Take That

Since my last post several big things have happened.

In November, I was asked to speak at an event for the Aubrey's Song Foundation. That was big for me. Not only did I speak in front of a large group of people for the first time ever, but I spoke about something that is hard to talk about. In previous years, the eating disorder convinced me that if I had something to say no one would hear me because of my size. I wouldn't have even thought of standing in front of a group of people where I could be critiqued. Even though my first instinct was to say no to this opportunity, I needed to do it. I needed to focus on the reason for this event. I needed to stand proud and say that I'm beating this, not only for myself but for other men and women fighting these disorders and for those, like Aubrey, who have lost their battle. Ed tried to get in my head the minute I agreed to speak. He told me I should lose weight before getting up in front of such a big group. Just a few pounds won't matter. Everyone will listen to you if you're skinner. I had to talk to my husband about this one. He snapped me out of it pretty quickly and I was able to focus on the message and not the fact that I was the messenger. Public speaking still isn't my forte, but I did it, and I can check that off of my list of fears I've overcome since treatment.

You may be wondering how an eating disorder affects someone during pregnancy (or maybe you're not, but I'm going to tell you anyway). I stopped medicating around 6 months before I got pregnant, so that was an adjustment. Everyone seems to have an opinion about taking meds. For me, it was a tool I used to help cope with my eating disorder and anxiety when I stopped my behaviors and it helped me. When I took that tool away, things became a little unsteady at times, but once I got pregnant, knowing that someone was relying on me to grow made me feel like it wasn't an option to use behaviors. I think in some ways this made it harder, but I  tried to remember the things I had learned in therapy when things got tough. My husband is a patient man. Couple pregnancy hormones and an unmedicated bulimic and you get a little bit of craziness at times, but we got through it, and I only purged one time in my 9 months of pregnancy. I'm proud of that and I want to go 9 more months, and 9 more, and 9 more. I just have to be honest with myself and keep checking in with my support team to make sure I stay on track.

We welcomed sweet Ruby on March 6th. She is beautiful. I keep thinking what a huge responsibility it is to raise a daughter. Not that sons aren't a big responsibility (especially little red headed ones), but the idea that someone is going to be watching me to learn the role of a woman scares me. I want her to know she's beautiful because she is loved first and foremost by God. I want her to be kind, generous, graceful, confident, and full of hope. I want her to see those things in me. I don't want her to be afraid of what people think. I have a lot of work to do.

The latest thing that's happened is that my husband got offered a new job in the same town as my sisters and only 30 minutes from my parents. This is something I've wanted for a very long time but never really expected to have, so I've been down on my knees the last couple of days saying prayers of thanks for this dream come true. However, as you can see, anytime there's something big going on, Ed decides to rear his ugly face and tell me I should start using behaviors in preparation. Don't you want to be skinny for this? Don't you think it will help manage stress?These are questions that my Ed likes to pose when there are upcoming events. You know what, though? Instead of entertaining those thoughts, I'm writing this blog. Take that, Ed.

One Year Down

October marks one year since I started treatment at Renfrew. I've been going back and forth between celebrating and feeling a little disheartened. I've heard different things about eating disorder recovery and most of them include years of therapy to be fully recovered. I don't know how long I will continue therapy. I don't know what fully recovered even means, but today I'm choosing to celebrate because of how far I've come.

One year ago I was sick. I was never eating breakfast, rarely eating lunch, and I was taking so many laxatives in a day that I could not be anywhere without having to be slave to the restroom. When I type those things out it doesn't feel like I'm talking about myself.  I was weak. I was tired. I was moody. I wasn't a good wife. I wasn't a good mother. I wasn't a good sister. I wasn't a good friend. So, I would binge at night to feel better.  But oh, that meant I needed to work out. Then I would wake up and do it all again.  

Today, I am not sick. I  eat three meals a day more often than not. I don't take any laxatives. When I have to go to the restroom, I can wait like a normal person until there is a bathroom available. I have energy. I am a better wife. I am a better mother. I am a better sister and friend. I work out sometimes, but sometimes I don't and that's ok. I may be a little bigger, but I like to think it's because my heart is so full. I fall asleep at night feeling tiny kicks from the sweet baby my body is healthy enough to carry. I wake up every morning to the sound of my precious son's voice asking "How was your sleep, mommy?" And I'm able to smile and say "It was so good. What should we do today?" because I'm no longer a slave to my eating disorder.

I still have days where I look in the mirror and wonder if I'm seeing what's really there. I have days when I don't really want to be around people because I feel fat. On those days I have to remind myself that life is so much more than worrying about a number on the scale or a clothing size. It's about the many blessings in this life and the hope within me for the life to come.

So, yes, I think I'll celebrate this past year. I don't know what's ahead, but I know what's behind and I'm never going back there.

