Angela's
Story
note: i have divided my story into sections. please use the arrows at the bottom of this page to navigate, or the menu directly above my story.
The Silent Suffering
Main Menu
..empty..
Main Entry: 1emp•ty
Pronunciation: \em(p)-tē\
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): emp•ti•er; emp•ti•est
Etymology: Middle English, from Old English æmettig unoccupied, from æmetta leisure, perhaps from æ- without + -metta(probably akin to mtan to have to) more at must
Date: before 12th century
Definitions: containing nothing; not occupied or inhabited; unfrequented; not pregnant; null; lacking reality, substance, meaning, or value; hollow; destitute of effect or force; devoid of sense : foolish; hungry; Idle; having no purpose or result : useless; marked by the absence of human life, activity, or comfort
emp•ti•ly \-t-lē\ adverb
emp•ti•ness \-tē-ns\ noun
Synonyms empty, vacant, blank, void, vacuous mean lacking contents which could or should be present. Empty suggests a complete absence of contents <an empty bucket>. Vacant suggests an absence of appropriate contents or occupants <avacant apartment>. Blank stresses the absence of any significant, relieving, or intelligible features on a surface <a blank wall>. Void suggests absolute emptiness as far as the mind or senses can determine <a statement void of meaning>. Vacuous suggests the emptiness of a vacuum and especially the lack of intelligence or significance <a vacuous facial expression>. (Source)
____________
I cannot recall a time in which anorexia was not a part of my life. It has been rooted deep within me for as long as I can remember. At the ripe old age of 6, I recall - with all clarity as though it happened only yesterday - standing in front of the full length mirror, staring with intense loathe at myself before school and saying "I am fat. I am ugly. I need to lose weight." Those words were not void or meaningless. On the contrary, they were steady and firm and tangled like a tree root and resonated from the core of my being. This is one of the earliest memories that I have of my life. I had not been called fat by anyone, so it was not planted in my head or suggested to me, per se. I also had no concept of what an eating disorder was at this age. What I did understand was stress, pain, suffering, fear, anxiety - all from personal experience - even at that young an age. All of these things would manifest themselves in the form of anorexia nervosa in my life. I of course did not/couldn't have know/known what the thoughts in my head - those intense burning and overpowering, haunting words - would bring.
..The World I Know..
Allow me to give you a glimpse into the life and mind of this little girl, both as a child and as the adult that she became because this is essential to being able to comprehend my struggle with anorexia. I have always been very different from everyone else around me. Even as a child I was told that I was smart, or "advanced" for my age. I was already a die-hard perfectionist by the time I began elementary school. My entire life I've spent hours studying, mulling over books, reading everything I could get my hands on, both for leisure and out of obligation. I've always felt that I needed to know everything and be everything to everyone. I didn't want to let anyone down. In some ways, this mindset is my natural line of thinking, but this was also acquired due to my life experiences and expectations placed on me by others. I caught on easily in school and often tried to learn much more than was required. I had high aspirations of becoming a heart surgeon, or the next Audrey Hepburn. I was career focused before I really understood what a career was. I had an intense desire to take piano lessons, write novels and poetry, and read every book imaginable. I desired the deep, substantial things that adults entertained themselves with and had little interest in the kind of stuff a child normally cared about. I am the kind of person that always needs to be doing something. This was - and still is - encouraged by everyone because I suppose they all saw great potential in it. But, as a result, I've always felt very isolated, unwelcome, and separate from everyone else my age. In many ways I grew up way too fast. My childhood memories are scarce, save for those times highlighted by my eating disorder. In the first grade I can remember my heart pounding, anxiety provoked as tests would be passed back in class. I fretted and worried about not having a 100, and felt as though my life would be over if I fell short of it. While ambition and drive may be considered a blessing, it became my curse, because it seemed perfection could somehow be achieved, and nothing less than it would ever be good enough. I was pushed and pressured to and beyond my limits.
Appearance-wise, I've always felt a bit like an ugly duckling. My blonde hair, an awkward shade that could easily blend in with the purest white and also manage to make me stick out like a sore thumb. My body, which always felt like an illusion to me: short, yet "tall", because I carried no weight on my frame. I felt virtually gigantic in elementary and middle school when most kids were in a short and stumpy stage and I acquired my height early. I was by no means tall; to this day I am barely 5'0". But something about the way I looked, the way I carried myself, made me feel...different. And being perceived as different as a child tends to lead to unpleasant experiences.
There would come a time when my eating disorder would be so rampant and everyone was fear stricken with regards to both my appearance and my health, but still that extreme drive lingered before my eyes and I felt I always had to live up to it, even when the voices of others fell silent and it was only my disorder screaming at me to do more. I'm sure it's quite evident without me mentioning that I am an extremely stubborn, disciplined, and head-strong individual, but I will say it for emphasis anyway =). Once my mind is set, I can't be deferred. In some ways I think I became so immersed in perfecting myself because I've never known how to handle everything else around me. Family troubles and personal distress, feeling so different from the few friends I had...I was always very inept emotionally and that is something that I am still catching up to today.
