Going to Extremes

-Anon.

“No, Mom! I’m not going anywhere. It’s my body and I can do what I want with it!” I screamed.

“Honey, you need help. You’re too thin,” she said quietly.

“No I’m not. I’m disgusting and fat,” I replied, gesturing to myself.

Five days later I was on a plane, headed towards an eating disorder recovery hospital.

>> TROUBLED BEGINNINGS

Since I can remember, I’ve always been the “little one.” But at some point you’ve got to grow up. I was relatively small for my age, up until sixth grade, when of course I reached that awkward stage called puberty. Even the word is awkward. Unevenness in growing can cause many kids to be uncomfortable with their appearance, and I was no exception. I always wanted to stay the same size forever, and was really confused when I didn’t.

Throughout sixth and seventh grade, I was more depressed about family problems than I was concerned about my body. My mom was battling a prescription drug addiction, a byproduct of years struggling with rheumatoid arthritis and suffering in an abusive domestic situation. On top of that,  I had a new baby sister to care for. Many times, because of my mom’s problems, she wasn’t able to take care of her. At 11 years-old, not only did I have responsibility of school, but a baby. Our family had just gone through a troubling divorce, moved states, schools, and was living with a new step-dad who we were still getting accustomed to. It was a very chaotic time in my family’s life and I didn’t know how to cope.

I began cutting myself, and hid it from my friends and family until the end of seventh grade. Finally one day, my mom, now in the process of her own recovery, became privy to the situation, and decided to get me a counselor.

My counselor suggested exercise, something to release anger and frustration. I was never good at talking about my feelings, so exercising could be an effective way to conquer my emotions. I began kickboxing at a local gym in Westlake and thoroughly enjoyed it. I lost some weight, and I definitely liked the results. I thought losing more would make me even happier.

>> OBSESSION

I had replaced one self-destructive behavior with another, cutting with anorexia. I became obsessed with food, limiting my intake to a certain amount of calories per day. First I began at 1,000 calories, half of what is recommended for a healthy diet. I lost a few pounds, but then my weight flat-lined. No more loss. Okay, I thought, time to do something different. Eating less was the logical solution at the time. My calories went down to 800 a day.

Before eighth grade I went for a physical, where of course the doctor weighed me and recorded my 10-pound loss. “I’ve just been exercising,” I told her. She warned me that losing too much weight was unhealthy and could be detrimental to my growth. She went through a routine eating-disorder-interrogation and asked me how I felt about my body and how much I was eating. I lied my way out of that doctor’s office and continued on my mission. My parents were suspicious for awhile, but soon forgot about the doctor’s warnings.

I continued kickboxing and reducing calories. I became preoccupied with food preparation, and would often obsessively bake cookies and other various sweets for my friends. It gave me a strange satisfaction to know that they were eating something packed full of calories and fat, and I could control myself.

I didn’t even get hungry anymore. I was so consumed with the obsession of not eating, that I had forgotten about my body’s needs completely. At the end of December I was consuming less than 200 calories a day. I would sit in my room at night, exhausted but unable to sleep. I would write pages in my diary filled with the same all-caps phrase of “I HATE MYSELF.” I thought being skinny would make me happy, but I now realize that I wasn’t happy at all. As time went on, I grew farther away from my friends and family and sunk deeper into my eating disorder.

>> INTERVENTION

In the middle of February my parents sat me down and told me that I needed help. They wanted to send me away. I was furious, but I kept it all inside. I decided if they were going to make me fat, I’d have to use my time left wisely. I didn’t eat at all during the week before I went to the hospital, but the decision didn’t go over smoothly. Night after night I’d have to sit at the kitchen table crying; my parents standing over me yelling at me to eat. It was scary because it had gotten to a point where I was so terrified to consume anything with calories that I wouldn’t let myself do it. I remember sitting at the table one night; my dad set down a small bowl of cereal in front of me. I couldn’t make myself pick up the spoon. My dad was saying, “Just eat!” and in response all I could do was say “I’m trying to pick up the spoon, Dad,” as I just sat there, paralyzed.

Even though I’d lost 23 pounds, I still didn’t believe I needed help. I had gone from a normal weight all the way down to 84 pounds in a three-month time period and I still wanted more. It was like an addiction. I got to my goal and I was always content temporarily, but soon it wasn’t good enough anymore. I just needed five, 10, 15 more pounds to be happy.

>> LIFE IN A FISH BOWL

I went to the hospital on Feb. 21, 2006, resistant to treatment. I refused my meals and didn’t talk to my therapist. The hospital wasn’t going to take my stubbornness though, and told me if I didn’t start eating my meals within the next day, that they would give me a feeding tube. But having a tube stuck up my nose did not seem like a better alternative to eating. My roommate encouraged me to just cooperate so I could get out faster, which I took under advisement. I slowly began to eat

my meals, but it was difficult. It was hospital policy to finish everything on your plate and I had to go from not being able to pick up a spoon to eating full meals. At first, I even denied the fact that I had an eating disorder.

