My Story... Where do I start? When I first began creating this website, I struggled daily. I overcame daily. Since that time, my struggles have become less frequent and altogether less painful. That by no means is intended to give the impression that I never experience these emotions or these trials, but is meant to give hope to anyone who might be struggling through the same Hell I once struggled through. It can get better, but only if you make the effort.
As for the past...
I don't think I'll ever know when it began or what started it or be able to answer any of the other common questions people tend to ask about the origin of my current state. Thirteen is the first thing I remember. I was thirteen years old when I went on my first diet. I still don’t know what made me decide I needed to diet. I just remember walking into the middle school cafeteria with a Slimfast in hand. Some kid made a comment about how I could use it and it was a stab to the heart, which proves that there had already been “food issues” before that point.
I wasn’t abused as a child. I can’t blame my illness on a parent or some type of predator. I am very blessed to have been spared what so many people go through. Still, this means there’s no real obvious answer to why I’m the way I am and that can be somewhat frustrating. I’ve always turned to self-destruction when upset. Even as a child, I can think back on things I did instinctively that were not “normal” behaviors. How or why that destruction elevated to what it did, I don’t know.
At the age of fifteen, I agreed, upon the request of a concerned friend, to see a psychologist. I went and talked and evaded any discussion of food. I walked around the very issue which had brought me there, all the while surviving off of chewing gum and apple juice. She never knew. I grew very sick. In the middle of that time period, my step-father’s mother was rushed to the emergency room with heart problems. Somewhere in my sick brain, I tried to make a deal with God. I promised I would eat again if he would let her live. He didn’t. For a period of time after her death, I was certain that it was a punishment, that God had taken her to punish me. It was then that I realized that what I was doing was not normal and was not healthy. My mother took me out to eat. It was one of the most difficult meals I’ve eaten in my life. At the next session, I confessed everything to the therapist, who was very supportive. I saw my family doctor and was diagnosed with Anorexia Nervosa.
Thus, began a long, long road to “recovery”.
My mother ordered me a fat-free angel food cake for my sixteenth birthday. I’ll never forget the effort she put into helping me take baby steps. I struggled. I had lost a lot of weight. People at church noticed. People at school noticed. I became paranoid. I viewed their concern as condemnation and I ran from those who truly cared. I had ups and downs and many…many days later, I was eating closer to “normally” than I had in a year.
And as soon as I almost had control of that…
came another struggle. Self-inflicted violence. It’s a term many people shudder and shy away from. That makes it no less real. Again, I don’t know why I felt the need to hurt myself the first time that I did. Where I got the idea…who I’d seen scars on…it really doesn’t matter. Fact is, it’s a coping mechanism, just like the Anorexia and when I lost one, I found the other. I hid the SI for a lot longer. I always cut myself in places I knew no one would see. My upper legs, my stomach, my chest. Any place that would bleed and that could be covered easily. One day, I came home on my lunch break from work….I left my razor on the sink. My therapist thought that was a subconscious cry for help. I always thought it was just a negligent accident. My mother called at work. I went hysterical. She took the blade. She tried to take all of them, but it was pointless. I was old enough to go buy a box cutter. And even without them, I had fingernails. I understood why she tried to stop me. I just couldn’t explain why I couldn’t stop myself. It was about punishment and feeling something, anything through the numbness, even pain. It was about control, about having something no one could take away, something no one could stop me from doing. I struggled on and off with self-injury. I would go a few months SI free and then I’d fall, but I always got back up eventually. Finally, I stopped. I hadn’t cut myself in three months…..the first time I “purged”. (I think that’s probably a hard word for most Bulimics. It’s so formal. It’s too nice of a word for what we really do to ourselves.)
I had gained some weight. I wasn’t fat by any means. I was at a healthy and respectable weight. Still, my starving days had left my metabolism in a less than cooperative position. So, I was adjusting to the fact that I would gain weight easier now than before I got sick. It was a simple comment, never meant to hurt me to the extent that it did. I said something that angered my brother. He retorted with a comment about my weight. “You always complain about eating too much. Do something about it. Stop complaining and just don’t put so much on your plate.” I looked down at my empty plate. I knew he was right. I had to do something about it or shut up and quit whining. The family was downstairs. So, I snuck upstairs where I knew the bathroom would be safe. With tears in my eyes, I stuck a finger in my mouth. No one had ever shown me how to do this before. So, I tried again with two, farther back. Little by little, it came. It was the most disgusting action I had ever taken part in. I wiped the vomit from my fingers, sat beside the toilet, rocked back and forth, and cried. For several months, I purged anger and fear out through food. I noticed physical problems developing. I started having chest pains when I threw up. I was always dizzy. I barely had to force the food up anymore. I was sick to my stomach every time I ate. It was conditioned to rid itself of food. I went to the doctor. All my tests came back fine. (They always do.)
From there, well I’ve struggled with all three, but I think I’ve come out on top overall. I still struggle. I still hurt. I can't say that I will never have to deal with any of this again, but I have come a long, long way and know I will continue to. I no longer see a therapist and am currently taking no medication for depression or any other "emotional dysfunction." I've learned to healthily deal with stress, frustration, fear, anger and all of the other emotions that once seemed so unbearable. I’ve wasted too many years hating myself. I know there is more to life. And I know I deserve it.
