Friday, March 3, 2017

NEDAwareness Week 2017

So this is a big one, and I've really struggled with the concept of making a post about it at all, but I feel like it needs to be discussed, and my mission was to be more open, after all. So it's coming to the end of the National Eating Disorders Awareness week, brought about by NEDA, and this year's theme is It's Time to Talk About It; basically, the drive to end the stigma around eating disorders. They do not discriminate based on age, sexuality, gender, ethnicity, whatever. They can manifest at any time, suddenly or gradually, and can take on many different forms. My experience has shown that the secrets I keep are what keep me sick, and since I am actively working toward recovery in all areas of my life, my issues with food and body image must be addressed or I will continue to destroy myself. 

Not all addicts have eating disorders, just like not all disordered people abuse drugs. Some people have issues with self and/or food, but do not have eating disorders. (Here's a cool resource!) What's the difference? The NEDAwareness site has a self-check screen that encourages anyone with questions to take to better help them get started, as everyone who suffers has a different experience. But an eating disorder is a mental illness, and is not actually about food! It is a warped perception of self and -- in my case -- a means of control. Eating disorders are also the most lethal of all mental illnesses, caused not only by the immediate or long-term affects, but often by suicide. It is common for even non-addicted people to abuse substances to control weight, self-harm, overexercise, go from one extreme (such as restricting or binge eating) to another, etc. I've read quite a few memoirs and biographies of people in recovery to compare, but the easiest way for me to illustrate this is by using myself as an example. Proceed with caution, could be triggering.
I always felt very different from everyone around me, especially kids my own age, beginning when I was very young. My parents always talk about how I was such a happy child, and then one day it was like a switch went off, and I was different. I began overeating in early elementary school; looking back, I believe it had something to do with the stress of moving to a new house, having a new sibling, dynamics changing in school, whatever. The point is, I used food to comfort myself. I played sports on and off all throughout my school years, but otherwise was not very active. I was in the best shape when I swam year 'round in middle school, because I was finally putting all of those extras carbs to good use! I was always very down on myself about my fluctuating weight and began cutting myself around age eleven, but rather than make an effort to change, I would usually cope by eating more. It was also at eleven that I had my first drink, but it wasn't until high school that it became a frequent weekend thing to binge drink, and I began smoking cigarettes which immediately affected my lung capacity and my ability to swim long distances. I had the tendency to isolate and hide junk foods, especially when I went away to my first year of college. I was in a new town where I hardly knew anyone that I didn't graduate high school with, and they all made new friends, so I was alone a lot. I walked around town quite a bit, but I spent most of my free time in my dorm room bingeing, cutting, and smoking weed. I thought it would be a good idea to try to overdose on Aspirin one time, too, but it only left me with tinnitus for a couple days. I was horribly lonely, bored, started skipping classes to sink further into myself, and ended up coming back home for my second year. Once I was back at my parents' home with my truck, I went to school and found a job, but college was becoming less and less of a priority as I realized art was not the field I wanted to pursue, so in my fourth semester, I simply quit going and failed all of my classes as a result. I was drinking and smoking regularly, and began experimenting with any and every drug I could find. It was at nineteen after I had my wisdom teeth removed that I fell in love with opiate painkillers.