Being at the hospital was like being in a fishbowl, where everybody is constantly looking at you. Everything was monitored. They even watched you in the bathroom.

Every morning, first thing, we had to grab a hospital gown and get weighed. Obviously we weren’t allowed to see the numbers. Then we had to get our vitals checked. Meals were promptly served at 8:00 A.M, noon, and 5:00 P.M., with snacks in between. At night, I wasn’t allowed more than a 15-minute shower, and the door could not be locked. The bedroom, shared with another girl, had to be left open at night, and the nurses came and shone a flashlight in your face every 15 minutes to check on you. Until I gained a certain amount of weight they wouldn’t let me walk anywhere. Walking burns calories. I had to ride in a wheel chair to the on-site school and down to the dining room, so as not to slow my weight gain. I was compliant at meal times, but it didn’t stop me from engaging in other self-destructive behaviors.

Most of our belongings had to be kept behind the nurses’ station (it was a psychiatric ward), including things with cords and objects that were sharp (ex: tweezers, blow dryers, pencil sharpeners). I snuck some things out of my box when the nurses weren’t looking, and once again began cutting myself. I also found a shard of glass that I hid in my room.

Soon enough I was found out, and not only was I confined to the unit for three days, but was put on “watch” for dangerous behavior. They made me sleep out in the lounge by the nurses’ station. I didn’t even have my own room anymore.

Although it seemed like I had spent a lifetime in the hospital, after almost three months of being force fed, counseled and medicated it was finally my turn to go home.

>>GOING HOME

On June 6, I was discharged from the clinic, a whole 31 pounds heavier. It was hard leaving, despite the difficulty of being there. Everybody commented on my drastic change in personality since my arrival. At my last meeting with my peers and doctors, they all said how much happier I seemed, that I laughed and smiled more and how I inspired a lot of the girls who had seen me change to get well. I was so happy to be leaving, but it was also very hard to say goodbye to all of the girls who I had become to close to.

Once I got home, I was a happier person, but my thoughts were still tainted by my eating disorder. The hospital had added more weight than I had lost in the first place and I could have told you right then that it wasn’t going to go well. I was determined to lose weight now that I was safely home. Sure enough, I immediately lost 10 pounds. It was like a small instant relapse. My family was walking on eggshells. The tension in the house was unbearable. If anything went wrong, it exploded into a fight. My eating disorder still had control.

Time went on and I kept fighting against my family and for my eating disorder. I thought they were just trying to make me fat. My reality was so distorted that I didn’t see what impact I was having on everyone in my family. All of my thoughts were irrational. Intellectually, I knew that I wasn’t happy when I had been thinner, yet I still held on to my eating disorder.

>>TURNING THINGS AROUND

After many fights with my parents and treatment team, I was so exhausted from fighting back, I sat down and asked myself, “Is this really worth it?”

The answer was no. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt the people I loved. My sisters were getting neglected because I was consuming all of my parents’ time and effort, and my parents were fighting with each other because they were so frustrated. I thought my eating disorder was my best friend, when in reality it was tearing my family apart. I made a conscious choice to switch gears and give recovery a serious try.

I didn’t gain back much of the weight I had lost, but my nutritionist and I agreed on a new weight range and meal plan, and things in my family slowly became normal.

>>RECOVERY

I don’t say I’m recovered, because in all honesty I’m not. Sometimes I still have disordered thoughts about my weight and food, but I try my hardest to ignore it. There is no cure for eating disorders, there’s only treatment. I am always at risk of relapse. But no matter how unhappy I may feel about my body, I try my hardest to be a normal teenager and participate in the routine we call eating.

My eating disorder used to be my identity but now it's just a part of my past. When I was practicing my eating disorder, it was like I left myself behind. I felt as if I was unable to speak. I’d see my family so stirred up, and want to just snap out of it, but I couldn’t. I’d fight with the people who were trying so hard to help me and wonder, “What am I doing?” But the eating disorder doesn’t care about hurting your friends and family, all it wants is control.

When your body has to use all its energy to keep your heart beating and your lungs going, you have no emotions, and I think that’s why my eating disorder helped me cope. I didn’t have to feel anything anymore. But it wasn’t the right way to go about fixing my problems. I worry about my friends and my sisters because I never want them to be their own worst enemy.

The thing that keeps me going is keeping the people I love happy. It might not work for everybody but it’s been working for me. Even though I still crave the control and purpose that Anorexia gives me, I keep holding on for my family. I am stronger than my eating disorder. Things seem to get easier as time goes on. And even if I’m not happy with my body, I’m happy with my life.