The hard edges of my perfectionism with its defined boundaries and endless demands fronted the deep insecurities that I've always fought. I am extremely sensitive and I've always tried to remain attentive to others, their opinions, their needs, to the point that I have allowed others to control my life even though control was something I desperately sought for myself. I find myself carrying the weight and pain of others and wanting to make their problems disappear. I suppose that as a child whenever others hurt, I thought I was the culprit, and wanted to chisel myself away until I was acceptable to them. I never felt that I was good enough, smart enough, pretty enough. This became the trend of my entire life with everyone I interacted with. I was too quiet, or not quiet enough. I was a convenience but not particularly significant. I never thought I mattered, and as a result I thought I had to be everything that everyone else wanted me to be in order to find some sort of value in myself. I never understood what it meant to be human, that it was ok to feel and hurt and cry, and that if I was incapable of something, it didn't mean I was a failure, it meant that it just wasn't who or what I was meant to be. My purpose seemed to be that I was a trophy of achievement, moving on to my next task. I molded myself to fit whatever space I was presented. I was empty, and I needed to be filled. What I never understood until I truly grasped the love of Christ is that I couldn't fill myself. He had to.
Though I am definitely a people pleaser, I never compromised some of things that I held dear, the few things that kept me from slipping through the cracks completely. I didn't engage in misbehavior, I held strong to morals and values, and I had an insatiate drive for success that kept me motivated to study when my brain hurt, that made it ok to miss prom because I was participating in academic competitions, and provided the strength to keep myself awake for days just to make sure every last fact I need to make a 100 on the test was engraved in my mind. My drive, my motivation, my beliefs, all reinforced my destructive thinking. I am not good enough, so I have to work harder. I cannot miss one question on a test, or, well, I never really thought of what would happen, I just thought it would be unpardonable. I must be the perfect Christian, excel at everything, because maybe one day all of it will make me acceptable. Maybe it will somehow redeem me, for I am not worthy to live.
This may all sound terribly dramatic, like a mess of emotion thrown onto a computer screen. But essentially, this is the world that I know. I've always been the square peg trying to fit in a round hole, with fair-weather friends and heartbreak around every corner. I didn't swear or go out and party. I became a Christian at age 12. I went to church and I prayed. I stayed home and studied on Friday nights. I read books on long car rides and wrote poetry to express myself. I lived inside my head because my reality was too painful to face. I was taught, conditioned even, to fear rejection due to my intimate acquaintance with it. On the outside, when it became too much, I withdrew. On the inside, I mourned. I hated myself. And I emptied myself some more.
As I mentioned before, there wasn't really a dawn-breaking-over-the-horizon moment where I "decided" to develop an eating disorder. It almost seemed as though as I grew, it grew with me as if it had always been planted deep inside. I had a lot of challenges in my life due to my eating disorder far before I was ever diagnosed. It took years and years for those who knew me to truly recognize the magnitude of what was happening. Somewhere along the way, I had this epiphany that I was just unacceptable. This wasn't just an internal feeling, but something that also reflected in others' actions and responses to me.
So there I was in what would be an unfortunate, but nonetheless defining moment in my life. Six years old with the rest of my life to live. Something changed within that little girl as she stood before that mirror. Little by little, she began to vanish while the whole world watched. Slipping down...down...down...
I believe this one is from
the late 80's/early 90's.
(I am using the wardrobe
as a guideline, haha.)
It's not labeled and
it's one of the few pictures
I have of a "young me"
on my computer, so it will
have to suffice.
It seems so long ago that
I was a child. I almost
feel like that isn't even
me.
..Beginnings..
Anorexia's onset was as subtle as the whisper in my ear I'd heard that morning at age 6, but instead of fading like an echo in my mind, it became stronger, and I was the one disappearing. First came the restriction and manipulation of food. It suddenly felt bad or wrong to have food in my stomach. I was conscious of every food that was put into my body and I had extreme anxiety around food, but I never voiced any of it. No one knew of the fear and anxiety that was overtaking me. In time I also developed this unquenchable obsession with exercise, doing routines with the fitness gurus on television. I'm sure it was quite the sight, being a child and all, but of course this behavior was done in secret. I can remember all too well the utter glee I felt when I finally had my own room. It presented itself as an invitation to slip into my own little world. Each day brought subtle changes that led to an obsession. I began to make careful choices of what I ate. From birth, I'd been an EXTREMELY picky eater, and that of course only worsened with time. Since I'd always been that way to an extent I suppose some just chalked it up to me being finicky, or wanting attention, but in reality neither was true. A silent disease was spreading, manifesting itself and taking root, and one by one, pieces of the person I was faded away until I was nothing but human shell and walking death.
