a different way. I just ask that people support me in my decision to work through recovery as I feel in my heart is best for me. 

A Letter to the Insurance Company

I am currently going through an appeal, hoping that my insurance company will see the error of their ways and reimburse my family for some of the money they paid out of pocket for me to remain in residential treatment. Below is one of the letters I wrote in my appeal.
*Trigger Warning, as always*

Even though my eating disorder began at the age of four, it took seventeen years for someone like Dr. Hermann to confront my problem. She referred me to The Renfrew Center for Eating Disorders in June of 2011, because I had gone from weighing above 135 lbs to below 110 lbs in a very fast amount of time. My percentage of suggested weight and my restrictive eating habits were more than reason enough for her to send me to specialists dealing with eating disorders. At Renfrew, I had a two hour long intake with Dr. Cooper who immediately recommended residential treatment, saying that I was “too sick for a lower level of care”. When I mentioned possibly doing an Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP), Dr. Cooper told me that I was too “medically fragile” for that level of care, anything lower than residential treatment was not going to be offered to me by the Renfrew Center. This was on June 20^th of 2011.

I started to try recovery on my own. I was seeing a dietitian and a therapist on a weekly basis while working full-time at a magnet school teaching middle and high school Latin.

In October, I taught all day feeling as if at any moment I could have a heart attack. After school, I saw my dietitian, Katherine Fowler, who immediately sent me to the Vanderbilt ER. I was admitted into the emergency room with dangerously low potassium levels and low magnesium levels.

Even after missing work for a life threatening situation, I still did not make the progress in recovery that one would hope. It was after this, hitting rock bottom and knowing it, that Dr. Herrmann and my dietitian decided that I must go into residential treatment. My life depended on it.

Jenni Schaefer makes a very profound statement in her book Life Without Ed, a book about eating disorder recovery. She says that she was at a seemingly “normal” weight when she was the deepest in her eating disorder, when she was restricting, bingeing, and purging the most. The same is somewhat true for me. What many people look at when they see an eating disordered patient are the numbers. The phrase, “But you don’t look sick” comes out of their mouths more often than not. If my exposed collar bones, my clearly evident scapulae, and my countable ribs were not enough to make me sick enough by the standards of an outsider, then I would encourage them to dig a little deeper. What about restricting to only 300 calories a day? What about forcibly vomiting a minimum of forty times a week? What about bingeing on Taco Bell, Sonic, and ice cream only when my body was so deprived that I needed something to stay standing only to forcibly remove the food from my body within two hours of consumption?

Not only did doctors and trained professions urge me to seek residential treatment, but I also saw the horrible nature of the life I was living. My only hope is that the insurance company sees that too. 

Rules

Every time I talk about treatment, I mention some of the crazy rules or nuances of treatment. These normally get me a "wtf face". I decided I will compose a list of the craziness of treatment. :)

This is a work in progress, much similar to my recovery :)


1. You cannot break your cookie. You must take the entire cookie, raise it to your mouth, and bite into it. It does not matter if the cookie is stale and is too hard for you to bite. The only exception to this rule is if you are at Panera.

2. When you have cereal, you must make sure that all the flakes of cereal and all the almond slices are cleaned from your bowl. You cannot have any food particles remaining in your bowl. If you leave almond slices or cereal flakes in your bowl, you will be redirected to take your spoon and get all the remaining pieces before leaving the table. This sometimes will result in you having to spend about five minutes working on getting tiny slivers of food from your bowl, but that is not what is important. What is important is that you are not acting on your eating disorder.

3. If you are having cereal, you can have Raisin Bran and yogurt. You can have Cherrios and yogurt. If they are out of Cherrios, you can have Frosted Flakes with yogurt. If it is any other cereal, or if you do not mix your yogurt into your cereal creating some weird somewhat gelatinous substance then you must put milk in your cereal. This rule gets very complicated, so I will subdivide.
a) You cannot have yogurt with cereal unless you mix the cereal with the yogurt.
b) If you don't have yogurt, you must have milk. If you have milk, you must put it in your cereal. You cannot have dry cereal and drink milk.
c) Frosted Flakes cannot be mixed with your yogurt if Cherrios are available.
d) You can put extra raisins into your Raisin Bran as your fruit component.
e) You cannot put raisins in other cereals if it "doesn't make sense" to the dietitian. This subdivision of a rule is up to the interpretation of dietitians and online staff.
f) Having dry cereal is "eating disordered".

4. You cannot put your Mini Wheats or Frosted Mini Wheats in the microwave even though the commercials and the box tell you to do so for a "warm cereal during winter months".

5. You cannot put salt in your oatmeal, including non-flavored, original oatmeal, even though it says on the instructions to add salt.

6. You can put fruits in your yogurt if they are fresh and cut up or if they are dried and bite size. Prunes (even if cut up) cannot go into your yogurt. Dried apricots, though much larger than bite size, can go into your yogurt. Apples, bananas, strawberries, plums, etc. all can go into your yogurt and can be cut into insanely small pieces to fit into your yogurt container. Preparation of the fruit + yogurt combo can take up to fifteen minutes. I've seen this happen.