Taking On The World

It's been a while since I've written. As I was writing about my journey through recovery I started feeling guilty. I had so many people write to me and tell me how inspired they were to see the process unfold. I was astounded to read daily messages from women (and men) who struggled with the same things or even very different things, but who found strength in reading the details of my struggles.

So, why did I feel guilty? Well, I just don't feel that inspiring. As I was recalling my experience in treatment, I was doing so several months after the events actually took place, and while writing was a wonderful reminder of the hope I found at Renfrew, it was also a reminder that the ease of my recovery was short lived.

K, whoa, let me back up. This is not meant to be a downer post and I don't want to break any hearts or let anyone down. Intensive outpatient is a wonderful way to go for quick and intimate therapy. I have no idea what shape I would be in if it weren't for my time at Renfrew, but I know it wouldn't be pretty. With that being said, here are just a few things that I have discovered since my time at Renfrew that have simply made my recovery harder:

The diet mentality doesn't work for long term weight loss (I plan to talk more about this in a future post so stay tuned). Not only does it not work, but it's not an option for me because I get all obsessive crazy and start using behaviors that aren't healthy. But, just because I feel this way, doesn't mean the rest of the world does. So, dieting, calories, and weight are all still a common topic of conversation. Don't get me wrong. It's not as if every time someone talks about calories or losing weight I am freaking out (only some of the time). I think I just came out of treatment expecting the 8 weeks to be enough to shield me from triggering situations, but the reality is that I was stepping back into the real world where all of the triggering factors are still present. I remember I was talking with my friend from group about how Renfrew veterans we met seemed tainted and discouraged. "That'll never be us," we both said. I'm so thankful that she and I experienced the "let down" around the same time so we could help each other through it. When I brought up this discouragement to my aftercare therapist, she explained it like this: IOP was a jumpstart to recovery. It gave me knowledge, skills, and techniques to cope with every day life. However, I am combating years of thoughts and behaviors and realistically 8 weeks (or however many weeks) isn't going to cure my disorder. Recovery is a journey and it takes time and work.

So, for a little update, time and work are what I have been putting in these days. Back in January, I starting weaning myself from my medication because we knew we wanted to have more children in the near future, and I wanted to make sure I could function without medication before getting pregnant. There were ups and downs during the weaning process, and lots of prayers, but I have now been off of my medication for over 8 months and am proud to say there have been minimal use of behaviors. It's hard. I have realized eating disorders aren't something that go away quickly or easily (I know, bummer, right?). There is debate on whether one can ever completely overcome one, but I choose to believe that there is hope of full recovery. Plus, I have even more incentive now to keep going (as if I didn't have enough before), since I am expecting baby number 2 in March!

So, to sum it all up, I needed to update you all so I didn't feel like an imposter. Everything I wrote was true. I had a wonderful experience in treatment and left feeling like I could take on the world. In my euphoric state I just didn't realize I would really have to do that!

Feeling Free

The first week of no laxatives was very hard physically. Emotionally and mentally, I felt wonderful. My body, however, had stopped working the way it was supposed to because it had relied on the laxatives to do the work. Every time I ate, I felt as if I were going to throw up. The bloating, reflux, and heaviness was not fun, but I got through it. And I didn't slip up, even though it would have been easy to do.  I kept telling myself if I took laxatives I would have to start this all over. God made our bodies to be so resilient. When I think about the abuse I had subjected my body to for over a year, and then how it healed in such a short time, I can't help but be thankful. There are still times I wonder if there is damage done that I can't see, but I have to give those worries to God and let Him heal me in the way He sees fit.

I went to my last session with my therapist and she gave me a sheet with a picture of a stop light on it. In the green circle she wanted me to write what continued recovery/no behaviors looks like. I wrote "No laxatives." In the yellow circle she wanted me to write down what it would look like to need to reach out for help. I wrote "Take laxatives or use other behaviors." In the red circle she asked me write what relapse would look like. "Laxative or other behaviors for a period of time" is what I wrote. It was hard at that stage for me to even picture going back to that place. I felt strong and confident and in my last week at Renfrew I decided I wanted to take in everything and make sure I wasn't checking out early. I did just that. At every exercise I listened, participated, and smiled, thinking of how far I had come. There were new ones joining the group, and I prayed that they kept going. I felt like a new person was emerging and it was euphoric. I was sad to leave the women who had become almost like sisters in that short amount of time, but so happy to be leaving because it meant I was well.

On my last night at Renfrew I went in feeling so happy. They had their usual ceremony when a woman finishes at Renfrew. They passed around a carved dolphin and each woman placed a "blessing" in the dolphin for me.  I had written something I wanted to read, and I only cried a little (can you believe it?).