By middle school I was past the point of no return. Going to the library while everyone else was at lunch. Throwing away any food I had. Exercising before and after school. Age 6 up to my entrance into middle school was a time of carefully choosing the foods I ate, labeling foods as "bad" or "good", and gradually beginning to delve into hardcore exercise. Most of my time in elementary/middle school was spent gradually plunging into another world, so to speak. Though I didn't really know what was going on, for some reason I knew I couldn't let anyone know. I knew I had to protect it and hide it away. I felt as if no one could possibly understand, and in some ways I felt that I SHOULD be miserable. This silent torture that I was experiencing made me feel as though I was purifying myself, riding myself of impurities and failures. I exercised in secret, refused food and pretended to eat. I was always very small, and I certainly did not need to lose weight. Eating felt wrong and shameful to me, like I was committing some unforgivable crime or sin, and to be able to abstain from food gave me the confidence boost that I was searching for. And when I was empty, I felt free and on top of the world, like I could handle and control the things I couldn't in reality achieve or bring myself to face. I could somehow cope with the pain my family went through in their personal lives. I could suffocate how it affected me to be in and experience their trials. I didn't have a specific plan of action all through elementary school, and I'd yet to memorize caloric contents of foods or calculate the amount I'd burned off, but anorexia was alive and well in my life, and I was slowly dying, while everyone watched but never saw. Even though my mind and body were wasting away, somehow the world around me continued and didn't seem to show any signs of seeing it. This is a secretive illness, so often it remains hidden until medical complications occur, or severe weight loss. It is also quite common for families and loved ones to not know exactly what to do, so often there are two types of responses - they don't do anything, many times expecting it to work itself out or stop on its own; Or, they flip out and go overboard, essentially biting off more than they can chew. When the former is the response the loved ones favor, by the time something is done or said often the illness is full blown. This was in some ways the case with my situation. It'd always been there so there wasnt a sudden development, just a gradual slip. I don't think it was an issue of my family not caring for my well-being, though at the time it certainly seemed that way, but one of lack of understanding and confusion. To this day, I dont think family or friends from childhood really grasp what an eating disorder is or the severity of it.
I had my periods of rebellion against anorexia, where I tried to give in and eat, or when I was forced by someone to eat something, but nothing was ever stronger than the screaming of my disorder, and all efforts to fight it never amounted to anything. I am sure that those times of intervention are probably one of the reasons I'm still alive today.
As I progressed through middle school, I began to get sick often and passed out in PE quite a few times. I was living off of an extremely low amount of calories and my body struggled to stay afloat. I would get lectured by the teacher because it was apparent to her that I wasn't eating, and on one occasion I was handed an agenda that I was to write down all my meals in, which of course made my obsession worse as I developed elaborate logs of negative calories and lengthy workouts. She never really asked for it, and my mishaps never made it too far up the chain of command and ultimately nothing was done or said anymore. I appeared to have slipped through the cracks, and I was ok with it. Whenever I was approached about my health or behaviors I felt incredibly awkward, like a huge spotlight had been put on me and I was asked to perform, and I never knew exactly what I was supposed to say or do. But I did know that this was my life, and I felt extremely protective of it, to the point that I became over time a very deceitful person without intending to be. I became an expert at alluding suspicion and gave valiant efforts to blend in. All I wanted was to be accepted and to be left alone. Somehow, I figured this would happen as I starved the ugly parts of me away. And my eating disorder, in many ways, regardless of its deadly agenda became my best friend. It was with me always and knew my mind. It knew me better than any person did. At times I found that my thoughts truly baffled me and I've never been able to explain the ins and outs of the crazy jumbles in my head, but to me somehow it all had to be right, because starving was 'right'. My pattern of restricting remained steady, and it was easy because my family members kept their own schedules and we never had sit down meals. While my caloric intake was extremely low, it didn't take too long for the effectiveness to wear off. I found myself stuck in a rut, a plateau. This was not working anymore. I was very thin in the eyes of others, but certainly not thin enough. I wasn't numb. I could still feel. Sometimes, the pain, the loneliness would rise up and show its face. I was still starving, but things around me were not changing. There was still chaos in all areas of my life. I was a prize student but it still wasn't good enough. I took this as a sign to up my intensity. I did not realize I was becoming - that I already was - very sick. My beliefs were not disputed by the society I became increasingly aware of. The nation we live in of course promotes dieting and a perfect appearance. There are a lot of people who skip meals, who overindulge, who eat unhealthy foods, or who are obsessed with nutrition and fitness. So, it didn't particularly strike me as abnormal considering I couldn't even remember a time where I'd eaten 'normally', and to be empty was to be strong! I felt in control, like somehow everything around me would calm down. Everything was ok, acceptable, manageable, as long as I didn't eat. If someone was angry at me, at least I could starve it away. Things will get better if only I'm thin enough.
It didn't.
I felt strong.
I wasn't.
By the time I was in the 8th grade, anorexia became my life. To fight off hunger I threw myself into school and activities with an unparalleled devotion. I showed remarkable potential to most of my teachers. They said they saw true dedication in me. Everything I tried I excelled at. This only motivated me to do more. I was obsessed with thin and perfection. I kept collages of thin celebrities and magazine articles, and researched diets and weight loss methods. Every now and then a friend would mention something in passing about how sick I looked or question my eating habits, but it never made it past anything more. I didn't think anything was wrong with me. Sure, I was a bit extreme in some ways, but my motivation and drive was always encouraged in everything else by others and I just knew that sooner or later I'd be able to reach the point of perfection.
My next adjustment came with anxiety of high school approaching, and I docked my calories even lower and did at least a few hours of exercise daily - preferably more - plus ballet. I thought that I was on my way, finally. I hadn't considered that this was of course a progressive issue and that I'd never be content until I literally did nothing but exercise, because once it was increased I could never go back to doing a lesser amount. To go back was to be weak and to fail, and that was all I ever considered in my decision making. I was tired of being a failure, and oh, how I hated myself! The God I came to know at age 12 was in the shadows of my self-hatred and punishment, because I didn't believe that He could heal my hurts, make me whole, and give me purpose. I'd never been willing to relinquish over some control of my life and walk the path He had for me, because I thought my life was destined to be the way it existed, and that anorexia was me.