7. You cannot put apples and peanut butter on your bagel, but you can put bananas and peanut butter. Duh, that's so less eating disordered...

8. You cannot make your bagel into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by having peanut butter and getting jelly.

Proposals

Before my nineteenth birthday, I had been proposed to three times: once by my high school sweetheart and abusive boyfriend when I was eighteen, once by a street vendor in Monaco when I was sixteen, and by Ed when I was four. I refused to recognize almost all of these as proposals until I was in my twenties, particularly Ed’s proposal. Some things are just better left forgotten, or so I believed. While all of these proposals were insanely strange, I suppose I shall start with what I still consider to be the strangest of all.

I was eighteen, a college drop out, and in a relationship with Daniel. Daniel did not have a job, and he had been homeless for the majority of our relationship. As you can imagine, his proposal was not very elaborate. It was what I refer to as the “Hey, I’m going into the military, and there’s a possibility you might be pregnant, so let’s do this thing” type of proposal that was all too common around my hometown. As we stood in my parents kitchen, Daniel threw his class ring at me, still engraved with the initials of his ex-girlfriend, and he said, “So… Yeah… You know… What do you say?” I said no, and we broke up a few weeks later.

My proposal in Monaco was not really a proposal, but I group it in here with the others because it is the happiest of the three. I had just fed a crepe to a seagull, and I was meandering the alleyways of Monaco with some close friends. The menagerie of Lamborghinis and other expensive cars caught our attention until a young man and his father in a street side shop called out for us in French. I, speaking only Latin, could only pick up a few words. Beautiful. Ladies. Something about a boy or his son? I turned to my friend travelling with me, who translated for me. “Beautiful ladies! American women! My son! You marry? You marry?” Next thing I knew, the kid was on one knee. I ran away giggling with my friends as any scared American would.

 Finally, the proposal I remember least vividly. It was the summer I turned four. I was at my maternal grandmother’s house. Somewhere along her hallway lined with mirrors, which I often compare to the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, Ed proposed to me. I accepted without hesitation. Who’s Ed you ask? Ed is my eating disorder. Ed is the man who saved my life and nearly killed me a few times along the way. Ed and I are currently in the process of filing paperwork to finalize our divorce.

Christina Syndrome

A few years ago, my best friend started having adverse reactions to certain foods or after eating. She would have extreme stomach pain, cramping, and a ton of GI problems that no one ever resolved. We just called it "Christina Syndrome".

When I was refeeding, it would take me hours to finish 50% of a meal. My stomach could not digest properly. Digestion was a foreign thing to my body. I had deprived my body for so long of nutrients, that taking in those nutrients became extremely painful. I'm sure Ed was in there too, and that it wasn't entirely my body reacting to food.

While I don't consider myself "in recovery", I am no longer refeeding. I'm not at my goal weight (whatever that is). I have not gained enough weight to be considered an "appropriate" range. My metabolism is out of whack, and Katherine has put me on a really intense meal plan so that I don't lose any more weight than I already have coming out of treatment. Ed doesn't like this idea. Regardless of the weight I have gained and the progress I have made, eating has not become easier either mentally or physically. Here's the process...

I eat, therefore, I feel sick.
I eat, therefore, my stomach screams in pain.
I eat, therefore, I can feel my body attempting to digest food.
I eat beyond fullness cues so that I meet my meal plan, therefore, I send my body into immense pain, giving me high restriction and purging urges.
I eat, and immediately I have stomach pain.
Nothing is regulated.

I'm already horrible at assessing pain levels, but now I have to do it after everything I eat. Blood draws, GI appointments, dietitian appointments... I'm going through all of these hoops in some attempt to figure out why eating is so difficult. I know that there is a mental component to this, but there is also a physical one. I shouldn't feel like I'm in that scene from Alien when the alien comes out of the stomach every time I eat. It even happens when I eat "safe" foods. Have I really screwed up my body so much that now I have created an intolerance to certain foods because I deprived my body of them for so long?

Ya know... people say "It's not about the food." But dammit... I need to eat. I know I do. Some Part of me wants to eat! But why can't I eat, digest, and have a nice, normal cycle like that!?!? Why can't it just be food? Why can't I just eat it, and not be in pain?!




P.S. I'm really tired of Web MD-ing my symptoms... Suggestions? Get on x, y, and z medications. I'm on ALL OF THOSE. THEY DON'T HELP. SCREW YOU.


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Blame and Responsibility

As I thumb through the Rolodex that is my history, certain things stand clear. Memories I wish I had never experienced and days that happened in the early 90s and in my teens that are as vivid today as they were back then.

Recently, my grandfather passed away. Since then, we have been sorting old pictures that we found in his house, pictures of my childhood that hide this dysfunction and show the mask. Was I really wearing the mask at the age of 7? I can't help but think to myself, "How the hell did it get this way?" When did everything change? How did it change? How did I go from...

To the chronically ill person I am today? Who do you blame for that? How did that little girl grow up to have hundreds of papers and documents in hospital basements, psychiatrist offices, and therapists' offices? Who fucked her up? Was it you or was it me?

