Hershey- Not the kisses

Hey guys!

It’s been a while. Life has continued, the dog and I are still getting settled, and not sure where I left off on the blog.

So, I think I officially have a boyfriend, he is super great, super supportive. Also good looking. We talked about ED, figured I’d give him time to jump off the crazy train, but he hasn’t. We will go out to eat, he has spent the night. I really like him. He went to Florida this week, but will be home soon.

I found an ED support group and have been going to that once a week. Life has been great, my eating- not so much. After going to the group a few times, and enjoying it, I checked in with a few people, and didn’t think the group was enough support and accountability for where I am. My restricting got worse, my purging became the worst it has been in a long, long time.

So, with a loving push, I made an appointment at the Hershey Penn State ED facility. I wore my heaviest boots, three shirts and a hoodie, and walked into the office. We talked for a while about the usual introductory stuff, my family, my eating disorder, the behaviors, treatment, etc. She thought I needed to stop running and eat “at least add a tiny bit more…”, stop taking the diet pills. You have othostatic hypotension….. yeah, that was fun.

I finally thought I was about done. ED was still sitting in the front of my mind reminding me of how fat I was, how I didn’t, and shouldn’t, be here. The doctor turned to me, handed me a gown and asked me to change for a blind weight.

Ah, FUCK. Nobody said anything about a gown.

So, did that.

I was expecting some kind of nice rejection speech, “You don’t fit the criteria.” “I am sorry, but…” Anything that would reinforce the fact that I’m not sick nor skinny.

“Just curious, what was your lowest.” Uhh, I don’t know, probably between xxx and xyz.

“Ok, well you are sitting at xxx right now.  I don’t think outpatient will be enough. I’d strongly suggest PHP.”

Oh hell no, I thought. I don’t have time for that shit. I moved to PA to start a life and career, not go back into treatment.

I explained that my work schedule would not allow that.

“Well, I think IOP would be a good start. They have dinner together, group….”

 

Sorry guys, I’m getting bored and stressed writing about this…. I start IOP tomorrow.

On my fun-o-meter, IOP is sitting somewhere between Dentist and Gynecologist….

Besides ED, my life is great. Support group, making friends, boyfriend. I feel kinda useless at work still, but I love being a BioChemist…. Dang, so nerdy. Love it.

 

Anyway,

Trust the Process!!

Christmas of 2014

12/24/2014

I threw up a mouthful of coffee and raspberries, the RC caught me leaving the bathroom.

I refused to drink an Ensure and after everyone left for their pass home, I headed to the group room for yoga, just me.

After yoga was snack, the RC informed me that I had to call T before snack- shit! The phone rang and rang and I was so nervous.

She answered, my heart dropped, she said she heard I had a rough breakfast, I said not really, and told my side. “I ate, went upstairs to change for yoga and the RC saw me come out of the bathroom.”  “Well, what happened in the bathroom?” “Some raspberries came up.” “And you refused an Ensure?….”  “I didn’t refuse, I just didn’t let her get that far.

T continued, I told her I didn’t think my stomach was handling the coffee well, so gave up coffee…

T also mentioned how we might have to sit down and revisit if this is the level of care for me. Of course that freaked me out….

 

12/25/2014
                I had breakfast, watched Water for Elephants, snack time, did a puzzle.
                Showered, lunch time, took a nap, went outside and kicked around my soccer ball.
                Painted my nails, snack time, watched Frozen, watched Muppets.
I hate having “special treatment” no dishes because I may involuntarily hurl in the sink, tally stairs so I’m not exercising. This not moving thing is killing me! ERGH!
                I get so annoyed I’ve also been put on cleaning restriction too b/c I’m the only one who can manage to clean and take the damn trash out.

12/26/2014

We got a new person today, she is 33 and just came from the hospital. I’m discouraged and conflicted. I still believe I’m not sick enough to be here. I want to go outside, run, feel the sun on my back, breeze in my face.

Am I too young to be here?

                                                                                Am I too young for recovery?

Part of me wants to throw in the towel say fuck it, pack up and go home. Go back to treatment after I’ve hit rock bottom, when I’m actually sick.

T is probably so sick and tired of me. I hate feeling like a lost cause and I’m just waiting for her to say screw it about me as well and give up.

Honestly, I think I just want to pack and leave before I end up disappointing all of Tapestry.

Well, I fucked up, again. I’m not sure why I’m even here. I got so upset and stressed about snack and I threw up, and got caught.

I know in order to quit involuntarily puking, I definitely need to keep my fingers out of my throat.

What the Fuck is my problem?!?!

I don’t want to be here anymore, I want to go home, but I am so tired of throwing up.

 

While sitting outside on top of a shed T came out. She stood on the ground looking up at me and asked what I wanted to do, I told her, “cry”. “Well, that would have been better than purging.”  I began to cry and told her what would make someone want to throw up cashews and cherries??!!

I told her I knew it was a bad idea, and how discouraged I am.

T asked me to come down off the roof, I tossed my journal and watched it fall, then climbed down.

