Turning Point
In every situation, there is a line that is crossed. You cannot see it, and don't even realize you've crossed it until it is too late. Once the line is crossed, there is no going back to what was. There is no going back to what you were, or how things used to be. There is only moving forward.
It's hard to say what the turning point was for me. I'm not sure what happened, or where it came from. It just happened. It was July of 2000, and after months of waiting around to die, I woke up and had this overwhelming desire to live a worthwhile existence. To not let this be how I ended. I hadn't felt that strong a desire for anything for a very long time, so I figured I shouldn't let it slip away. I knew from several past experiences that professional help was not the way to go for me. Hospitals, doctors, therapists.... it'd not been a good thing for me, and I was certainly not going to put myself in the position of people who knew nothing of what was going on inside me, of what it was like living in my head and in my body have any kind of power or control over me ever again. I was prepared to screw up and have that be what killed me rather than go through their definition of, "recovery."
So, I thought about all those times I was locked away and what I had needed that I was not getting, as well as what they did that was helpful. The first thing on my list was exercise. Just because it had been an integral part of my anorexia did not mean that it couldn't also be a key component to my recovery. I knew I had to be able move and use that as justification or I would never stick to any kind of eating plan. The key would be to take it from destructive compulsion and obsession, to a constructive outlet. Every hospitalization I'd ever had, they're first concern was energy/calorie conversation, while stuffing me full of as much food as they could, even if it made me sick, while limited every single move. And I mean, EVERY single move I made. For days at a time I was not allowed to leave my bed unless it was to uses the bathroom. I remember one time while I was having a particularly difficult time in the aftermath of breakfast and I was sitting on the edge of my bed, swinging my legs. It was all I could do without physically standing up. One of the therapists walked by, saw me, and told me I had to stop or it would be considered, "non-compliance."
The second, was a realistic goal when it came to food intake. The nutritionists and doctors had always gone for maximum calories with no thought to what it would do to my psyche, or my body. To shove 3600 calories a day into someone in the state I was in, and refusing to let them even stand up is a torture beyond description. I can't even come up with an accurate analogy. It goes beyond anxiety because it never ends. Think of every mean, hateful thing anyone has ever said to you.... the most hurtful words ever spoken to you... now multiply that x 1000, amplify the volume to where it is all you hear, and loop it on a constant stream that never ends. Never stops, never takes a breath. Live in that 24/7 for a while and then explain to me how it makes any kind of sense to anyone with half a brain and a little compassion to do that to someone.
And finally, it was going to take money, which I didn't have. So, I was going to have to convince my mother that I was serious. I decided I needed to have all the information ready to present to her, or she'd think that I was just trying to manipulate her again.
That day I drove myself to the 24 hour fitness down the street, sat down with the fitness manager and at about 62lbs, asked how much it would cost to hire a personal trainer. That's when I met Caren. I explained to her that I'd spent the last several years living with, and dying from anorexia, and I didn't want to anymore. But I needed help because I had no idea how to do this properly, especially in my current condition. She asked if I would stick to the nutrition plan she would be giving me, and only nodded when I told her that I probably would not. But that I would try my best. She must have seen that I was sincere about wanting to save my own life, because she gave me a price and said I'd need a doctor's note. This was the first step in millions that have been taken on my path to, "recovery."
What was my turning point? I think that just as there is no one cause, or reason for why this happened to me, there is no one thing that gave me enough hope, for just long enough to do something with it. I do sometimes wonder what would have happened if I'd let that moment slip away. Would there have been another? Or was that my one last chance at surviving?
It was a powerful moment, but it did not last long. I was immediately filled with fear, anxiety, doubt, and very real questions about whether or not I could live without anorexia. I know that sounds backwards, but it is the reality I was living in. Anorexia was my oxygen. And it often felt like I would die without it. The memory of that hope-filled moment was sometimes what got me through one minute to the next. This is how I know that any obstacle can be overcome with hope, determination, and patience.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Fear
What is fear? What do I fear? I fear failure. No, I fear the consequences of failure. I fear the confirmation of that voice in my head that tells me I am not good enough, and never will be. That I will not be loved unconditionally by anyone because I am too screwed up. Too messy. That voice that insists my flaws must be hidden or no one will like me. That voice that insists I must not allow anyone to see my weaknesses, and there are many.
I fear being alone always....forever. I fear not being wanted, desired, or needed by anyone. I fear being left. I fear finding love and losing it. I fear betrayal. I fear hurt and pain. Raw, searing, rip-your-gut-out with a knife kind of pain. I fear not realizing my potential. I fear seeing my purpose and never achieving it.
Fear can be crippling. It can paralyze me like a deer in the headlights. I stand, frozen, unable to move, think, see, hope, dream... unable to breath. The deepest depths of fear does something to me. I reach it, see it, feel it consume me, and then something happens.
I still remember the first time my heart stopped like it was yesterday. I was 21 years old and lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors and IV's. My mom was sitting next to me and we were watching Wheel of Fortune. That's when I felt it. It wasn't painful. Nothing hurt. But something had definitely just happened.