When I was fourteen, I started going to my pediatrician for pain. This wasn't the beginning of everything, but it was the beginning as I knew it at the time. You're growing. It's just growing pains. Yeah, right. I hadn't grown in two years, so that was ruled out. A few months later, I saw the same pediatrician. Tendonitis. Your tendons are just sore; take Tylenol. Okay. No luck. Again and again and again until that doctor got the idea that I should probably see someone more specialized. So then came the orthopedic appointments. Jumper's Knee. Right, because I jump all the time... Wrong. Tendonitis. Still not that... Arthritis. I'm fourteen! Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. Wrong again. Torn meniscus. Nope. Broken patella. Nope. Synovitis? Well sorta. But your medication didn't help. X-rays, nuclear medicine tests, MRIs, you name it. I was given some test for it. This lasted until I was about seventeen. Eventually with the orthopedic it got to three phases of not knowing what was wrong. Phase 1: Cortisone shots! That made things worse. Phase 2: Let's just open your knee up and look at this! Phase 3: Call you a hypochondriac. So then came the new doctor, a sports medicine doctor. Mind you, I sucked at sports. My sports career had ended when everyone else became the same height as me. He said I had arthritis, and I was put on an Asprin regimen. He then referred me to a fellow at Vanderbilt who specialized in rheumatology. I swear, she and her supervisor were bound and determined to diagnose me is PsA. They failed. June 1st 2009, I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. 

And that was it. Life = altered. Welcome to the world of being "chronic", the world of pain medications, and the world of being an invisible sufferer (though I was already used to that). I did my research. I saw some clips from doctors. I heard some podcasts. Something about all of my research stuck out. The most common thought surrounding the onset of Fibromyalgia is severe emotional or physical trauma. Let's see, I was 14 when I started complaining of pain... and I was 14 when fit hit the shan with my grandmother... Hm. Common denominator, anyone? And with that, the blame began.

Along with being diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, in one singular doctor's appointment I was also diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and Attention Deficit Disorder. So, I'd like to say a big ole thanks to whoever gave me all that crap.

As I grew older, so did my list of medications. Exactly two years after being diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, I was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa. It was one of those times where I kept saying, "But this is how I've been my entire life!" A few days after being told I needed inpatient treatment, I weighed myself after a heavy restriction period followed by binge drinking. I was a little under 70% of my suggested body weight, and I was 9 lbs away from my goal weight. I think it was at that moment, knees shaking, on the scale that I realized I had been this way my entire life...

Good food. Bad food. Eat this. Not that. You have to fit into size 0 jeans. You can't even try on those jeans. Buy everything in an extra small. Breakfast is unnecessary. You're not hungry. You're just a picky eater. On and on and on and on and on. Whoever says "I wonder where Ann got that from?" obviously doesn't know me or my story very well. 

I was anorexic at the age of four, actively restricting by five, eating normally but purging by thirteen, back to restriction throughout high school and college, and once I started working it was a new beast of restriction, bingeing, and purging. 

Who does that to themselves? See that girl up there? I did that to her. 

When I went into treatment, there was a list of words and acronyms underneath MEDICAL/PSYCHOLOGICAL that made me realized how I was nothing more than a few really shitty diagnoses. ED: NOS, GAD, CFS, OCD, Depressive Disorder, Fibromyalgia, Potential for electrolyte imbalance, Hematemesis, Hypokalemia, Osteopenia, Chronic Vitamin D Deficiency, and that one I didn't expect PTSD. What?!?! You mean, that thing that all those soldiers at Ft. Campbell have when they come home from Iraq? No. Not me. What?!? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?! These words and acronyms brought something new to my life I had never truly understood. I narrowed it down to one of three options...

1. I fucked myself up hardcore.

2. Someone else fucked me up hardcore.

3. God made me this way.

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This was originally going to be a blog post about some anger I have towards people and some shame I have towards myself. How did I get to where I am now? Is it my fault or is it yours? I think I stayed from the path somewhere in there, and I ask your forgiveness for that. All I know is that right now I have no idea on how to express the shame and responsibility I feel for taking that little girl and causing her muscles to atrophy, starving her, forcing her to expel nutrients from her body. I cut her. I bruised her. I deprived her. I gave her scars. I gave her the bones of a woman 50 years her elder. I put her into chronic pain. I am the reason why she has to take a handful of pills in the morning to function, some throughout the day so she doesn't fall over from intestinal pain, and a handful at night so she can sleep and the noises of her perpetrators (those people I let get to her) will quiet down just for a little while. 

The Last Two Months

A little over two months ago, I had one of the most horrific experiences of my life. Crumpled on a bathroom floor in my work clothes, I held back every emotion possible as my shaky hands pressed against the porcelain seat of a toilet to push my body to a standing position. I wiped off the remnants of whatever semblance of a breakfast I had earlier in the day from my lips and replaced it with the mask. The mask is what I wear. She is who I am not. She is who I wish I could be. She was the woman my students saw. She wasn't always there, but she was there a lot. She covered up the tears and the shame and the guilt and the shaking in my legs after days of restriction. She made me look put together.