Thats what it had come to. For as long as I could remember I'd eaten virtually nothing. There wasn't one particular goal I had that drove the illness deep inside me; I just didn't want to feel. By the end of 8th grade I was determined. The illness had completely consumed me. My identity had taken full shape. Anorexia has been with me my whole life. . Anorexia was me. It wasn't just a goal or an aspiration. It wasn't some stupid phase or diet like some think. It wasn't even my best friend anymore. It was me. When I wasn't at school I was exercising. Running, walking, sit ups, dancing, toning exercises in my room in the middle of the night. When I wasn't exercising, I was studying. Sometimes I did both, doing calisthenics on my bedroom floor with a book propped, reading and rereading. Between all those things, I managed to silence the hunger within me that was dying to get out. I didn't even know why I hurt anymore. Whenever the hurt would attempt to rise, I'd burn it off. I kept intricate logs of calories consumed versus calories burned, and I absorbed books and books of caloric and nutrition information, my brain absorbing the information like a sponge soaking up water. I rewarded hunger pangs with a diet coke and stick of gum. But this was only the beginning. Things were about to get serious.
..Famine..
High School: Ages 14-17
Entering high school symbolized many things for me, and one of those was a chance to make fresh decisions and become more dedicated. My relationship with God was growing inch by inch, but the eating disorder hindered anything from truly flourishing besides the strength of the illness itself. I soared through my freshman year, excelling in school as usual, but by this point my body wore the result of the torment going on inside of me, and I don't just mean being thin. I was extremely malnourished. I was beyond emaciated. I looked and felt like death.
There were a few episodes my freshman year where I was called aside by the intervention counselor at my high school. "People here are concerned," she said. "We need to call your parents." Her words bounced off my ears because I had lost the ability to comprehend. School took all I had in me. My family felt I needed to stop acting up and that it was all very superficial and stupid. It could be attributed to denial, to seeing it every day, or to many other things, but nonetheless I felt helpless. At this point I was feeling like I couldn't go on, but I also couldn't make anyone understand that I wasn't "starving for attention" so to speak. I walked out of her office time and time again with her telling me that I could come to her and talk anytime I needed. I never did.
The next school year rolled around, but it brought more than new classes. I again intensified my weight loss regimen yet again, this time by adding two new things: Vomiting and diuretics. The vomiting was only a few times a week at first, but of course that wasn't enough for very long. I decided to do it every day. And of course this led to multiple times daily-as much as 6 times on many occasions. I consumed over the counter diuretics like candy. There was also more restricting. Since the beginning of middle school my caloric allowance had dwindled to non-existence. Purging, for me, when looked at objectively, was not about ridding my body of food, because I never ate. I never binged. To this day I have never gone on a "binge". I was ridding my body of something, but it wasn't food. What I couldn't starve away I tried to get out. COME OUT! GET OUT OF ME! PAIN GO AWAY! I purged lettuce and diet soda. Things went downhill at a rapid pace. Some days, I may have had a hundred calories, but on many occasions there was nothing. I was not keeping anything down, and that is not an exaggeration. I look back now, and I wonder how I lived, and I have no answer to that. Except of course, Thank you, God. I chewed gum to curb my appetite and chugged diet coke and water like my life depended on it. I took walks whenever I needed to escape, which was often. I buried my nose in books because I could immerse myself in the words and not my own life. The Lord is merciful and compassionate. What little food that remained in my body on occasion it held onto for dear life. My stomach ached because my digestive system was failing. I had back pains which I later learned were my kidneys crying out and threatening to quit. My percentage of body fat was virtually non-existent and my body was feeding on my organs. This included my heart and brain. My cheeks were sunken and my eyes disappeared into the rings of darkness that surrounded them, while at the same time managing to appear that they were about to pop out of my head at any given moment. My hair, though always thin and feathery, fell to the floor in golden chunks and clogged my brush. My complexion, though naturally fair, developed a slightly yellowish gray tint. My joints ached, begging my mind to allow me to take a breather, and my mind screamed for them to be quiet because things still weren't right. Starvation causes your body systems to shut down to conserve energy for vital organs to function. Sometimes this process is not reversible. God was obviously sustaining me, because there was no food in my system to keep me conscious, much less alive. I was severely underweight. My body was hanging on to something, somehow, but this would not be able to last forever, and deep down I knew it. But I couldn't stop it. It was me. My life was nothing outside of anorexia. My life, which appeared so full with all the activities and achievements, was a bleak, empty hole that was engulfing me, drowning me.
At my lowest, I was approximately 5'1" and my weight reached the low 60s. I was a skeleton. And the silence ended. Teachers frantically phoned my parents, telling them they were afraid I was going to die. "Yes, I know she is sick." Over and over again this cycle occurred, like a broken record playing the sad soundtrack of my life, but still nothing was done, aside from a few threats of hospitalization which never happened. In their own ways they tried, but to me all I ever got was a bunch of yelling and heightened emotion. Ultimately, the situation was unbearable for everyone. What could anyone do? Force feed me? Put me in a hospital? I was a minor so I could have easily been forced into treatment, but nothing happened.
The typical person knows nothing about eating disorders, and often what they do learn is inaccurate. Generally, the media is not a good source of information. Doctors often don't even know much more about eating disorders because it just isn't studied that much. There isn't one person to blame for my lack of treatment at that point. I'd been to doctors from being sick so often. I lied constantly about my eating habits and behaviors. I remember going to my family doctor, with my weight low and my blood pressure deathly. They didn't even bat an eyelash. They mentioned in passing that my blood pressure was a "little low" and my weight...well they didn't even mention it to me. I felt both relief and aprehension each time. I was afraid for my life, yet paralyzed when it came to getting help. The lack of intervention reinforced the drive to keep pushing myself because obviously nothing was seriously wrong (I thought that if I was really sick then someone would have hospitalized me) and made my moments of "weakness" where I wanted freedom seem foolish.