I put down my crossword puzzle and told my mother something weird just happened. I couldn't explain it, but I felt it, and it was something I'd never felt before. My heart had just done something strange. No sooner were the words out of my mouth and the Filipino nurse who had all but ignored my existence her entire shift, came running into my room with a young man in tow. She put me on oxygen while he checked the monitor and printed a strip of paper. The nurse asked me how I felt, and I told her exactly what I'd just told my mom. Something weird just happened. She stayed in my room long enough to take my vital signs, throw on a nasal cannula and turn on the oxygen. After a few minutes, she decided I was all right, and went back to the nurse's station.
The next morning, a tall, man in a long white coat came into my room and introduced himself as Dr. something, a cardiologist. He told me that my heart had stopped. That was what I'd felt the night before. It had stopped, and re-started, and that it would likely happen again, until one day, it would just stop. It was kind of sweet how he told me that I was dying, as if I'd never thought of this before in the nearly 6 years of being anorexic. As if I did not know that if I didn't stop, I would die. In his admittedly expert opinion, I'd be dead by the end of the summer. This was in march. He wasn't unkind is his explanation. Just very matter-of-fact, and I definitely got the sense that he had no idea how to handle me. I was not his typical patient. I was not a mid-lifer who'd abused her heart with cigarettes, fast food, and drugs. I did not live a sedentary life. He could not give me his usual spiel about eating less fat and exercising more. Those were the very things that were about to kill me. Even in my emotionless, almost robotic state, I was amused by his concern and attempt at fixing me. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that I was beyond repair. I'd accepted that long ago. It wasn't that I wanted to die. I just did not know how to live. And continuing to just make it through another day for years on end didn't exactly appeal to me. It wouldn't have mattered anyway because I saw no way out. I was what I was, and perhaps this was my destiny. To die a weak, crippled, 21 year old who's potential had only been utilized by her diseased mind.
From that day forward, I was mentally prepared to go to bed and not wake up. Each day that I did, I was surprised, and a tiny bit disappointed. Yet another day of endless walking. Another day of being stared at like a freak. Another day of the contempt of my sister for putting her and my mother through this nightmare. Another day of being ignored by my father because it hurt him too much to look at my thin body, or hear my slowed speech and slightly convoluted thoughts (it becomes much more difficult to articulate your thoughts when you have been starving yourself for a while). Another day of knowing what I've done to my mother's life. Another day of no one really wanting me around because they don't want to be there when i finally drop dead. Another day.
We lived in a two-story townhouse at the time, and I'd become so weak that I could no longer walk up and down the stairs (Yet, I could somehow, walk for miles and miles everyday). I had to sit and scoot. It was a real pain in the ass. So, everyday that I begrudgingly woke up, I'd do what I needed to do upstairs (brush my teeth, shower, etc), and then pack my backpack with everything I'd likely want or need throughout the day (journal, books, magazines, headphones, jacket, etc), and scoot down the stairs. I didn't return to the second floor until I was ready to go to bed.
Not exactly the life I'd imagined for myself at 21. Even I was shocked when, on my 22nd birthday, I stepped on the scale and discovered I weighed 62 pounds. I'm not sure what my lowest weight was because I refused to weigh myself again. I continued on with my routine of spacing out each bite of food with hours of walking for another couple months, so I am certain it dropped even lower. I just couldn't bring myself to look at a number lower than 62 pounds. Unlike many anorexics, I had reached a state of knowing exactly what I looked like. I did not look at the mirror and see a fat person staring back at me. I saw every bone, every gaunt, jagged line... I saw the reality of my physical condition and was disgusted by it. It's quite a war to live in... to be undeniably and unwaveringly compelled to do something, or in my case, not do something (eat), that results in further self-hatred and punishment. To hate yourself for what you do, and to hate yourself more for even considering stopping.
Sometimes I wonder if I had not so easily accepted my impending death, would I have actually died? If I'd fought the idea of death would it have come to me faster? Was my lack of fear of dying the door that I eventually walked through? Perhaps there is more than a little truth in the old saying, "The only thing to fear, is fear itself."
So, I do not fear death. But life is full of things to fear. You will never discover your true strength so long as you have a safety net. A safety net being anything and/or anyone that you can run to for saving whenever needed. It may be a person (a parent, partner, friend), a place, a job, etc. We convince ourselves these things are our, "just in case," last ditch resorts. But they are our chains, our prison, our cage. Our reliance on them only hinders us. How can you grow as a human being if you do not ever have to really prove yourself? Take a chance. Throw that bitch out and let's see what we're made of.
I fear being alone always....forever. I fear not being wanted, desired, or needed by anyone. I fear being left. I fear finding love and losing it. I fear betrayal. I fear hurt and pain. Raw, searing, rip-your-gut-out with a knife kind of pain. I fear not realizing my potential. I fear seeing my purpose and never achieving it.