Only God knows how I got through two classes after that... It was after this girls' bathroom experience that I had a meeting with my dietitian. Somewhere in the mix of all of this, she and I decided that I needed residential treatment for my eating disorder. I went for seven and a half weeks until I was kicked out for reasons that I find completely illogical. Regardless, while I was there, I did learn a lot about my eating disorder. I learned a lot about myself. Communication became better with me and my family. That's the Reader's Digest version. In truth, I don't think I could ever explain what happened between October 10th and December 1st in any blog or in words at all. It was a convoluted mess of writing agendas on how I "need to be sick" and what my eating disorder was trying to say to everyone around me. I wrote a history of my life as I saw it through my rose colored glasses. I uncovered memories I had suppressed from the age of four, some when I was thirteen and the most grotesque from when I was eighteen. I had therapy, endless hours of therapy. I made relapse prevention plans. I battled insurance companies. I ate three meals a day, three snacks a day, one cup of chocolate soy milk with dinner, and tried going without acting on behaviors.

While in treatment, I did listen to Ed. He was pretty sneaky. I did what he wanted, and I still do to this day. That's a scary statement to write. He won't let me wear jeans; so I haven't worn jeans in six weeks. He won't let me wear form fitting shirts; so I haven't worn a form fitting shirt in weeks. No butter. No cream sauces. No fried anything. No ice cream. The last time I ate ice cream (save one time at Castlewood), I binged. I didn't know I binged until recently. I told you Ed was sneaky.

More recently, things have been.... different? I suppose that's a fitting word. I'm seeing Thom. Ed hates him. I love him, and that's the way it should be. I'm seeing Katherine again. Ed still hates her. I still love her. As Thom says, we need to be pissing that son of a bitch off. Who knows if I'm pissing him off now or not... Sometimes his voice sounds a lot like my own. It's pretty hard to discern. I have no idea if my forced restriction upon myself is Ed. I know... I know... Forced restriction, Ann? That sounds like Ed. But seriously, I am in pain if I eat to my meal plan. That's not right, is it? Maybe this is all rationalization. I don't know. I feel like I don't know much of anything these days.

Dialogue with My Eating Disorder

Dear Ann,

What do you gain from me? I’ve only been behind every accomplishment and good thing that has ever come out from your life. Do you think you would have excelled in academics without me? Without me, you would not have even stayed in Latin. I kept you there, because it was so safe for us. I made Latin and myself your primary focus, which brought you great success in various competitions. You know I was the reason you did so well in college. Do you think that you could have graduated summa cum laude in five semesters without me? Absolutely not! You would have fallen on your fucking face. You know I was there at your job interview. Don’t lie to yourself. You know Dr. Ash hired you partly because of your achievements (which all can be chalked up to me) and partly because of how skinny you are (obviously you have me to thank for that). Your students think you’re cool and funny, because you care so much about them. I give you the ability to put them as your #2 priority behind me. If you were eating breakfast, then you would be late to work and not completely ready for the lesson plans for the day. If you were eating lunch, then you wouldn’t get things graded as quickly as you do. If you were eating dinner, then you wouldn’t have the time to make up the amazing activities for your students. Let’s face it, the only reason you’re good at what you do is because of me.

Think about your family. How dysfunctional are they? Your mother is an alcoholic. Your father is an enabler. Amy has an eating disorder. Nanny is an absolute nutcase. Do you honestly think that without me that you could have some handle on all that shit? There is no escaping your family, except through me. I have helped you escape their pain and abuse for years. Lord, imagine your life without me. It’s not as if you could handle the shit storm they constantly put you through without me? Plus, and let’s just be honest about this, Nanny has already threatened to disown you. If you get rid of me, then that could be a definite possibility. I know some other parts will disagree here, but I really am just trying to protect you from that abandonment. If you get rid of me, then you will probably be exiled from your family.

If you give me up, there will be consequences. Big consequences! You cannot do your job without me, at least not successfully. You will be spending all your time eating and making lunch and making snacks and preparing dinner. You’re going to be wasting a shit ton of time that you could be devoting to your students. Your family loves you now! Look at all the attention I have gotten you and your younger parts. I am helping all parts here. If you give me up, you will have no way of dealing with the pain and the hurt that you and your other parts will experience. Your family will not pay any attention to you. Amy or Jocelyn or Blair or someone else will get all the attention, and no one wants that. I know this sounds really arrogant and attention-seeking, but you will just be forgotten and ultimately abandoned if you don’t listen to me.

I hope you know what you’re getting into. I don’t trust you at all for being here. You better listen to me or you will face some serious hell. You don’t know a world without me. Don’t start to look for that world now. It’s too late.

Sincerely,

Your Eating Disorder

Dear Eating Disorder,

I understand your desires to protect me. I know that you have served certain functions in my life, and for that I am thankful. You have gotten me through emotionally taxing times. You were part of the reason I excelled so much in school and in Latin. It’s too much, however. I need you to back off. I know you think you’re doing everything in the best interest of me, but you’re not. I am going to have to take some risks. I need you to step back and maybe take on another position or roll. Please. What we are doing now isn’t healthy.

