The Beginning...Again

The night Grace came was the night Lucy finished at IOP. She held so much promise. Even though I wasn't that much older, she seemed so young, and full of life. I was so happy to see her go, only because I knew she was ready. I couldn't wait for her to go finish high school with the new found love for herself that I wish I had had during those years.

Around the same time, Lauren had to step down to day treatment where she could get more support. She just wasn't gaining the weight she should and still had a lot of anxiety around eating. Linda also left IOP. I was told she was "taking a break" from treatment. She seemed serious and hard to reach sometimes in group. It was obvious she didn't want to be there. I learned she had almost lost her life to her eating disorder and had been fighting it for many many years. She was tired. I wanted to tell her she was beautiful and that she deserved to live. I didn't get a chance to do that, but I still think about her from time to time and hope she's found peace.

I was feeling a little overwhelmed when the group I started with began to move on and new people were showing up. I had only just begun to get to know and open up to these ladies and now they were leaving. Two more new faces showed up after Grace. One girl, Julia, looked around my age. I liked her style and she had good taste in music. She was solemn, and I wondered what her story was. The other lady, Toni, looked late 40's- early 50's and she had such a warm smile. When the therapist asked the same question-- what would we like to tell them, Grace chimed in "It's safe here." I smiled, and was so happy after just one night she felt that way. There was solace there.

Grace still struggled at every meal. She could never finish, which always meant she had to drink a boost, which would make her even more upset. I felt for her. I wanted to fix it for her and to kick that voice out of her head and tell it to leave her alone. But, we couldn't fight each others' battles. We could only fight our own, and remind the others they were not alone. Sometimes that was enough to get through the day. Grace had to leave IOP shortly after joining because it just wasn't enough for her circumstance. She went to day treatment. I was so sad. I had come to love that girl in a very short time. But, it was best and I knew I would see her again. Some people you just can't forget.

I remember a night when one of the therapists asked us to write on a note card the first time we remembered having a negative thought about our body. Mine was at camp-- age 10. One of the boys called me fat and I remember being very aware of my body for the first time. On the other side of the card she wanted us to subtract that age from our current age to figure up the number of years we had been thinking about our bodies in that way. Thirteen years. That's how long I had been thinking of my body negatively. Thirteen years was too long. I was ready for a change.

When I met with my individual therapist in week 3, she asked me about my food journals. I had been filling them out, but very little. It wasn't because I was forgetting to, it was because I was eating very little. The fewer laxatives I took, the less I was eating. I didn't even fully realize I was making this change, but it was as if my Ed was telling me it had to be one or the other, because if I wasn't purging as much with laxatives I absolutely had to restrict. My therapist said that their first concern was my physical health. She recommended I step down to day treatment. I was devastated. Me? Step down? I have been fully participating. I have been putting my heart and soul into this. I have come to love these ladies and I am just getting to know the others.  "I can do this." I said. "I'm going to get my mom to just sit down with me at every meal and hold me accountable so that it's not so easy to skip meals. I'll have her initial my paper." My therapist said "Cool. I think you can do it too. We just want to make sure you have the support you need. If you think you can get it at home, then I trust you and we'll check in next week." I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the true beginning of my healing. Up until then I had a bag full of tricks (also known as behaviors) I could use when things got hard. Not anymore, though. The hardest times were yet to come.

Fighting For Grace

“Oh the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are -- chaff and grain together -- certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.” Dinah Maria Mulock Craik

My third night in IOP was Lisa's last night there. She seemed like a kind person. She seemed like she had probably been through a lot. I tried to imagine what it would be like to leave Renfrew. I tried to guess how I would feel. Would I feel like a different person? Would I be "fixed"? I didn't know what it would mean, but Lisa sure did look happy. They asked her if there was anything she wanted to share with the group. She thought for a minute and she said "Progress not perfection." I thought about that phrase while she was gathering her thoughts. "I kept thinking I had to be perfect, but perfect isn't possible. Progress is though." She said some more things, but this concept has really stuck with me. Part of what an eating disorder does is "help you" cope with feeling like you've failed at, well, anything. Didn't finish your laundry? Here, have some cookies. Didn't stick to your daily Bible reading schedule? Oh here's some crackers for you. Don't like the way you feel today? Oh, don't you worry, I have just the thing. After several attempts at fixing my failures or problems with food, Ed liked to try to convince me that if food didn't fix it, laxatives would do the trick. But, Ed was wrong. After a binge/purge session all I would feel was guilt for eating and then taking laxatives. When I heard the phrase "Progress not perfection," I decided it would be my recovery mantra. That little phrase from an almost stranger got me through some of the hardest times of my life that were just around the corner.