T handed me my journal and I followed her to her office.

 

12/27/2014

I was up tossing and turning at 2:30. The conversation between T and I played over and over again in my head.

“If you aren’t ready to recover for you, do it for your sister.”

“Crying would have been better than purging.”

My leash around here is just getting shorter and shorter, now on top of no running, no showers at night, sit down after every meal, no climbing the stairs, no coffee, but I don’t want all of this to be for nothing.

 

12/29/2014

I was being artsy fartsy last night, after snack. The RC came in and saw my glass    full of throw up on the table….

So, this morning was weigh in. I hid my Nalgene and Mason jar, full of water, in my room. So at 6:30, before the RC came in to wake us up, I sat on my bed and chugged the Mason jar. Sat with it, then started on the Nalgene.

I feel so conflicted about it. I don’t want my weight to go up, but it can’t stay the same, I hate being so stationary. Maybe if my weight goes up, I won’t have to sit after every meal, but I hate lying and being dishonest.

Dinner, well, I didn’t eat it. Unfortunately, I had an Ensure, but figured it was the safer bet.

T again mentioned that she wasn’t sure if I could stay. I feel so conflicted. I have had so much taken away and all of my Christmas break, I don’t want it to be for nothing. I’d go back home, run and starve.

When will I put my foot down and find that spark I need?

I almost came clean to T.

                The guilt is too much.

She said there was a positive change in my weight.

After threatening to see if I would be able to stay and her saying, “Your weight is the only ace I have right now.”

What was I supposed to say?

“Oh, that’s great, I mean I only chugged an enormous amount of water this morning to water load.”

Yeah, that totally wouldn’t get me kicked out.

 

12/31/2014

Around 12:30 this morning I got really hot and nauseous. I headed to the bathroom where I projectile vomited on my hand and the toilet. I woke up the RC to tell her, she got me some water, I swore up one way and down the other it was the bean burger I ate for dinner.

Everyone went grocery shopping after lunch today except me, because I thought I had a therapist appointment.    She came and got me…then we headed to T’s office. I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on, a “come to Jesus” meeting perhaps?

They both sat down and faced me and asked why I thought they wanted to talk to me. Oh shit, I thought and a stomach sinking feeling came over me. “We are thinking about discharge.” Oh fuck, what?! I began to cry. They went on and explained they were trying to have me referred to UNC. I just bawled harder.

“I won’t go.” I thought, I can’t! I have school, it was hard enough to get my ass here. I was still crying when I explained I felt like a failure, and explained how I had gotten physically sick.

The two of them didn’t really sound like it was an option. I was stuck between getting on my knees and begging and throwing my hands up and saying fuck it as I walked out the door.

“You can always come back here after Chapel Hill.”

“I don’t want to ‘come back’. This isn’t a vacation, I don’t want to come back, ‘Oh hey guys, missed you all.’” I mocked between sobs.

They told me this wasn’t a failure, I just needed a higher level of care. That scares the shit out of me. I was still crying, T began to cry.

I just began to get mad.

“KW goes to the hospital, she gets to stay. M refuses to eat, she gets to stay. C practically gives you the finger…”

“You have made amazing strides and progress…..”

“…not good enough apparently.” I cut her off

T was still choking back tears when she looked me in the eyes and said,

“you don’t have to do this anymore, you don’t have to purge anymore.”           I just looked at her and asked, “Why?”

T went outside to get the head honcho director, (can we call her Madame Shit Storm? I think that’s appropriate).

Madame Shit Storm and T came in, I was still bawling. They explained the medical benefits and capability UNC has that would be helpful to me if I was referred.

I admitted I got sick last night and that I’m still sruggling with the stairs but I’ve been honest. They mentioned I needed to be behavior free for so long, I was still crying when I explained that I would have gone 4 days if it wasn’t for physically getting sick.

Why I Am Still Choosing Recovery

The moment I left residential I could have easily gone right back to my behaviors. In my mind it hadn’t been detrimental, it was working for me, wasn’t sustainable, but was working. During treatment my boyfriend found out and didn’t talk to me for a while, my mom rejected me, and my grandmother has completely cut me out and still won’t even talk to me, I gained weight, lost my freedom, was hospitalized and was almost unable to graduate college. I went into treatment to placate everyone and shut them up. I didn’t believe it was serious, I wasn’t unhealthy, I clung to my eating disorder because it had been the only consistent thing in my life. I didn’t think I was even ready for recovery, let alone think I was strong enough for it. After all, I was strong enough to not eat, and strong enough to go running, I obviously was still “healthy” -right?

Weeks had passed in treatment before I even opened up. I scoffed, laughed, deflected, was snarky, or just wouldn’t answer and pretend like everything in my life was fine and there was no problem. My mom had trained me well. I used my defensiveness and my eating disorder to not only cope, but to hide. Kept people out, and made sure I was never vulnerable.

I still have the voice, criticizing everything I eat, lingering guilt if I don’t workout, I still lift my shirt and body check daily and probably workout longer than I should-still. Do you think I want to eat as much as I do? Risk gaining weight? Not particularly.

