Getting to the point where I was able to admit to myself, “Hey, I think I have a problem with food.” and then sharing that with someone, especially a close friend like Allison, took years. It was the same with admitting that my parents, namely my mother, were emotionally abusive. Throughout the past several years, I had been to both eating disorder (ed) websites and emotional abuse websites to look at diagnostic questionnaires. You know, the ones that state, “If you answered ‘yes’ to 3 or more items, you probably have _______.” While these surveys might seem straightforward to most, they just increased my confusion regarding whether or not I was emotionally abused and whether or not I truly had issues with food or I just had a “lack of willpower,” which was what I thought.
I’ve always had issues with my parents before, and been in and out of counseling and therapy for years, but nobody had ever told me that what my parents did or said to me was wrong. In addition, no therapist ever thought to talk about weight, body image, or possible food issues with me. Being intelligent and knowing what limited information I knew about both eating disorders and emotional abuse led me to question things when I would have incredibly rough experiences with either my parents or eating disordered thoughts/actions. The problem with the surveys I encountered was that for me, they only partially described my situations. Since I did not meet all of the criteria for each, I was able to tell myself, “No, I was never emotionally abused.” and “I certainly don’t have an eating disorder.” Even though my parents would invalidate my thoughts, feelings, and beliefs, laugh at me, and oftentimes just flat out ignore me, I was incredibly hesitant to label their actions and treatment of me as “emotional abuse” since they had always provided a roof over my head, food on the table, health insurance, and met other basic needs. I was convinced that since they met my material needs, what they were doing to me just could not be emotional abuse. Not only was I finally able to come to terms with the fact that their behavior severely lacked meeting my emotional and mental needs throughout the course of my entire life, but I was able to say that oftentimes, yes, their treatment of me was emotionally abusive. The situation with recognizing and admitting to my eating disorder was the same. I was convinced that since I (thought I) did not meet all of the physical criteria, such as severely restricting, going on several thousand calorie binges multiple times per week, compulsively exercising, abusing laxatives or diuretics, or purging after eating, there could just be no way I had an eating disorder. I chose to ignore the fact that I was able to agree with all of the mental criteria, including but not limited to feeling guilty and ashamed while and after eating, regardless of the food, being convinced that all of the problems in my life would magically disappear if I were thin, and hating myself and what I looked like. The ironic fact is that I most certainly did engage in ed behaviors, and quite frequently. I actually have a laundry list of food rules and regulations, yet somehow, I was truly convinced that everybody followed similar rules and my issue stemmed from the fact that I did not have enough willpower to follow them.
I admitted to myself that I was emotionally abused for many, many years and that I had an eating disorder in July. I wasn’t leaving the east coast until August. Since I wasn’t a student (I had graduated two months prior), I wasn’t eligible to see any sort of therapist or dietitian at UConn, so I essentially had to tough it out. That was one of the hardest months of my life. Not only were conversations with my parents as bad as they ever were and ed thoughts escalating, but my then-current relationship was crumbling. Allison was there to support me throughout it all. I felt like for the entire month of August, I played a waiting game. Ed thoughts raged on a daily basis and I didn’t know how to deal with them. Like I had been doing for my whole life, I constantly internalized all of the negative comments and remarks my parents made, and I didn’t know how to stop. I felt like complete and utter shit, hating myself on a constant basis while putting a smile on and pretending to be fine, yet then breaking down behind closed doors. Oftentimes, I worked 12+ hour days to get out of my own head and focus on something else. I was desperate for help, but there was nothing that could be done. Every day dragged, and I had to continue to endure the harshest critic and I had ever met: myself. Like I had been doing for so many years, I continued those terribly damaging self-punishing thoughts: I berated myself, I told myself how worthless I was, how fat I was, how ugly I was, how little restraint I had, and I how should be absolutely ashamed of myself on close to a daily basis. I knew I just had to make it to the end of the month to get out to Arizona, be eligible for services at ASU, and finally get some help. And help I found.
I currently see a team of three wonderful, caring people at ASU—a doctor, a dietitian, and a therapist. Until I have permission to use their first names, they’ll remain referred to as their titles. I didn’t realize it at the time, but having a supportive team is instrumental in recovery. My first several appointments with each person were rough. I had only admitted to a few people back at UConn what was going on with me—Allison, my boss who I had, and still have, a great relationship with, and a few people who I called friends at the time. I was absolutely petrified of having to talk about “food stuff” to professionals, and then there was the issue of not only mentioning or talking about, but actually dealing with and feeling, the hurt and the pain caused by my parents. Even though the members of my treatment team specialized in eating disorders, I was so scared that I would be judged. I thought they would think I was gross, I was making excuses to defend my own behavior surrounding food, I was wrong regarding my parents’ actions and words, I was just making it up, or I was overreacting, and that my eating disorder “wasn’t bad enough.” I found none of my fears to be substantiated. I see both my dietitian and therapist weekly and my doctor biweekly to monthly, and I’ve formed meaningful relationships with all three.