Fear can be crippling. It can paralyze me like a deer in the headlights. I stand, frozen, unable to move, think, see, hope, dream... unable to breath. The deepest depths of fear does something to me. I reach it, see it, feel it consume me, and then something happens.
I still remember the first time my heart stopped like it was yesterday. I was 21 years old and lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors and IV's. My mom was sitting next to me and we were watching Wheel of Fortune. That's when I felt it. It wasn't painful. Nothing hurt. But something had definitely just happened.
I put down my crossword puzzle and told my mother something weird just happened. I couldn't explain it, but I felt it, and it was something I'd never felt before. My heart had just done something strange. No sooner were the words out of my mouth and the Filipino nurse who had all but ignored my existence her entire shift, came running into my room with a young man in tow. She put me on oxygen while he checked the monitor and printed a strip of paper. The nurse asked me how I felt, and I told her exactly what I'd just told my mom. Something weird just happened. She stayed in my room long enough to take my vital signs, throw on a nasal cannula and turn on the oxygen. After a few minutes, she decided I was all right, and went back to the nurse's station.
The next morning, a tall, man in a long white coat came into my room and introduced himself as Dr. something, a cardiologist. He told me that my heart had stopped. That was what I'd felt the night before. It had stopped, and re-started, and that it would likely happen again, until one day, it would just stop. It was kind of sweet how he told me that I was dying, as if I'd never thought of this before in the nearly 6 years of being anorexic. As if I did not know that if I didn't stop, I would die. In his admittedly expert opinion, I'd be dead by the end of the summer. This was in march. He wasn't unkind is his explanation. Just very matter-of-fact, and I definitely got the sense that he had no idea how to handle me. I was not his typical patient. I was not a mid-lifer who'd abused her heart with cigarettes, fast food, and drugs. I did not live a sedentary life. He could not give me his usual spiel about eating less fat and exercising more. Those were the very things that were about to kill me. Even in my emotionless, almost robotic state, I was amused by his concern and attempt at fixing me. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that I was beyond repair. I'd accepted that long ago. It wasn't that I wanted to die. I just did not know how to live. And continuing to just make it through another day for years on end didn't exactly appeal to me. It wouldn't have mattered anyway because I saw no way out. I was what I was, and perhaps this was my destiny. To die a weak, crippled, 21 year old who's potential had only been utilized by her diseased mind.
From that day forward, I was mentally prepared to go to bed and not wake up. Each day that I did, I was surprised, and a tiny bit disappointed. Yet another day of endless walking. Another day of being stared at like a freak. Another day of the contempt of my sister for putting her and my mother through this nightmare. Another day of being ignored by my father because it hurt him too much to look at my thin body, or hear my slowed speech and slightly convoluted thoughts (it becomes much more difficult to articulate your thoughts when you have been starving yourself for a while). Another day of knowing what I've done to my mother's life. Another day of no one really wanting me around because they don't want to be there when i finally drop dead. Another day.
We lived in a two-story townhouse at the time, and I'd become so weak that I could no longer walk up and down the stairs (Yet, I could somehow, walk for miles and miles everyday). I had to sit and scoot. It was a real pain in the ass. So, everyday that I begrudgingly woke up, I'd do what I needed to do upstairs (brush my teeth, shower, etc), and then pack my backpack with everything I'd likely want or need throughout the day (journal, books, magazines, headphones, jacket, etc), and scoot down the stairs. I didn't return to the second floor until I was ready to go to bed.
Not exactly the life I'd imagined for myself at 21. Even I was shocked when, on my 22nd birthday, I stepped on the scale and discovered I weighed 62 pounds. I'm not sure what my lowest weight was because I refused to weigh myself again. I continued on with my routine of spacing out each bite of food with hours of walking for another couple months, so I am certain it dropped even lower. I just couldn't bring myself to look at a number lower than 62 pounds. Unlike many anorexics, I had reached a state of knowing exactly what I looked like. I did not look at the mirror and see a fat person staring back at me. I saw every bone, every gaunt, jagged line... I saw the reality of my physical condition and was disgusted by it. It's quite a war to live in... to be undeniably and unwaveringly compelled to do something, or in my case, not do something (eat), that results in further self-hatred and punishment. To hate yourself for what you do, and to hate yourself more for even considering stopping.
Sometimes I wonder if I had not so easily accepted my impending death, would I have actually died? If I'd fought the idea of death would it have come to me faster? Was my lack of fear of dying the door that I eventually walked through? Perhaps there is more than a little truth in the old saying, "The only thing to fear, is fear itself."
So, I do not fear death. But life is full of things to fear. You will never discover your true strength so long as you have a safety net. A safety net being anything and/or anyone that you can run to for saving whenever needed. It may be a person (a parent, partner, friend), a place, a job, etc. We convince ourselves these things are our, "just in case," last ditch resorts. But they are our chains, our prison, our cage. Our reliance on them only hinders us. How can you grow as a human being if you do not ever have to really prove yourself? Take a chance. Throw that bitch out and let's see what we're made of.
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