You have to trust me that these risks will pay off in the long run. If you step back, then I will be able to be a better teacher. I need to get healthy so I can teach. Remember when I was in the hospital because of you? If we keep that up, then God knows I won’t be the teacher I need to be. I know I am going to be putting myself out there emotionally as well, but I am trusting that the treatment team knows best. I think it’s scary for both of us to see how much I am eating and how I am not purging or exercising. I am nervous about this too. But please, trust me in what I am doing and in what Jane and Alyssa are saying. I know deep down that I will always be loved by my parents and by my friends. Mom and Pop wouldn’t isolate me because of Nanny. I know that a Part of me thinks that they did before and they will again, but they won’t. They are much more supportive now. They understand both of us better.

I am going to have to take the emotional risks by stepping out without you and your destructive ways. It will be mentally, physically, and emotionally taxing. But remember, all of this is going to help heal some of my Parts and make me more efficient at doing everything you helped me do before.

My life is going to be different without you. We need to learn new jobs for you that don’t hurt me as much. The people here are trying to help with that. My life needs to change. I am going to have to start a bunch of things over from scratch because there is too much history between us there. I know you don’t like me thinking about quitting my job, but that might have to happen. I know you don’t like me thinking about moving back in with Mom and Pop, but that might have to happen. I am going to be taking some steps towards living a life with better coping mechanisms. With that life, I will be able to succeed more just like you taught me to but without the isolation, physical destruction, social repercussions, and emotional detachment that came along with what you did.

I hope you know that I understand your fears, and that I often fear the same things as well. Sometimes you’re so loud that I don’t know whether you are talking or I am. I just need you to step off for a bit. Please. This will be the best choice for all my Parts, including you.

Thank you for what you did help me with, but I won’t be forgetting the pain that you also put me through. We can’t go through that again. Just trust me.

Sincerely,

Ann

What I Gained

On the day I decided to enter recovery, when I was still in denial about my problem, an eating disorder specialist who was pushing me towards residential asked me something I will never forget...

What do you think you will gain in recovery?

 

My answer, at that time, was simple. Weight.

As I traversed my way through EDA meetings online and met new friends, I soon learned the new things I'd gain in recovery.

• knowledge about how many calories you can lose via various ways of purging
• opinions on the most effective forms of purging
• new tricks on how to hide food, make it look like I ate more, etc.
• new ways to lie

Then, as my life continued spiraling out of control, and as my weight continued to dwindle, I started gaining new things without intending on doing so...

• perspective - a voice truly my own, not Ed's
• friends, friends who wanted to help me and were not there to give me tricks and tips, but to cry with me when I relapsed, rejoice with me when I ate, and encourage me when I had urges to falter
• my health, after a trip to the ER and a few bags of potassium and magnesium

And if you're wondering, yes. I have gained weight. Am I okay with that? I'll answer that later. But what I can tell you is that about a month ago in an EDA meeting I began to cry. I cried my eyes out. I couldn't stop. I just kept crying. People kept asking if I was okay, and a friend kept her arm hugged around me. It was in that moment that I was making a decision. This decision had been denied validity by Ed for 17 years. It was in recovery that my true self started to fight Ed on this issue. It was in that EDA meeting that I fought with Ed, not listening to a single story or confession or "Hi, my name is ____. I have an eating disorder." For 23 minutes, nearly half the session, I tuned out. I felt like I had two brains, two living beings inside of me, two people trying to control one body. Finally, Healthy Ann won.


It was that day that I decided I would rather be fat and alive than skinny and in a coffin.

I have tried to live with that core belief for a while now, and while it may not always appear that I am believing that with every fiber of my being, it is the sole thing apart from my family, my friends, and my students that is keeping me in recovery.

What did I gain from recovery? I gained a second chance at life.

The Beginning

...And once the wood-working or chair-making or birdhouse-building began, so did the ritual. We would walk down that long hallway, ironically covered in floor to ceiling mirrors and pictures of skinny granddaughters (none of me), making our way to the master bedroom. On the wall beside the bathroom where yeast rolls were placed before they would enter the oven was a picture in a silver frame: my grandparents on their wedding day, cutting into a wedding cake, as if some 45 year old joke was being played on me. The words, "I weighed 90 lbs when this picture was taken." Immediately my four-year-old brain became confused by a number so high on a scale. She would continue, "If you don't weigh 90 lbs when you get married, your husband won't love you."
I lived through that ritual nearly every day of my life until I was 7. Often following but occasionally preceding our bedroom trips came breakfast. My grandfather would receive heaping portions of oatmeal, sausage, biscotti, and more than enough cups of coffee to allow for him to power him through making fifteen birdhouses in a matter of hours (a skill that I now recognize as a required one if you are going to be living with that woman unfortunately known as his wife).  My plate would follow Grandaddy's not long behind: half a glass of milk and the remnants of whatever oatmeal could not fit into the bowl in my grandfather's lap. I remember asking for more once, and even another time asking for M&M's to accompany my lackluster breakfast. Nanny responded with, "No. Because you'll get fat, and no one will love you." As I got older, Raisin Bran with bananas and sugar became an option. By now, I had been so conditioned that I would eat a few slices of banana and excuse myself. My grandmother must have been so proud of herself.