It was week two of treatment. I was meeting with my individual therapist for the first time and I was a little nervous. When I'm nervous I talk too much, so that made me even more nervous. I stepped into her office and she started by asking me to tell her a little about myself and if this was my first therapy session. She asked me to tell her what I thought would make a good therapist. I started talking about myself and Stuart, and Camden. I told her I had briefly met with a therapist at the first treatment center I went to, and that it wasn't a great experience. I told her I would just like to talk to someone who didn't seem too therapisty. She laughed.  She asked me questions naturally and even though I know she had an agenda (all therapists do), she led the conversation in ways that made me feel as though I were talking with a friend rather than someone who was trained to listen. We made a recovery plan. She said she was most concerned at the time about the amount of laxatives I was taking. She asked if I would be willing to try taking 2 less a day for the next week. She also said it would be helpful if I started filling out food journals and eating the recommended exchanges. I agreed.  When I walked out of the door that day she said, "I like you." I smiled, and was able to genuinely say back that I liked her too.

That week was a breeze. I did take two less laxatives on most days. Food journals- eh, not so much, but I loved going to Renfrew. It became my solace. I took in every word and was fascinated with how much I could relate to these women who all had very different stories. At the end of the second week there was a new girl, Grace. She looked like she was early 20's, tall, thin. She looked nervous. The therapist asked if there was anything we would want to tell her about our group. "It's safe, I said. No judgement here." She nodded, and looked relieved. She volunteered for the first exercise in group that day and really put her heart into it. I was impressed. I was going to like this girl, I could tell. When we got to dinner it was apparent she was going to have a hard time. She poked around on her plate and ate a few bites. The therapist gently tried to encourage her to eat more. She started trembling and then crying and true fear was written all over her face. I had never seen anything like it. I moved my tray to the chair beside her and patted her back. "Your body knows what to do with it. Your body needs this food." She tried her very hardest, but just couldn't finish it. That voice in her head that was telling her not to eat was just too strong. She was a fighter, though, and I wanted to fight even harder now too- for Grace.

Realization

Night two of IOP. I was pumped. I was ready. I left the previous night feeling encouraged and excited to reach out and help those ladies fight their battles. I walked in and made small talk with the girls that were there. The nurse came and got me and said they had forgotten to weigh me and check my blood pressure the day before and could I come to her office. Panic. My secrets
is going to be out. They are going to know how big I am. I held it together. "Sure." I got to the office and they did blood pressure sitting down first. "You can step on the scale now." It sounded so...bossy. I started to step on and she corrected me "Oh, um, backwards." Wait. I'm not allowed to SEE how much I weigh right now? You get to know and I don't? This means I don't get to guess what you're thinking based on the number. This means I don't know how much I have lost using the laxatives in the last 6 hours. "Oh. Okay." She then took my blood pressure standing up. She told me I needed to drink a Gatorade because there was fluctuation in my blood pressure sitting down vs. standing up. She explained that if my body was deficient of certain things, it could cause this change.

So, back to group I went, Gatorade in hand. It felt like a trophy. The eating disorder voice (we like to call it the voice of Ed) was telling me I had succeeded. I had deprived myself enough that it was evident. Good job. 

The topic of the group was food rituals. "What are food rituals?" I asked after the therapist had been talking about them for a few minutes. Lisa chimed in. "You know, like, manipulating your food before you eat it to make it easier to eat. It can be cutting your food into little bites so it looks less daunting, or eating one thing at a time instead of taking turns with different types of food." I had never thought about this concept before. The therapist had everyone go around the room and tell one of their rituals. I was stunned. These poor women worry about eating so much. Every time they eat they worry. I wanted to hug them all. I went last. "I honestly don't think I have any of those. I just take laxatives." Linda looked up (she was usually looking down). "When do you take your laxatives?" I was caught a little off guard. "Usually, 3 in the morning 3 in the afternoon and 4 before bed." "Well, I know it's not when you eat, but taking 10 laxatives a day sounds like a pretty serious ritual to me." I didn't say anything for a minute. And then I just started crying (remember, it's what I do). I'm not talking about a little sniffle. I was pretty much sobbing. I felt the same reaction as I had the night before when I cried. Everyone offered their silent support through glances filled with empathy and lots of tissues. Tracy cried with me. I pulled it together.
"I'm so sorry. I think I just came into this thinking about how sad it was to be here with all of these women with eating disorders. I kept thinking I would help everyone get better. But, I need to get better. I really need to get better. I'm one of you."