The simplest tasks began to take extreme effort. It was hard to concentrate, and I often zoned out in school and regular conversation. My brain and body were starving. I was still the star student, competing in competitions. There I was...Winning awards...Shocked each time because "how could I ever win anything"?...Hearing my name called, standing up in a daze [steadying myself so I don't fall out right in front of the crowd applauding - that would be a disaster]. In between studying, my nursing supervisor who was also the course instructor pleading with me to eat something, telling me that she understood because she had been there. Telling me I was sick, I needed help, my body couldn't hold on forever. Telling me that she would have to send me home if I didn't eat something. All I could do was stare at her, blankly. I felt powerless. By this point, I was hopeless. I thought my life was destined to be what it was. How could I possibly change it, this was not something I ever really controlled. It always controlled me.
I did not suddenly wake up and decide that I wanted to be thin. I didn't set out determined to develop anorexia. Yet there I was, over 10 years later, consumed by it. By the time I graduated from high school, I frequently went days without eating, and when I did eat I didn't keep down ANY of it. Each day I arose I was shocked to be alive. I went to sleep in fear [what little I did sleep]. "What if I don't wake up?" "Is this all I will ever be?" "Who am I?"
Summer 2001
Sometimes when I look back at my life thus far there are clear, crisp memories, while other times there are clouds of experiences that I often wonder if they ever really happened. It all seems like a blur or a hazy fog hovering over my life (starvation of course hinders your memory). My life was so consumed with anorexia that each day ran together, and nothing else really mattered. My life was defined by the number of times I passed out, how sick I felt, the amount of food I DIDN'T eat, the number of hours of exercise I did, the number of diuretics I took, and the countless purges. Nothing ever mattered as much as this. All of my accomplishments failed in comparison to my eating disorder. Whenever I had brushes with death, it's almost as if I could hear my eating disorder proclaiming victory, that I was finally getting it and finally worth something. To still be alive for me was not even living at all. I had heart issues which I of course kept to myself, along with a host of other problems.
There are two specific instances that occurred the summer before I moved to Charleston to begin college that I still remember clear as day because I think I had a very real fear for my life during them. The first of those occurred when I was lying on my bed reading. I read a lot to preoccupy myself, hoping it would help distract any desire I had for food. My body was so starved that it began hard to comprehend things, much less maintain focus. On one particular day, I was reading a book in my room, or at least attempting to, and I began to drift off. I would fade in and out, reading more each time I woke up. Reading the same sentence over and over again and my mind not grasping the words. I wasn't drifting off to sleep. My body was fighting to remain conscious. I thought, "My goodness..I'm dying...finally..." I cared, because I didn't want to die, but in a way I also welcomed some kind of peace that I sought so hard to find but had yet to attain. I remember how it hurt to sit or lie down, even on my bed, because my body had no fat and my bones dug into the mattress and rubbed red spots at every pressure point. I didn't die that day. I managed to sit up, drink a diet soda, chew a stick of gum, and move on. I felt like a zombie. I cried and prayed daily, begging God to pull me through, while part of me wished for it to just be over, even if it meant dying.
The next memory is of me walking vigorously through my neighborhood. 17 years old. Heart pounding in rhythm with my feet as they hit the pavement, occasionally skipping a beat. Through the neighborhood, looping through town, over and over again. Walking, running, not knowing where I was going, yet somehow trying to escape myself. I returned home a little over an hour later, and did an hour of cardio in the living room. My parents were gone all day and most of the evening because of work so I was home alone most of the time, and my siblings had all moved out by this point. This of course left me to do my behaviors. After I finished the cardio workout, I went into the kitchen, made a salad which consisted of lettuce and bits of baked chicken (that's it, no dressing, no nothing). I ate it slowly, and then my stomach began to ache as usual, my body forgetting how to digest because it never got the chance to anymore. I immediately felt guilty and ran to the bathroom, and threw up the salad and the immense amount of water I had drank earlier. My eyes began to see black, and I felt light headed. This was not an abnormal thing for me at this point. It happened a few times a day. Yet, this time was different. I threw up, and cried. I cried and cried, sitting on the bathroom floor, and I began to pray and beg God to help me. That was the first time I realized that something was truly wrong. That may sound crazy, but it had been my normal. It was my life. Vomiting always made me feel different, though. People may skip meals and most do some kind of exercise, but the typical person does not make themselves throw up, and I knew that. I wanted to stop; I wanted it so badly that I pleaded for the strength. It didn't stop, and I didn't have the strength to fight it. But it stayed in the back of my mind from that point on. I knew that I could have a better life, and that there had to be freedom from this.
At this point, my normal blood pressure was consistently very LOW. My body temperature ran lower than normal which made me cold all the time (well, that and the lack of body fat). My throat burned. My stomach ached. My body hurt. Everywhere. Even sitting on soft surfaces, or lying on my bed, was torture because it felt like I was sitting on concrete. My memory failed me. My heart skipped beats and radiated sharp pains. My body was falling apart.
taken in 2008
..Desolate..