This is a story, whether in part or in full, that I tell to someone when they ask why I don't eat or why I didn't eat or why I feel it necessary to lose weight. I hate food. Regardless of what I eat or don't eat, I feel insurmountable guilt with every meal. That was not enough food. That was too much food. Remember, 90 lbs. 

When I reached the age of 13, I was 5'8" and weighed 89 lbs. In 8th grade, I hit 91. 91. I remember specifically the day that I hit that number. Looking back I don't even remember where I was to use a scale to see my weight. I just remember seeing the number. I wasn't even in high school, let alone close to marriage, and I had surpassed the acceptable weight range. That night, I received numerous phone calls and instant messages regarding a close friend's suicide attempt, her hospital stay, and the strong-willed desired of my best friend to follow suit. It only seemed natural that if my best friend left this world that I would have to as well. After all, I was 91 lbs. No one could love me like that.

That night, being so clueless as to what "cutting" entailed, I stayed on the phone as my best friend cut, listening to Good Charlotte's Hold On in vain. When she finished and I knew she was alive for the time being, I put Hold On  on repeat on my 1998 "Boom Box" and got into the shower. I took my glitter painted nails and dug them deep into my thighs as I cried. When I saw a drop of blood hit the floor, I quickly made sure that the water washed it down the drain, I came out of my depression-coma, and put on a robe. I got back on AIM to see the status of my suicidal friends.

It was when I saw that blood on the bottom of the shower that I realized that my solution of tearing away the parts of my body that I didn't like would not work for me. So, I turned to what I felt to be a healthier alternative. I would eat portions of the lunch my mother had packed, throw away what I was afraid to eat, and go back to class. Then, Math Club met. If I didn't have a Three Musketeers and a Diet Coke, eyebrows would be raised. So after or during Math Club, I would sneak into the girl's restroom, purge my body of all the things I had put into it, and go back to working math problems designed for people 4 years my senior. I couldn't purge at home, so I learned of great places to purge: church soon became my place of choice. The irony of that actually makes me giggle.

At some point in recovery from my eating disorder, I am supposed to acknowledge that I did this to myself. I don't know if I will ever get there. Did my grandmother stick her index and middle finger down my throat to ensure that the Three Musketeers from the teachers' lounge did not go directly to my thighs? No. Of course not. But she introduced me to restriction. She taught me how to eat nothing so that you gained nothing. She taught me the importance of not having certain foods or certain amounts of food. She taught me how eating leads to gaining weight and how gaining weight leads to no one loving you.

I was four. Am I really supposed to take responsibility for that? Shouldn't she bear some of the responsibility? No. OF COURSE NOT! She is, after all, just an old woman who doesn't remember any of this. She's sick. She can't take care of herself. Why should we burden her with owning up to what she did to me as a child? Why should we even acknowledge that she did anything wrong? She denies it... I guess we should just believe her, then.

I'm not 90 lbs.

The Backwards Nature of the World

I'm sitting here with a Dr. Pepper that has about two sips left and a napkin that has a small bit of jelly on it from this morning's peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Beside that is Scott's Johnston which I am using to create a test that I am obviously procrastinating. And beside the Johnston and just below the napkin is a stack of papers. Atop this stack is a paper that I must have out at all times today (or at least have handy) so that I might be able to write in every morsel of food that goes into my body from the time I wake up until the time I go to sleep.
I'm seeing a dietitian tomorrow, that would obviously be the reason for the stack of papers and the food journal. This packet contains general information that my dietitian should know before/during her first consultation with me. This is the second packet I have received from a dietitian (The first one came from a doctor whose packet alone sent me into a horrendous panic attack, and it was later suggested by a friend from EDA that I not see her.) and this packet is less intense but equally terrifying. I had to call a friend just to fill it out. These ten pages are coated in the brutal honesty that my ED mind tells me every day of my life. Hearing these thoughts in my mind and acting on these unspoken thoughts is one thing; writing them on paper and then reading them is another. Words such as "typical" and "good" and "bad" sent me into a tailspin of confusion, leading me to the conclusion that my definition of typical or good or bad is not comparable to anyone else's.

This piece of paper is staring at me. A big blank box that above says, "Please list everything you ate and drank from the time you woke up yesterday." (Yesterday is today, because tomorrow is when she will be analyzing this.) Inside this large box reads "1 can Dr. Pepper - 1:00 pm; 1 PB&J - 1:00". I look at the box. I look at the kitchen, knowing it is empty but contemplating one of the small bits of food in my pantry. But I look back at the box, and I think "I don't need food. That's enough for now." Now, while I would probably be restrictive today anyway (like I said, I have no food), I figure that this box is adding to the restriction.
I have been told by some friends to expect a meal plan when I walk out from the dietitian's office, and that probably scares me more than anything else about this journey. I thought about buying food today so that I could add something low-calorie into that box, but I figured that I might be better off waiting to get groceries since I might have to buy according to this doctor.
Another fear aside from the meal plan? Gaining weight. I made the huge mistake of weighing myself last week at a friend's house. So, now I am trying to be "smart" by losing weight before I go to the dietitian. On some level I believe that by weighing less I will have less that they will make me gain, and they will have me take smaller steps. Who knows, but hey... I like the idea of losing weight still, regardless of what my dietitian, therapist, friends, or family say. Sorry, Mom.
You would think that seeking out help for your problem would be a great thing. Right now? I just see this packet as one more reason for me to continue on with my ED behaviors.