I like to think that as of late (past month to six weeks), I had some groundbreaking sessions with all three. I cried during sessions, and several of them. While that might not seem like a big deal, for me it was huge. Since I have such incredible shame, guilt, and embarrassment surrounding all things related to food, being able to trust somebody enough to not only talk about ed thoughts and actions, but to feel comfortable enough to display real emotions was quite the feat. There were numerous instances where I had previously forced myself to “keep it together” in their offices, and repeated that phrase to myself over and over until tears magically forced their way back into my eyes. Finally allowing myself to feel in their presences has been what I like to consider an early turning point in the road to recovery.
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I think it’s important to note that originally, I never intended to write a blog. In fact, I never intended to write, period. Apparently, writing stuff down is a big thing for ed patients, who knew? I cannot even remember how many times I heard, “You should try journaling.” or “Do you journal? (No.) Maybe you should start…” or “Journaling would really help you, I highly suggest it.” I was so opposed to the idea. I thought it was corny and dumb, and in all honesty, I was embarrassed. The thought of being able to see what I had previously wrote, and therefore thought, was mortifying. I felt such shame and embarrassment just thinking about it, and this was before I had written a single word!
My first journal was actually a food journal, or an “fj,” as I fondly call them. My dietitian and I were working towards increasing my levels of awareness regarding my hunger, and she had been pushing me to note my hunger on a hunger scale and jot down a few notes of how I was feeling before and/or after eating. Of course, I vehemently refused each time until refusal was no longer an option. During one session which I remember ever so vividly, she asked me (yet again) if I actually wanted better awareness of my hunger. I slightly rolled my eyes, since we had been over this so many times, it seemed, and replied yes. She then took it upon herself to print three sheets of paper—two of “helpful hints” regarding mindful eating and one dreaded page of blank food journals. She placed these papers in front of me and explained what each one was. I saw them and I heard her voice, yet in my head, all I could think was, “Oh my god, oh my god, I can’t do this. I don’t want to let anybody in on my embarrassing thoughts and ‘guilty’ actions.” Her parting message as I walked out of the door was, “Just do it.” Somehow I rose to the challenge, and do it I did. After being “forced” to fj for a few weeks, I hated to admit that I began to enjoy it. Me, enjoying a food journal? Unheard of. Lo and behold, not only did I enjoy journaling, but I began to expand the activity to non-food times. I started off by including how I was feeling after eating (I previously just fj-ed prior to), and then progressed to times I was having “food thoughts” (but not actually eating), and then to times when I was having any thoughts at all regarding anything eating disorder or emotional abuse related. As of late (past few weeks or so), I’ve had this incredible urge to just write. Get it out there. Put it all out there. Make the so-called embarrassing and guilty and painful and ashamed readable and known. I know I’m not the only person who feels what I feel and thinks what I think, and I know others will be able to relate to this. Even if nobody else ever reads one entry, the fact that I realize that I have nothing to be ashamed of speaks volumes.
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Three to four months into both graduate school and treatment, I’ve come an incredibly long way. Academically, I’m excelling because I’ve put the needed work and effort into both my classes and making a name for myself within my program. I will be TAing next semester and I started a student organization to fill a much-needed void on campus (the graduate LGBTQ population). Socially, I’ve made friends because I was able to put myself “out there.” I know and am friends with people not only in my program but also through a weekly softball league I play in. In regards to recovery, I’ve made some instrumental and pivotal first steps that I don’t wish to diminish, but I also know I still have a long way to go. I still frequently have “food thoughts.” Sometimes with every meal or snack of the day, from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep, and other times only a handful of times per week. I’ve barely began to conquer the hurt and pain stemming from the emotional abuse, and I’m still scared. Recognizing, feeling, and then overcoming close to eighteen years of hell is not an easy task. There have been many ups and downs in the past few months and I know more will continue to follow. It is my goal that this blog will accurately and honestly chronicle both, no matter how great or how terrible. Some days I have glimpses of what a life free of eating disorder hell might be like, and other days I’m struggling to stay afloat and keep my head above the water. Whether I’m enjoying my day or struggling to survive, I’m doing the best that I can, and that’s all that I can do.
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