Charleston Southern University - Freshman Year (2001)
Somehow I thought that I could manage through college without anorexia hindering me. I had visited CSU towards the end of my senior year of high school and after much deliberation I applied, received my acceptance letter, and registered for classes. I declared my major Professional Biology/Pre-Med. I was on a mission. I would make a 4.0, participate in as many activities as possible, and get into MUSC for medical school. I thought no one would notice my eating disorder. Due to some intervention by one of my relatives, I was essentially "babysat" with people sitting down with me and watching me eat during the summer before college. I gained a minimal amount of weight, though still drastically emaciated, but I just knew I was positively huge and thought surely my weight would not be an issue to anyone. I moved on campus in mid-August. By the second day of school several people had gone to school authorities, saying they were afraid for my life. People I barely knew sought out school counselors and my RA not knowing what to do.
I never saw the inside of the cafeteria my first semester of college. My weight dropped dramatically again. I was up and out before 5:00 a.m. taking long walks around campus before my classes. I walked laps and laps all through campus in the evenings, too. I made good use of the fitness center and spent a couple of hours a day in there, struggling not to pass out. I was already weary of my routine, but anything less felt like compromise. Then, everything changed. The bottom fell out, the carpet was ripped out from under me, and I was suddenly face to face with everything I'd been running from.
Two weeks into school, I received notice that the Dean of Students wanted to speak to me. This caused me to panic. 'Surely', I thought, 'something had happened with my financial aid or something terrible like that.' I was alarmed and distressed over this. It never even crossed my mind that this was all about my eating disorder. I called the Dean of Students office back and set up the appointment. They had taken the initiative to look up my schedule and told me when to come in, which made me a bit irritated. I felt so out of control of the situation. I went up to the second floor of the student center where the office was located on the day of my appointment. I didn't realize that I was called into a conference, or an "Intervention" if you will. When I entered the office of the Assistant Dean, I found myself face to face with both new and semi-familiar faces that I'd met at registration. Obviously, this was a serious situation. They sat me down and began to talk. They told me that I had to comply with them by getting some sort of help, or that I would be asked to leave school and would not be allowed to return. Leaving was obviously not an option for me, because there was no help available at home, and even though my family didn't want me to die, they just didn't know what to do. And, they only said that I had to leave if I didn't cooperate, and at this point all they were asking for me to do was to go to the hospital with the RLC and get checked out. The sudden intervention and being completely caught off guard led me to agree though I had countless reservations. The RLC walked me over to my room so I could gather important information like insurance and my ID, and then we trekked across the street to the local hospital.
We sat in the hospital waiting room for a few hours before I was finally called back. They gathered basic medical information and ordered some blood work, and then a doctor sat down and talked to me for a bit. It was at this time that I finally received an official diagnosis from a doctor. I remember being in high school, spending my lunch hour in the library either studying or reading, and how often in my exploration of novels and resources I would come across information on eating disorders. The week that Wasted by Marya Hornbacher was released I found it on the recent books shelf and read it in two days. Years had of course passed since then and by this point in my life I obviously knew what an eating disorder was, but I really didn't think I'd ever be diagnosed. In medical journals and textbooks the portrait of anorexia was a photo of a woman both from the front and behind, essentially a skeleton with skin stretched over it, with bones protruding and a ghastly expression on her face, sort of like living-death, and I certainly thought I was the furthest thing from that image. I left the hospital that evening with a referral to a therapist who treats eating disorders - who was conveniently also located across the street from my school - and with a million questions and the weight of the world on my shoulders.
I was terrified to call my family because I felt like such a disappointment and failure. For the moment I was still a student but that was subject to change if the doctors and higher-ups of the school felt need. I finally had to admit things were not ok, which took the form of confronting my family. I had considered not telling anyone at first. After all, nothing was known right now. I hadn't even seen a specialist yet. But, I knew that they would receive a statement from the hospital saying that the insurance was charged, so I had to tell them. I walked over to the duck pond on campus, sat down on one of the benches, and called them after I got back from the hospital. When I spoke to them, they all responded the same way - they said they had been expecting it, and that they knew the school would probably do something considering it is a small private university and I was living on campus. They knew I had to get help. I had mixed feelings about their response. I was relieved that they were not angry because I had to start seeing someone, yet I was angry because I didn't understand how they could know I needed help yet not make me seek it because I obviously could not make the decision myself, I was obviously very sick. Christine (my ED therapist) did speak to my family on the phone about eating disorders on a couple of occasions. I think they thought it would go away eventually, or that I would get to the point where I would break down and eat. They admitted they didn't understand it at all. It was bittersweet in a way because it made me angry for them to respond that way after all these years, yet it was somehow freeing. Maybe there was hope?