Update

So, I have an eating disorder. I have had an eating disorder for 17 years. I have been "active" in my eating disorder for one year, but I have been struggling with food anxiety, anorexia, and even bulimia for what has basically been my entire life.
I have had doctors insist that I drop everything going on in my life for intensive inpatient treatment. I have denied this.
I am struggling a lot with this. Without the support of EDA, I don't know where I would be. Shout out to my EDA girls :)

The Spoon Theory

Hopefully, this explains some things; hopefully, this puts things into perspective. Hopefully, you don't take your spoons for granted. 

Now, I don't have Lupus, but so many things that are portrayed in this video are true for me. Chronic pain is not something anyone truly healthy can understand. It's just like how I don't know what it's like not to be in pain. Getting ready in the morning, putting on clothes, all these things take time. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I have changed clothes because the shirt or the pants or the dress "hurt". Allodynia is a common aspect of FM that no one really understands, and it takes away a lot of spoons. I often have debates with myself: is it easier for me to relax on the couch and do nothing or work up the energy to walk down the stairs into the cold basement and get my medicine so I will be more functional in about thirty minutes. 

I'd type more, but that would require a spoon, considering I already have an intense pain building within my right shoulder.

Wedding!

Congratulations to John and Liz!

While the happy newlyweds ate cake, Newby and I discussed how many people we would have at our wedding. Yes, I counted on my fingers. =]

Jocelyn, cousin and fellow blogger, was an honorary bridesmaid and was looking beautiful.

But of course, Newby and I were the best looking couple there (except for maybe the bride and groom)!

When I didn't catch the bouquet I had the following conversation with Newby...

Ann: Are you glad I didn't catch the bouquet?

Newby: Well, I don't consider you single. (And therefore not eligible to catch the bouquet)

A good time was had by all, and a big CONGRATULATIONS to John and Liz!

Grapevines and God

I heard through the grapevine that my blog posts are somewhat perturbing to people. Apparently, I should give more respect and not put certain things out there. The question I was (indirectly) asked was, "Do you realize everyone can read that?" Yes. Of course I do. My retort: Do you realize why I want everyone to read this? I feel that people who know me should read this. I feel that people who suffer from chronic pain or abuse should read this. I feel that my family, in particular, should read this. This. These thoughts and collections of memories forever emblazoned in my memory should not remain there to haunt me like they did for all those years of my life. Even if no one reads this, at least I am letting it out in a healthy way. So, I say to you, grapevine, yes. I know that everyone who wants to can read this, and I am hoping that it sheds some light on why I am the way I am, because you obviously do not understand me.

--
On another note, I heard on the radio this morning people talking about being so engulfed with their past regrets that they could not forgive themselves, and therefore, did not feel worthy of forgiveness of God. I struggle with this every day of my life it seems.

"Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God?  You are not your own; 20 you were bought at a price.  Therefore honor God with your body," (1 Cor. 6:19-20).

This verse.  God knows that I have not treated my body as a temple of the Holy Spirit. I'm not sure if I even do so now. I fill my body with drugs to take away a small percentage of the scar she left me. Over a year ago I stopped taking medicine entirely, for reasons that shouldn't be spoken of, but the fact of the matter is that Newby saved me (and this ultimately led to my diagnosis, thank God). I question if I should be loading my the body that God gave me with man made drugs that fix a portion of the problem. Then I go without my medicine, and I cry and get mad at God, because my  the body that He gave me is inherently messed up. I cannot function without medication. This anger at God quickly shifts off of Him and all of my wrath is focused on what I see as the person who caused my pain, caused my anger at God, caused my inability to forgive myself for things I cannot even control. And here the issue of forgiveness comes in yet again.


Have I forgiven her? I say I have. I think I have. But I think what I feel towards her is the closest thing to hatred I could ever feel.

"If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you." (Matthew 6:14)

I'm not even worthy of forgiveness, because I am stuck in the world of blame. She did this to me. She made me this way. I would not have to do x, y, z if she had never been in my life. And as I'm writing this, I think my sentiments on the matter are beginning to change. She didn't do anything to me. God did. God gave me this life for a reason, a reason that I am not sure I am yet to understand. God will never give us anything we cannot handle, and I can handle this.
So, forget her. Forget what you perceive to be the catalyst to all of your problems. God set out a path for you before you were ever on this earth. He knew your life, and He painted it so that you might gain the most from it. I'm no theologist, but this is what I like to think. It takes makes me not hate the thing that I think defines me (which is actually a small portion of me and nothing close to a real definition). When I think about my life through the lens that she screwed me up, I feel screwed up and I get mad at her for it. Neither outcome of that is good. But if I think that God set me on this path so that I might serve Him better or so that I might understand Him better, or whatever is beyond my comprehension, I'm thankful for what once was that which screwed me up.