21st birthday
I began cosmetology school part time a few months after dropping out of college, hoping a skill would save me from a lifetime of working retail, and went at night part time where I spent every lunch break drinking 2x4's, smoking bowls, and when I could get ahold of any, taking pills and doing lines of coke. My "partying" began to take a toll on school again and my ability to work, and I switched to school full-time in an attempt to make up all of the hours I'd missed and still graduate in a decent amount of time. I was living with a friend in our own apartment for the majority of this time, drinking beer excessively and overeating, and when my twenty-first birthday rolled around, I was at my highest weight. I was so disgusted with myself and everything about my appearance that I was determined to finally do something about it, even though it took a few months for me to finally put those plans into action. The following spring, as I was nearing the end of cosmetology school, I began waking up early before class to do simple exercises to start my day, and severely restricting. My first rock bottom was the day I realized I'd eaten only fast food all day, for all three meals, and I finally committed to totally cutting out meat, not only for ethical reasons, but to severely limit my food options. I joined a gym and began working out for hours at a time every day, heavy on the cardio, and in the month between clocking in my final hour and actually picking up my certificate for graduation, had dropped thirty pounds. The night of graduation, my friends, boyfriend, and I decided to go out to a club, where there was a foam party. I had changed out of my heels into wedged flip-flops, slipped in the wet shoes walking down steps, and broke my foot; my bones had become so brittle from being malnourished.
Graduation
Being in a walking boot for a month greatly impacted my ability to work out, which had quickly become an addiction. I was obsessed with burning every calorie I took in and then some, so I was terrified of suddenly being unable to move like I wanted to. I'd toyed with the idea of vomiting on and off for most of my life, but was never able to force it, until one day my boyfriend and I ordered pizza after I'd been heavily restricting for so long on strictly healthy foods and I ate two slices. I was doing laundry in the on-site laundry room at our apartment, went to change the clothes from the washer and dryer, and proceeded to purge in the trash can. From that day on, for months, I continued to restrict and purge everything I ate. When my boyfriend confronted me about it, I only became more secretive. We worked differing schedules, so it was easy enough to hide when he wasn't around, or so I thought. My drinking was increasing at the same time, and I'd chose alcohol over food for my caloric intake most days. Once my boot was off, I was back in the gym every morning. I was constantly dizzy and light-headed, my face and neck were swollen, my digestive system was fucked, my gums and the enamel on my teeth were eroding from stomach acid, etc. My self-harm was also increasing, as I'd black out on a nightly basis, and I put myself in countless dangerous situations being totally unaware of what I was doing.
"Chipmunk cheeks"
I went to visit my Grandmother in Florida with my family and boyfriend the summer of 2011, and fearing discovery, I had to limit my vomiting, but was still terrified of food to an irrational degree. I began abusing laxatives and diuretics, because any little thing I did keep down would sit and rot in my stomach for what felt like days, and I just wanted it all out. I was so hungry all the time, and would dream about bingeing so intensely at night that I would wake up believing it had happened, and try to purge nothing. My exercising decreased once I began working in a salon and my substance abuse continued to progress. I was restricting all day, bingeing at night, and purging as much as possible. I began putting weight back as my metabolism shut down, trying to conserve whatever it could get. I was either out at the bar every night trying to get my mind of things and drinking my sorrows away with friends, or drowning in self-hatred at home alone with bottles of liquor and pills, curled in a ball on my couch. Grocery stores were terrifying places for me, because I couldn't focus on the necessities to make meals or even snack normally, it was all about the binge foods. I'd stop daily to stock up, hit the liquor store, and lock myself away at home while my boyfriend was at work. I was belligerent usually by the time he came home, but I was so absorbed in the cycle of self-destruction that no matter how much I convinced myself that I needed to stop, that I had to quit taking it out on him, that I was only getting worse, I just wasn't ready to ask for help. I was diagnosed with all of these food allergies and digestive issues as a direct result, and still continued.

That relationship ended abruptly and I continued to act out on my own, ending in a suicide attempt that landed me in the ER and locked in a psychiatric ward for over a week, where I went through DTs and was first diagnosed with bulimia. Upon release I was instructed to move back in with my mother, take my psych meds, and see a therapist, but I went back to my apartment after the first night and was drinking again almost immediately. I began hanging out with a guy who was shooting up, so I did too. My eating disorder and substance addiction go so hand in hand that it's often difficult to separate the two. I stopped drinking almost entirely because all I wanted to do was get high. Food didn't matter, and work was only to make money to keep going. Eventually I got arrested, spent a month in jail where I went through withdrawals, and was put on drug court. I was sentenced to eighteen months of random drug screens, intensive outpatient, regular court dates, and attending AA and NA meetings, but ended up doing twenty-two months because I was sanctioned three times for relapsing. Trying to stay clean kicked my bulimia back into overdrive, and I was bingeing and purging constantly again, to the point that it was affecting the creatine levels in my urine screens, and the court thought I was diluting them to hide drugs, so I eventually told on myself. The center where I was doing outpatient created a special group for me and a few other clients who struggled with food, but everyone was eventually kicked out of the group and a few people graduated, and when I couldn't stop getting, I was sent to the relapse group. I managed to stop vomiting for the duration of drug court under threat of being kicked off, but I continued to use laxatives and binged. When I finally graduated the program, I began getting high again that night, and the past couple of years have just been a cycle of relapse after relapse, in every area of my life.