My first appointment with Christine was awkward to say the least. It was straight-forward in a sense. I received paper work in the mail before my appointment, filled it out and returned it. When I went for my appointment we talked about my medical history and about my eating disorder behaviors, and about school. She was very nice, but I was not enthused to be there. I was only going because I didn't have a choice. I started to develop some resentment toward the school for forcing me to do this. I went to counseling with Christine for a couple of weeks, and it was quickly apparent to her that I needed more intense treatment than what could be accomplished in an outpatient setting. I was too malnourished and underweight, and I wasn't showing signs of promise in outpatient therapy. She told me that often outpatient is a stepping stone or a first step in eating disorder treatment, and that there are different levels of care available. She recommended inpatient treatment for me. Entering a treatment facility would mean withdrawing from school because I would be in various aspects of treatment all day and would not be able to attend class. She gave me some time to think about this, but honestly I felt as though I had no say in the matter. I had no choice. If I didn't go then I couldn't get any help from Christine, and I also could not remain at CSU. There is virtually no treatment for eating disorders in South Carolina so I had no other options. At least if I entered treatment school would be available to me again once I got out. I felt like I was losing everything, but I knew if I didn't do it, then I would lose even more. I spent a lot of hours in Christine's office and with the Assistant Dean trying to figure out how to facilitate the transition to inpatient care without causing a mess of my college career. There was also a lot of negotiating to do with insurance, as they were not wanting to pay for my treatment. This brought about even more anxiety. I absolutely hated having my life decisions resting in the hands of others. Eventually, things worked out to the point where I was able to enter the eating disorder treatment program at MUSC. There was no salvaging my school work thus far since it was already well past drop/add and so I had no other choice but to withdraw from all my classes re-enter college the next year. I met with all of my professors and explained the situation, and they were all contacted by the Dean's office to ensure that there were no blemishes on my school record and that I would not be penalized for my medical leave. My would-be freshman year ended up fizzling out, but I would get another shot at it next year. It was incredibly difficult for me to accept the situation as it was and not consider it a failure. I had to leave for medical reasons after all, not because I failed my classes or because of some disciplinary problem. Everything began to fall into place and I began to realize that maybe my life and existence wasn't about what I could achieve. I began to realize that successes and failures do not make me the person that I am. That there is more to life than achieving perfection. That starvation would not bring me that perfection. And, that I had forgotten my First Love.
photo taken
Summer 2009
..Redemption..
God's Hand
Let's backtrack to my senior year of high school for a moment before I continue. When it came to college, I thought I had it all figured out. I had not originally intended to come to CSU. My original plan was to attend USC-Honors College and it would have all been paid for in scholarships. Additionally, USC also has its own medical school, and that was certainly an option for me. Yet, it seemed as though God wouldn't leave me alone about CSU. Just as many other colleges do, CSU bombarded me with flyers and information. Mostly, I disregarded them. Other schools dropped out of the running, including USC, when I discovered some of my scholarships had disclaimers. I had to attend a private school for them to be valid. Scholarships were very important because college is expensive, and I didn't want to be a financial burden to my family. I came to visit CSU, and found that the environment was more of what I was looking for because of the size and the fact that it was a campus setting, not spread out all over the place. Charleston was beautiful. The people were nice. The pre-med program looked promising. So, I made the decision to attend CSU. Then, as soon as it all began it seemed to end. I was devastated because I felt like I came to college only to have to leave, but things suddenly began to unfold and my eyes were opened to things much greater than I ever imagined. I broke down and questioned why God would place me here in college only for me to be pulled out again. I knew that CSU was the place that God wanted me to be. I sought His will diligently about it, and to have to leave seemed wrong. God's wonderful plan of redemption became clear in time. It wasn't just about coming to school or getting an education. God was saving my life.
--Charleston Southern University is a Christian school. While it isn't always an impactful thing for everyone who attends a Christian school, for me this was significant. It drew me near to God, opened my heart up completely to Him, and changed my life. My walk with God truly ignited when I came to CSU.
--The therapist that I was referred to in August 2001 just happened to be located right across the street from my college. Shes not just any therapist. She works specifically with eating disorders. She treats them all the time. She gave me the support and answers that I had been looking for. She treated me until we moved from SC to GA in mid-2009.
--The only treatment program for eating disorders in the state of South Carolina was located in Charleston, at MUSC. My therapist was actually the manager of the program when I was treated there. (NOTE: This program is no longer open. It closed in 2003 due to funding issues)
--My hometown is nearly 3 hours away from Charleston, and because of the nature of the program when I was stable enough to not be required to stay in the hospital I would have to commute daily to the partial hospitalization program from 10:00 a.m. - 7:00 p.m. How was I going to do that if I wasn't a CSU student? I didn't have money, I couldn't work and attend the program, and I had no place to live. GOD TRULY TAKES CARE OF EVERYTHING. AMAZINGLY, EVEN THOUGH I WAS NO LONGER A STUDENT AT CSU AND HAD WITHDRAWN FROM SCHOOL COMPLETELY, CSU ALLOWED ME TO STAY ON CAMPUS BECAUSE THEY KNEW I NEEDED THE HELP, THAT I WAS WILLING, AND THAT I WOULD NOT HAVE HELP AVAILABLE TO ME OTHERWISE.
God was saving me. He had already saved me from eternal separation from Him, and now He was saving me from an approaching death which medically should have already occurred. A couple of days before I entered the treatment center, I broke down in the prayer room and told God I would give Him all of me. I let go of any decision I had made about my future and accepted the call He was giving me to surrender my life over completely, even if that meant a different vocation or any other change that I needed to make. I didn't know what that would involve or what path I might have to take, but I knew the first step was getting treatment, and God was making a way for me.
Don't get me wrong, it wasn't easy. I was in many ways backed into a corner. Treatment was less my decision and more so everyone else's. It was necessary because I needed it, but I didn't really want it yet, but I also didn't want to die and I knew this was my only hope. Regardless of whether I wanted it or not, I do know that I wouldn't be alive today if it wasn't for that difficult time period in my life. So, my decision was made. I worked out all the paperwork and braced myself, knowing I had a hard road ahead of me.