Forgiveness is a hard thing. Maybe if you just take the people out of the equation, and focus on the Lord, then you won't or shouldn't have anyone to be angry with, to put blame on, whatever. Then it's just God and His creation.

So turn around you're not too far
To back away be who you are
To change your path go another way
It's not too late you can be saved
If you feel depressed with past regrets
The shameful nights hope to forget
Can disappear they can all be washed away
By the one who's strong can right your wrongs
Can rid your fears dry all your tears
And change the way you look at this big world
He will take your dark distorted view
And with His light He will show you truth
And again you'll see through the eyes of a little girl

Ad Matrem

What she did became truncated statements,
Small portions of my life
Separated and made into little boxes which described it.
One by one I handed you these truncated boxes,
Along with a box of my own tears.
The entire story too harsh for bathroom sitting.
And as I sat on the toilet,
And as the years went by,
I handed you these truncated statements
Coupled and forever married to apologies.

I'm sorry I didn't know.
I'm sorry I couldn't stop it.
If I could have, I would have.
And as these estranged apologies fell from my tongue,
They crept across your bathroom floor,
And up your pristine legs,
And through your skin,
Tanned by those days with her,
And sunk into your heart.

God, your heart.
So great and elaborate,
With these caves of pure forgiveness,
And things of the like I shall never understand.
I blackened it, and charred it, and made it sad
With those truncated statements I didn't understand.
I'm sorry.

And here I go again,
Apologizing for her.
And there you go again,
Apologizing for her.
We did nothing to her.
And you did nothing wrong to me.
You see, it is detrimental to my survival that you understand that.

If only you could understand this.
Your guilt traps me like Odysseus,
In between Sicily and Italy.
I made your heart into that guilty place.

Would that I hadn't said a thing.
Would that I had kept in inside.
Then maybe you wouldn't be so sad.
I'm sorry I made you sad.
If I knew that your guilt would overpower you like this,
I would have used a stapler on my own mouth;
Would that I were Philomela,
I would cut off my hands so that I might not weave you that story.

You always say, "Trash in. Trash out."
And make some comment about my reality television shows.
The reality is, the drama around Kim Zolsiack
or the war between Kelly Killoren Bensimon and Bethenny Frankle
Is not trash compared to what I know.

Trash is being berated at the age of three.
Trash is indoctrinating the Godly ideal of anorexia in a five year old.
Trash is telling a child that his or her father is good for nothing.
Trash is telling a child that his or her mother is not that smart.
Trash is telling your granddaughter that she is a bad mother.
Trash is bringing your children to tears,
And walking away with a smile.
The lies she said,
The stories she created,
The lives she crippled,
That is trash.
Trash is she.
And you surround yourself with trash every single day.
Trash in. Trash out.

M&M's in my Oatmeal

I think you would be proud
That is, if you really knew a thing about me,
But perhaps not, for no one ever knows what type of being is dwelling in your heart.
Is it that evil dragon, whose forked tongue left eternal cuts and scrapes all over my body?
Or is it that elderly woman, just seeking love?
Regardless, I think I am probably the only one who doesn't care which one you are.
To me, you are always the former.
But I do think that you would be proud of me;
That is, after all, all I ever wanted from you.
You would be proud to know that I eat M&M's in my oatmeal.
I don't fit into my jeans.
But don't worry, I am working on bulking up so I fill them out.
I am teetering on getting a B in Geology,
But don't worry, it may get worse.
I am still a disgrace, because I am going to be a teacher.
I will never touch your decrepit face with my ugly hands.
That's probably for the best.
You would be proud, because I weigh 120 lbs.
If you don't remember, that's about 30 more than what you instilled in me as "good".
Also, I break my food into tiny pieces to make it look like I ate more when I have finished a meal.
You'd be proud of that too, I imagine.
Understanding your mind is like understanding the Gordian Knot.
I won't unravel you.
I just know that you would be proud,
And proud in the most antonymical way there is.

The tents you made under the bed
And the games of imaginary basketball played in your living room
(God forbid I jump too high and cause one of your perfectly aligned crystals to move off of its perfectly cleaned glass plate.)
They are over.
No more visits.
No more Mexican Train.
You're out of my life.
But that's not true, because you have my life.
You hold my childhood in your hands,
Blackened by the evils of your words.
You slowly pulled the threads out every day
When we would take that ominous walk to your wedding photographs.
They say, or I should say he, he being Dr. Barton, a psychiatrist, says
That you have no control.
But I give you control.
You probably don't know this, but I am sure that you would be proud,
I can't imagine my life before your dragon claws tore into my prepubescent stomach,
Already overrun and fattened by M&M's in my oatmeal.
But don't worry.
I'll be at that altar someday.
And he will love me regardless of that number on a scale you once made seem equal to the presence of God in a church
But you won't see any of that,
Because I wouldn't want you to know that you were wrong.

So here I am,
About seventeen years after your indoctrination,
And I'm not okay.
You would be proud of that:
Proud in the truest sense there is.