When I came to Renfrew 8 weeks ago, I was in a dark place, and I didn’t even know it. “Oh, these poor girls who have eating disorders,” I thought to myself on the first night. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was one of those girls and that I needed to be here. Over the course of my treatment I have been continually supported by all of you, and because of that support, I have found a confidence that I have never known. There has been something empowering about having a group of women listen to some of my deepest darkest thoughts and not pass one ounce of judgment. Each one of you has been such a big part of my recovery, and I won’t ever forget what your encouragement here has given me. I hope one day you are all able to see yourselves as I see you—beautiful inside and out.

I am leaving here, knowing that I am beautiful today, just as I am, because I am me. When I came here, I was in the grips of something evil called Ed. I am still a work in process, but he no longer has a hold of me, and I leave here today feeling free.

I thank God for my time at Renfrew. It really did save my life. I didn't know what life after Renfrew would entail. I felt strong and unbreakable, but I had not yet encountered the stresses of life without an outlet and safe place 3 nights a week. Adjustments were to come but the knowledge and support I got while in treatment was to be my saving grace every time I stumbled. It was almost Christmas and I couldn't wait to enjoy the holidays with my family and not waste time worrying about the demands of my eating disorder. And I didn't. I watched my son's face light up when he opened his presents. I held my husband's hand. I ate with everyone and enjoyed it. I felt like it marked a new beginning in my life, and I couldn't help but smile and say prayers of thankfulness for the life I've been given.

Dear Body, Love Self

At this point in recovery every day was starting to get easier. After my questioning/talking/crying/screaming phase I felt that my head was more clear than it had been in years. Each time I went to group a new light bulb seemed to turn on and my body was getting healthier too. I was taking less than half of the laxatives I was when I started and I was finding other ways to deal with my emotions.

I can remember my therapist giving me "coping techniques" for when I was feeling the urge to binge or take a laxative. One idea that has stuck with me is the idea of appealing to any sense but taste. For instance, when I was feeling urge to eat out of stress, sadness, loniliness, etc. I could choose to do something that appealed to sight. This didn't just mean to look at something. It meant to really look at something. So, I could find something that was appealing or interesting to look at and study it. Absorb it. Embrace it. Focus on that one thing for 5-10 minutes. I could listen to music, but I had to listen to every word and sink into the sound. This part of therapy was a huge help to me. By the time I did one of these things, my urge to binge or purge had subsided and I was able to move forward.

When I got down to three laxatives a day I was ready to be done with them. I didn't want to do it gradually anymore. I was just ready to say goodbye to them for good. So, at the beginning of December I stopped taking them completely and I felt insanely free. I had learned that I could survive without coping in that way.

One of my favorite memories from group was close to the end of treatment. One of the therapists was leading a Body Image group. She asked us all to write a letter to our bodies from ourselves. She gave us no other instruction. I was stumped. Everyone else was writing. I couldn't seem to separate myself from my body. My body was part of myself. Wasn't it? The therapist asked me if I was having trouble. "I just don't know what to say." I was finally able to write something. We went around the room and read our letters. I was last. It was emotional listening to these women I had come to love talk to their bodies. Some talked to their bodies negatively, some apologized, but all of them talked about how they wanted to love their bodies. I was last. It took me a minute to gather myself.

"When I started writing this letter my instinct was to write something negative about my body..."

I started to laugh and cry at the same time.

"...but i couldn't. For the first time in years, I had nothing negative to say to my body."

I was smiling so big but tears were streaming down my face and my heart was so full. The therapist and a couple of the other ladies cried too, and the therapist said, "This is why I love my job." This is what my letter said:

Dear Body,

I'm thinking about all you have endured.  I am thinking about the binges, the laxatives, the starvation, the dehydration. You haven't done anything to deserve the abuse I have given to you. You have kept fighting even when I gave you no means to do so. I have hated you so much even when you were fighting to give me a healthy home. I have loathed you even while you were doing beautiful things, like carrying my precious son. I'm so sorry.

I will look at you now with thankfulness, rather than disdain. I will reframe negative thoughts to remember the things you continue to give me. I will remind myself that you are a temporary vessel that is serving its purpose and doing it well.  I will take care of you. I will love you.

Love,
Self

I'm still trying to do these things every day. Some days are harder than others, but when I pull out this letter it helps me remember I am much more than just my body. It has done so much for me, but it's not who I am. I have bigger things to worry about than making this temporary shell look perfect and while I want to keep my body healthy, I want my first priority to be keeping my heart and soul healthy because those are the things that really matter.

Mourn. Accept. Live.