It was the first of many realizations I came to while I was in treatment. Those realizations are what brought me out of the grips of something I had let run my life for way too long.

Right Where I Needed to Be

I've changed the names of the women in my groups out of respect for their own personal struggles.

After my trip to the emergency room I started researching other options for treatment. The first doctor I had seen was not a good fit. I needed to go somewhere that was more hands on and involved in my progress. I remembered  a therapist I had briefly spoken with at the first office mentioned she used to work at a place called The Renfrew Center. I looked them up and called to schedule an assessment. 

I hear a chorus of angels singing when I think of Renfrew. I like to think they saved my life. When I got to the office I was feeling brave. I had already done this. I had already told someone some of my deepest secrets. I probably won't even cry this time. The lady that came to get me was kind. That word doesn't seem quite right, but she embodied kindness. She took me through a labyrinth of rooms to get to her office.  We sat down and she started asking me questions she was reading from her computer. With every answer I gave, she demonstrated some type of movement or response that showed compassion. It was inevitable- I cried (it's what I do). I apologized and she handed me tissues and said, "It's okay. These things are hard to talk about." I felt comforted and like she understood. 

After the assessment was finished s she told me about the levels of treatment, and we concluded that IOP (intensive outpatient program) was the best option for me. It would mean me driving almost 2 hours 3 nights a week for 3-4 hours of therapy at a time. I would have an individual therapy session once a week, a nutritionist session once a month, and the rest would be group therapy. I would be eating dinner on site with a therapist present and then be prompted to talk about the emotions surrounding the food. It sounded a little daunting. 

3 days later...

It was the first night in IOP-- a Monday. I was nervous. I walked into the large room, which contained 3 couches, and four arm chairs. There was a lady across the room reading. She looked maybe late 40's, dark hair, thin. She looked up but didn't say anything. 

"Are you here for IOP?" I said. "Yep." 

"I'm Hannah." 

"I'm Linda." She kept reading. Two more girls came in together. They looked like babies. They introduced themselves. "Hi, I'm Lucy! I love your sweater."  "I'm Lauren."  . They were adorable and I was so sad they were there. These poor young girls have eating disorders. Another lady, Tracy, came in and introduced herself and said it was her first night too. She was late 40's-early 50's. She was going to be the mama, I could tell. She was outgoing and said she would be the crier of the bunch so to get ready. I was feeling more at ease already. 

The first session was enough to tell me I had come to the right place. After that, it was meal time. We all went to the kitchen and the other girls started instructing Tracy and I on what to do. I was a little intimidated. Each of us had our own tray with a sheet telling us how many exchanges we need (fruits, veggies, dairy protein, meat protein, starches, etc.) 

After getting our food, we went into the dining room where there were rules about not hiding food in our clothes and no "food talk". No going to the bathroom unaccompanied for 30 minutes after the meal, either. This was a whole new world. I was a little scared of what might take place. Another lady, Lisa, showed up during the meal and apologized for being late. She started crying and said it had been a really hard week. I was nervous she was going to lose it when she got her food, but the meal was pretty uneventful. After we ate, we went around the room. "On a hunger scale of 1-10, how full would you say you are?" The therapist went around and asked each girl these questions. "Is that an emotional full or a physical full? Are you feeling the need to use behaviors?" What in the world is she talking about? I thought. When it got around to me, I was confident. I answered quickly. "I'm about an 8. I feel good. I enjoyed the meal and I'm good." The therapist said, "Well good. Are you feeling the need use behaviors?" "Well, meals aren't that hard for me. That's why I've been so good at hiding this. The problem for me will come when I get home.." my voice cracked. "I will go home, and take laxatives to justify eating today." I started to cry. "That's why I feel good right now. I have an out later." 

I could feel every woman shift. It was almost as if they were sending me support without saying a word. Then there was Tracy. "I can't stand it! I'm a hugger! Can I hug you?" She wrapped her arms around me and patted me. "You're going to be okay, honey." 

I knew I was. I was right where I needed to be and I couldn't wait to go back.