So what has changed? Why do I continue to follow the meal plan and attempt to do the same things that I did in resi that practically drove me insane? there are days, all the time, when I want to restrict so badly, skip a snack, feel bloated and want to take laxatives.

But, I wake up every morning, determined and sure that those three months weren’t for nothing. With help, guidance and love, it has all become a little easier. I’ve begun to fully understand that the food is only the shallow issue. It won’t matter if I’m 80lbs or 280, I have no confidence at all. I didn’t like myself any better when I weighed less, so why would it matter now. I’m still stuck in believing that I would like myself better if I lost some weight. Slowly but surely, that skewed mindset has begun to deteriorate.

I choose to recover so I can have energy and enjoy life.

I’m recovering because of the amazing support system I have. It may not be the people I wanted, but it’s definitely the people I need.

Why do I wake up every morning, eat my 8 am breakfast, then follow it up with a 10:30 snack and so on? The way I was living my life before recovery was not a life I want to “live” again. I can squat and dead life again without feeling like I am going to fall over, I can do push ups again.

I have changed, not just physically, but mentally.

As I looked in the gym mirror yesterday I couldn’t help but laugh. I had been there for over an hour, and as I opened my Clif bar and caught myself chewing in the mirror it hit me. The old me never would have eaten after working out, especially not in public, and definitely not something so calorically high. I am able to eat in public, I am becoming that person that pulls food out of her bag and will eat it to stick on her meal plan. Yes, it is still terrifying, and the spot light effect still hits me, but I have to do what has to be done. I am no longer up at 3:00 in the morning because the laxatives are ravaging my insides.

I am still recovering because even on days when I can’t stand myself, I have so many people around me that care and believe in me when I don’t believe in myself. I went into treatment feeling like a pain and a burden to the staff, not wanting to bother them, talk to them, take up their time. I expressed several times how I just felt like a lost cause and felt so bad for even being there. I had no self worth, I wanted to vanish in the corner beneath the “Strength” sign, that seemed to mock me. I didn’t feel worthy to speak up, have an opinion, or take up anyone’s time.

I wake up every day and continue to choose recovery, because even though it is so hard; those three months had an amazing impact on my life. I met amazing people, who didn’t reject me, but welcomed me and my difficulties. I left treatment no longer feeling unworthy, but with self worth, and the feeling that somebody actually cared. For the first time in forever, I had been vulnerable, spoken up about my life, what I had been through and people listened.

I still choose recovery everyday, because it is a daily decision.

Residential

Wow, guys. This post is going to be short. But since Thanksgiving, I’ve been put in residential treatment. Met some wonderful people, had to have my meal plan brought down.
I came to placate everyone and hush the doctors, my friends, etc. My oh shit moment was involuntarily throwing up daily, having to have my meal plan lowered, and realizing that I do need to be here. It has been a crazy few weeks.
I didn’t go home for Christmas because the clinical staff didn’t think it was a good idea. I’m still so conflicted, but overall I’m glad I’m here.
Weigh in is Monday and Thursday. Eating 6x a day, no exercise approval, too many ensures to count. Therapists, art, yoga, grocery shopping, having to check in my razor.
I’m not where I want to be, but I’m sure not where I was.

The Weight of Being Weighed

You probably won’t believe it. What happened today. As if the haunting thought of being weighed isn’t scary enough, being almost carried to the scale just about did me in.

As I sit here, I am in so much pain from eating.

A whopping half of a tomato and part of a cucumber sit with some feta cheese, and the three of them are planning on how to kill my innards.

So, today. Let me just say, I live in a very small town. It is probably frowned upon to call someone with the title “Dr.” in front of their name an asshole, but it happened, and I will probably continue to do it.  Back to the part where I live in a small town. I have known him since I was quite little, he is a family friend. So anyway, today the nutritionist came in. We were talking, she took some vitals and said, “Ok, we need to update your chart. I have to fill in the weight section.” “Um, hell no you’re not going to get me on the scale.” “But I have to put some number in.” “Tough, then put some random number in. Dr. Guy, she is not getting my ass on the scale.”

Dr. Guy: “You are getting tinier and tinier every time I see you.”

—–It continued on like this for about ten minutes. ——

“I’m going to put xxx, even though I know you’re under that.”

“I seriously doubt it.”

“Then let me weigh you.”

“No!”

At this point, the nutritionist comes over and attempts to pick me up. I shit you not guys! I was enjoying my coffee, she wanted an estimate, and she came over to where I was sitting. I latch my leg under the table, and with the hand that isn’t holding onto my coffee, I cling to the table for dear life.

What the hell is wrong with people. I do not want to be weighed, you are not getting my ass on there. I seriously doubt I am under xxx. This was such a pain in the ass. It should not be such a huge ordeal to weigh me, but it is. I don’t want to know because I will just feel like a fat lard.

I texted my best friend about this because it was a very triggering morning, “Yeah xxx is probably an over estimate, I’d say more like xxx-10..tops.”

“You aren’t helping. Thanks a heap.”