This last high, I had to be forced to eat anything. It wasn't even a conscious attempt to starve myself, I had just gotten to the point of wanting to die and when I couldn't successfully overdose ever, I lost interest in doing anything. I got down to my lowest weight ever, but I have no idea what that was because I was so sick that I didn't even care about the numbers on the scale anymore. I knew everything was out of my control, and I wanted to succumb to my disease. I worked and would eat every few days just so I could keep getting high, and when I'd wake up still alive, I had to keep doing it. I didn't even realize how awful I looked, or else I really didn't care. I ended up nodding off or overdosing while behind the wheel and totaled my car, and the officer who showed up should have given me a DUI and arrested me, but instead let me leave with my Mom and I vaguely remember him looking me dead in the eye and basically telling me to get help. I had promised my sponsor and my family that if I got high again, I'd try inpatient treatment for the first time, so I kept my word. I went to my judge the next day, and he set me up at a detox facility and rehab, and I went that afternoon.

I didn't fully grasp what I had done to myself with my eating until I completed detox and was sent to rehab, and I can remember hiding in layers of clothes because first off, it was the beginning of winter, and secondly, that's just what you do when you detox. Your body can't properly regulate its own temperature, so the cold sweats become unbearable. I was chilled to the bone all the time. I was getting out of the shower one night and looked at my reflection and was shocked. I've always aspired to be this fragile, skeletal thing, and would revel anytime I could see or feel a new bone protruding where it was once covered in layers of fat, but for once I didn't recognize what was in the mirror. I felt almost as if I'd finally overdone it, and was overcome with this sick sense of pride, but also fear. Was I actually dying? Did I want to live? I knew I needed help, and told my counselor the day I did intake that I was bulimic and had to stop in order to succeed in staying clean, but suddenly I wasn't so sure that's what I wanted. I knew I didn't want to purge anymore, I certainly didn't want to binge, but none of that would ever end if I continued to restrict like I always wanted to. The cycle would simply begin all over again, and if experience taught me nothing else, it was that it always got worse with time. So I tried to stick to a diet that accommodated my allergies and eat as best as possible, was compliant with my medication, and agreed to continue outpatient and therapy beyond my release. So far, I've continued to do all of those things.

I've had a few slips, but I try to work through them rather than beat myself up or give in completely. One thing I've discovered is that I won't be happy with myself no matter my weight if I don't work on myself from the inside out. Exercise is a major component to my recovery, but I have to maintain a balance in that area as well as how I'm eating because I can abuse it, too. My medication has thus far helped keep me stable enough to not feel the need to harm myself in anyway, even when the thought crosses my mind. I have people to talk to through it all. I have healthier coping mechanisms that I just need to put into action. Recovery is not a straight line, but it's worth pursuing. I am not happy with my body, but I'm working on accepting it for me, and not relying on outside validation or drugs to affect the way that I feel. I want to be happy and healthy so that I can better contribute to the people that I love in my life and be there for them, because when I'm consumed with my disease, I'm no good to anyone. I used to be terribly embarrassed of admitting my problems, but there's no message without the mess. Whether I'm leaning on one end of the ED spectrum or the other, it's all the same sickness. You don't have to fit certain physical criteria to have one. You can appear perfectly healthy but be falling apart on the inside, as I've been most of my life. This began for me at a very young age, and has been going on for nearly twenty years, and I'm ready to take action and end it. I want to be happy. I am worthy and I deserve recovery. Everyone does. You do, too.

2 comments:

  1. Your post made me cry. I love your brutal honesty and I'm so proud of you. Your struggles hit home for me, too. I'm always a text away if I can ever be anything positive for your life. You're so fucking brave.

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