I had countless fears and concerns about participating in the program, and I often considered not doing it. A week or so before I started the program I ended up in the ER for dehydration. The doctor had my labs done and I was hooked up to an EKG to monitor my heart rate. Everyone suddenly started panicking and fussing over me, and I was then told that I could have a heart attack at any moment. The diuretics that I had been taking for years were literally killing me - my potassium was non-existent. They were shocked that I was still alive and hadn't already suffered a heart attack, much less conscious and walking around. The warning signs had been there for a while - right after school started I had begun to be awakened by extreme muscle cramps and had sharp chest pains that left me winded. They wanted to go ahead and admit me to the eating disorder program right then, but I refused. They called Christine and she said to go ahead and send me in. A doctor and a psychiatrist came to my room to try to convince me, but I was set on not going into the program any earlier than I had to. I was 18 by that point, so no one could really do anything to me, and I signed myself out against medical advice later on that day after being pumped with multiple IV's. I returned to my dorm and tried to forget that I should have been dead. Looking back I know that it was a very dangerous move to leave the hospital, but all I could think about was the fear that consumed me about the eating disorder program and all that it would entail. I couldn't run forever, of course, and before I knew it, I'd be walking through the doors to the Institute of Psychiatry, riding the elevator to the fifth floor, face to face with a large sign with blue writing, declaring "MUSC Eating Disorders Unit".
..The Great Unknown..
Inpatient #1
I finally started the MUSC Institute of Psychiatry Eating Disorders Program in November 2001. My first day basically consisted of a lot of paper work and preliminary tests, and meeting my treatment team. My electrolytes were completely out of whack and my body was on the verge of shutting down by the time I was able to start the program. The first week was totally nerve-wracking and I hated every moment of it. But, for the first time I was able to interact with others who truly understood. The program was designed specifically for those suffering with eating disorders. I met some of the most amazing girls and to this day I still think of them often.
The program consisted of eating meals with a team of nurses and counselors, various group and individual therapies, and education on various topics - nutrition, eating disorder education, anxiety, stress, anger, body image, and so on. I was also put on a host of medications which I really struggled with at first. Weights and vitals were taken every day. Bathroom times were scheduled and monitored, especially following meals. Any food refused was supplemented with Boost, Ensure, or Carnation. My personal treatment team consisted of a psychiatrist, nutritionist, therapist, and nurse, though I interacted with the entire unit staff on some level. I hated every moment of the grueling schedule and saw each day as being another step closer to discharge. On some levels it seemed that I was really improving. Medically I was doing better, and the eating disorder behaviors were greatly reduced. But, it was all a game. I knew what I had to do, and I did it. I ate, because it was expected of me. I talked in therapy because I knew I'd be stuck there forever if I didn't. I wanted freedom, yet it didn't come easily, and I was anxious to get back to school and life. I got my wish six weeks into the program when I got the word that my insurance company was pulling out and would no longer pay for my treatment. Our insurance had been putting up a fight since day one. In the same day I was also told what weight the team of doctors had decided I had to be. This made me panic. There was NO WAY that I was going to weigh that much! I'd never even been near that. I signed myself out against their advice. I was being forced to leave by my insurance anyway, so they couldn't really contest my decision much. My therapist called my parents and asked them to plead with me to continue treatment. They mentioned to me that Christine called them, and I was furious about that. I was now 18 and could make the decision to stay or go. I know that everyone there knew I was in no position to leave and was still way underweight. But, the money wasn't there, so I left and didn't look back.
It also didn't help that our insurance went back on the contract they had with us and refused to pay for ANY of my inpatient treatment (which they had already committed to). Apparently the program was in a long standing battle with this company. They had a lot of trouble with them from other patients as well. The hospital looked to my family for money we didn't have, and when my dad refused to pay, the hospital added me to the list for the lawsuit against the insurance company. I of course wasn't involved in that directly and was never bothered by them again since it was between the hospital and insurance company, but I carried that financial burden. I felt responsible for any financial stress my family had to endure. I felt far too young to have such a heavy financial burden placed upon me already, and technically from this point on I was considered the responsible party since I had turned 18.
I was released from the hospital in Mid-December, which was probably the worst timing ever. Holidays can be incredibly difficult for someone with an eating disorder, and there were moments where I thought I would not make it through. I immediately relapsed over break while I was at home. It was like the hospitalization never even happened. Nothing really got worked on in the program because the surface issues (food and weight) were such an issue with me and my health was so unpredictable. Still, I was determined to not lose what little I had to look forward to. I appealed my financial aid over school break and enrolled back at CSU once my labs were considered acceptable. I was allowed to come back and take a couple of core classes at CSU in Spring of 2002 in order to ease the transition back as an "official" student the next school year. They tried to work with me as much as possible, allowing me to take a very light load and remain on campus even though I wasn't considered a full time student so that I could continue to meet with Christine and attempt to get some sort of life back. With extreme difficulty I managed through, but by the time summer rolled around I was almost as bad off as I was when I first arrived on the campus of CSU. By May, I decided I was ready to start school full time and I registered for a summer class that I needed to get into classes for my major, putting me back in Charleston semi-permanently as of July because the class started then and the normal school year started almost immediately after my class ended. But, of course, my relapse also landed me back in the hospital.
Inpatient #2