My therapist said she sees a lot of middle children with bulimia. By nature I am a nurturer, a lover, a feeler. I have always felt things very deeply. I can remember watching my little sister get spanked and crying my eyes out. I always wished they would just spank me because it would be less painful than seeing her be hurt.  I wonder sometimes if I just went around feeling everything for everything else and then stuffing it somewhere inside of me. Sympathy and empathy are such wonderful things to give, but I had allowed myself to give them in excess to the detriment of myself and my family.

Along with feeling things deeply, I also started caring way too much about what everyone thought about me. There are so many things wrapped up in this concept: the competition aspect of being one of three girls, being the daughter of a father who is incredibly fitness oriented, being part of a southern family who loves to eat, low-self esteem, moving in with my parents for two years while my husband was unable to find a full-time job. Without divulging ALL of my emotional baggage, there were a lot of dimensions to my eating disorder and they all started surfacing around this time.

It's still hard to decipher exactly how my eating disorder started taking control, but my therapist described it like this. "You're like a sponge. You absorb emotion, whether it's your own emotion or everyone else's. Eventually a sponge gets heavy and it has to be squeezed out." As she was saying this I could totally see the metaphor. Graphic, I realize, but the laxatives became a way for me to rid myself. It wasn't just about the food, or being skinny. It was about a release for all that emotional weight I had carried for so long. Okay, so what do I do about it? How do I stop caring so much? 

For the next couple of weeks I questioned. I questioned God. I questioned my life decisions. I questioned my reason for being. I addressed emotions I had never acknowledged. I cried. I yelled. I journaled. I mourned things I had never mourned. I shared with the group things I had never said out loud. I told them how I pictured things would be and how different they turned out. They cried with me. I dreaded every day. I knew the only behavior I could use was to feel every single thing and for so long I had learned to push those feelings away. It was exhausting. 

After taking time to mourn, cry and question, I learned it was ok for life to be different than I expected it to be. With the unconditional support of my family, my close friends, the therapists, and ladies in my group, I started to celebrate and appreciate things I had been too busy to think about. I had been so overloaded that I was not able to enjoy the blessings God had given me. Slowly, the realization of those things started to take the place of all of the negative things I had held on to for so many years. The more I talked about my feelings and things I hadn't been able to express, the more I was able to move on from those feelings and be the person I wanted to be. Sometimes we just have to step back and accept things in order to appreciate them. I was learning a day at a time that it was okay to have feelings. I learned to welcome feelings, keep some of them, and let some of them go. I started to live and not just survive and it felt good. It felt really good.

The Guest House

It was November. At this point in treatment I made a promise to myself that I was going to stop using behaviors. I was going to stop restricting and follow my meal plan. I was going to keep reducing laxatives. It has been 3 weeks of IOP and I was losing time. I needed to do what the therapists asked me to do to make sure I got better. I made this promise not realizing the challenges that lay ahead. I had no concept of how much I had come to rely on my behaviors to deal with my emotions. The first few meals were a breeze, but by the end of the second day eating all three meals and still reducing my laxative use, I felt like I was going crazy. I remember doing an exercise in an experiential group that was really eye opening. The therapist asked us to read this poem:

The Guest House

By: Rumi

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

After reading the poem we were given a coloring page. It was a house. We were instructed to pick 5 colors to represent the core emotions: joy, sadness, anger, fear, love. We could color our picture any way we wanted to color it. I colored the sky outside yellow (joy). The house itself was blue (sadness), with a pink door (love) and green windows (fear). There was red smoke coming out of the chimney (anger). I didn't think too much about it as I colored away happily.

The therapist asked us all to share with the group what each color represented. I always felt like the therapists were so wise and all-knowing and were sort of "tricking" us into recovery. I realize now they don't always know what we're thinking. Their jobs are simply to facilitate realization and change, and I appreciate that ability so much.

So, we're going around the room, every woman sharing her house, which really represents herself, and it gets to me. I've heard what the other ladies have said and felt sorry for them all. How sad to have all that sadness, anger, etc. I'm always really good at having sympathy for other people. Me, though? I was just coloring a pretty picture. When the therapist asked me to try to analyze why I chose to place the emotions where I did, I know I looked confused. I literally could not answer because I was so taken aback. It was Tracy who spoke up to analyze me. "I think the outside of your house is happy and joyful because that's what you want everyone to see. Your door is pink because you let people in very easily and show love right away. The main part of the house is sadness because I think you feel that way the most. Your windows are fear because you're afraid to look out and see what's really going on, and your anger sneaks out sometimes like the smoke." The more she talked, the more emotional I became. I was so confused. That wasn't me. Was it? I was quiet the rest of the group (rare).

On the way home I kept thinking about that picture. I didn't want to be only "outwardly" happy. Was I? If so, why? What was I sad about? What was that smoke seeping out? It was time to explore that house a little more and figure out what was going on in there.