Thank You, Friends

I want to take a minute to say thank you to anyone who has been following my story. I am overwhelmed with the amount of support I've received. The messages of encouragement and prayers being offered are a blessing and I just want to say how much it means to me.

Some have said I'm brave for writing about this. I don't know about brave, but I am tired. I'm tired of more importance being put on size and appearance, than kindness and inward beauty. Don't get me wrong. I have spent far too much time thinking about how I look. Those of you who know me well, know I like being a girl. I like to get dolled up. But, my eating disorder has been a rude awakening that life is so much more than striving to be pretty or be a size whatever (fill in the blank with your appropriate dream size). Would I still like to be skinny? Well, of course.  It's been imprinted on our brains since the time we are little girls that skinny=pretty=happy. But, what would happen if we were to start teaching our daughters that they are beautiful, because they are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14), that beauty doesn't really have to do with size, shape, or color. God made us. He loves us. That is what's beautiful. What if we were to teach them this formula:  love(for God, others, and ourselves)=beautiful=happy. 

Our culture is messed up. On one rack in the check out line we have the nakie magazines. You know, the ones where all the women are dressed in clothes that show off their awesome bods and we think wow, that'd be nice (after the shock of seeing too many tatas and and too little tact). On another rack we have the "healthy" magazines that contain tips about losing 10 lbs in a week, and having the perfect abs. On yet another rack we have Paula Dean's smiling face and the recipe for her butter, sugar, shortening, chocolate chip, heart attack dessert with whipped cream on top (which I'm sure tastes aaa-mmm-aa-zzz-ii-nnggg) and titles like "treat yourself." How confusing. 

We are obsessed with looking like models. We are quick to try new diets. On the other side, though, we are also fascinated with new recipes, trying the new restaurant, and figuring out how to eat our troubles away. How do we draw a healthy line? I'm still trying to figure this one out, but hopefully I can share some things I've learned throughout this journey that have helped me.  

But I'm Not Skinny Enough To Have An Eating Disorder

...This is the first thing that crossed my mind when I was heading home from Nashville on the day I received my diagnosis. How will I explain this? Girls with eating disorders are stick thin and look sickly. Wrong. Women with bulimia are typically average to over weight, which means it is easy for the disorder to go undetected. Not only was I misinformed about eating disorders, my family and friends were too. I was nervous about telling them what I had found out.

I was emotionally drained. It was a Wednesday night and I remember staying home from church and feeling completely justified because I was in no state to face anyone. Tears were hiding out behind my eyes ready to appear at anytime, without notice. I slept. 

The next day my mom and I had a talk about the appointment. I told her I felt better. I still felt a little strange about the way the appointment had gone, but the doctor made it sound so easy.  Talking to that psychiatrist helped and I can do this. You know what, I'm not going to take ANY laxatives today. And I didn't. 

Stuart had avoided the situation all together and because of his work schedule we didn't get to actually have a sit down until a couple of days after the appointment. When we finally did, it was uncomfortable. He seemed disconnected and unmoved by my diagnoses. He said he was glad I went and was getting help, but he didn't ask any questions and I didn't give him any more information (I wasn't sure what to say either). Day two of no laxatives.

Friday came around and I don't know exactly what went on in my head, but I was triggered. Maybe it was the awkward conversation with Stuart. Maybe it was the fact that I had not had a bowel movement in 2 days (which to me, meant I had gained at least 10 lbs). I started taking them early in the morning. More every couple of hours. I still don't know how many I took that day, but by 11 PM I was a sick girl. Everyone was in bed. I tried to lay down to ease the worsening pain in my stomach. You've been in pain like this before. Just suffer through it and be quiet so no one knows. I tried, but the pain was so intense I couldn't breathe. I woke Stuart up, gasping. 

"Stuart... I'm sick....I need help." I managed to force out of my mouth, while heaving. I could not catch my breath. My mom ran in. "Hannah, what's the matter?!" "I..took too many..laxatives." She asked me how many, but I couldn't remember, and even if I could, I could not speak. I honestly thought that was going to be the end of my life. Mom asked if I could walk, but without waiting for an answer she ran to my dad and told him I needed an ambulance. He came in my room and asked if I could walk. I shook my head and he carried me down the stairs. I pulled it together for a minute so he wouldn't see me that weak. Mom grabbed a trash can, helped me in the car, and Stuart drove us to the ER. I immediately started vomiting. Mom called them to tell them we were coming. When we got there, I was determined to walk in. I'm not that bad. I could feel my feet and legs moving slowly as if they were shriveled up, and my face felt strange. When I walked in, they looked at me like I was deformed. My mom told me later my face was drawn up, and I looked really scary. They took me back immediately, going before the people that had been in the waiting room. I don't remember much else, except they gave me a shot for pain and IV fluids. I was severely dehydrated and my stomach was working overtime to digest all of those laxatives. I woke up on the table when it was time to go home that night and the nurse said "You look so much better. I didn't know what you really looked like when you came in."

I will never forget the feeling of being completely helpless. I knew when I got home that night that I was ready to do whatever it took to get better. I had watched my mom and my husband cry and worry over my sick body, all the while, my sweet little boy lay sleeping at home in his crib. I was going to beat this. I had to. 

Why Laxatives?

Back it up...
October 2010.

I've never been one to discuss toilet issues, but I had them. So, I took a couple of laxatives. It was an easy fix for an uncomfortable problem. No big deal. It helped, so I took a couple more the next day. And the next several days. And well, I started  liking the idea of being able to eat and then "get rid" of the calories with laxatives (which I now know was a misconception). So, I continued taking them. In addition to believing laxatives were magic and could make me look like a super model, they also became an easy way to distract from the stress of life. Can't control your current living situation? Oh, here you go, have a laxative or 2. That will help. After a while, though, the daily dosage of 3 laxatives just wasn't cutting it anymore. My body started needing more to function, and I needed more to distract. So, just a few more, I thought. This continued for several months. Eat what you want, then purge with laxatives. You will lose weight, and life will be wonderful. 

I didn't lose weight at first. It wasn't until I added restricting that I lost weight. And well, I just couldn't keep that up consistently so weight fluctuation was ever present. For a bulimic, looking at the scale and seeing weight gain is reason for more destructive behavior. In my case, the destructive behavior was actually causing the weight fluctuation so it was a vicious cycle. It went like this: "diet" or restrict for a day or two. Give in. Lose control. Eat too much. Feel guilty, disgusting, like a failure, etc. Purge with laxatives. Start over. While I didn't lose the weight I wanted to lose, I did lose energy, hair, a normal period, and most importantly giving my undivided attention to my family who needed me. My eating disorder consumed me. I could not be alone or with people without constantly critiquing myself.  Three laxatives went to 5 then 6, then before I knew it I was taking 10-12 a day. This went on for a solid year before it was addressed.

We were living with my parents at the time, which I firmly believe was providence. My mom had noticed laxative packages from time to time. She asked me about them.

"Are you okay? Having stomach trouble?" 

"Yes," I said. :"I can't really have a bowel movement without taking laxatives." It was true. My bowels were lazy. They had gotten so used to having the work done for them that if I stopped taking laxatives for even a day, I was miserable.

"Oh, that's concerning. Maybe you should go see a doctor. You don't want to mess around with that. It doesn't sound good."

"Yeah, I know. It's kind of crazy. I'll make an appointment." 

My mom was seriously concerned for my health. It never occurred to her that I had an eating disorder. Really, it never occurred to me either until she asked questions. It wasn't until I felt the guilt and shame involved with answering questions about my behavior that I realized something was seriously wrong. I didn't want to tell her how many I was taking and she didn't ask. I went home and googled laxative use and long-term effects. I was startled. I made the appointment that day and I remember feeling relieved that it was going to be coming to an end. Little did I know it was just the beginning. 

The Diagnosis

It was October of 2011. I wasn't sure what to expect. I thought back to the conversation I had when I called to make the appointment. 

Me: I need to make an appointment.

Desk person: Ok. Do you have an eating disorder? 

Me: Well, I don't know. That's what I'm kind of trying to figure out.

Desk person: Well, what brought you to us?

Me: I take a lot of laxatives. 

I got to the office 5 minutes early. As I walked in, I found myself critiquing every person I saw. That nurse is overweight. The man working at the front desk is big too. I'm the healthiest person in here. I saw a tall, thin, man with round wire glasses walking into a room and I knew it was him. He would be the one analyzing me. I waited for what seemed like a ridiculously long time before he stepped back out and called my name. I walked toward him and he turned around and walked back into his office. I assumed I was supposed to follow him. "You can have a seat in that chair right there," he said, all the while looking down at his notebook. It wasn't a couch, but it was couchesque. I felt very self-conscious. 

"What brings your here today?" His voice reminded me of kermit the frog. 

"Well, I have been taking excessive laxatives for about a year now, and I feel like that's probably not normal."

"Hm, well, about how many do you take?" He wasn't looking at me, just writing and nodding. Very psychiatristish. 

My voice got a little quieter. "About 10-12." It sounded strange coming out of my mouth. He didn't raise his head but he looked at me over the top of his glasses. I'm pretty sure I probably laughed nervously. 

He had a lot of questions for me, several of which made me cry. He never acknowledged it. After an hour of these intense questions ranging from had I been sexually abused to would I like to kill anyone (I answered no to both, just in case you were curious), he was finally finished.  He sat up straight and took his glasses off. 

"Well, um, it looks like you have bulimia nervosa and I also believe you have depression and anxiety disorder as well." 

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to say. "Okay." My voice cracked. 

"I'm going to recommend you take 2 less laxatives a day this week and 2 less the following, and so on and so forth and that if you can, join our intensive outpatient program 3 nights week. I'm also upping your dosage of zoloft to 100 MG." It was a lot to take in. I felt so exposed. I had just told this man intimate details about my life (some of which I know sounded crazy) and all he could do for me was a diagnosis? I don't know if I expected him to hug me or what, but definitely did not feel right leaving there with a total stranger knowing so much about me and my life. 

On my way home I thought Really? All I have to do is just take more zoloft and less laxatives and show up to some group therapy if I can? Yeah. I can do this. 

I was wrong.