The Hard Stuff

This is the stuff that nobody wants to admit. The nitty gritty of an eating disorder. The thoughts of self-hatred, the feelings of complete worthlessness. The restricting, the binges, the purges. Nobody wants to talk about that. It’s hard. It sucks. It’s embarrassing and shameful. Who wants to admit that they go on a several thousand calorie binge and then lean over the toilet and throw it up? Who wants to talk about walking up in the morning, taking a cursory glance in the mirror, and then telling yourself you don’t deserve to eat? I didn’t. I do now. I’m no longer ashamed of myself, as the emotional abuse and the eating disorder are not my fault.

I have a long history with ed behaviors, most likely going back to when I was 9. Over the years they’ve gone untreated and thus have worsened. Like I previously mentioned, I thought that since I couldn’t be officially diagnosed with either anorexia or bulimia, I clearly did not have an eating disorder. As of today, the words “You have an eating disorder” have still never been spoken to me, and in the beginning of treatment, that was very unsettling to me. I knew what was going on but I wanted, needed, some confirmation. My doctor typically gives me a “patient plan” after each visit which details our appointment and includes what needs to be done before the next appointment. It was on one of these patient plans back in August that I first saw the diagnosis that I had been both fearing and needing: “EATING DISORDER NOS.” This gave me the confirmation I needed, that yes, I really did have a problem, but at the same time, it was an eye-opening, sinking heart feeling of “Oh shit. It’s real. I have an eating disorder.” Once I was able to come to terms with this fact, I allowed myself to take a look at all of the unhealthy food behaviors I’ve exhibited over the years.

I’m going to talk in the present, as the below are things that occurred on a regular basis before I began treatment. Some of these behaviors still occur, while some do not; I’m trying my best to engage in “normal eating.”

I use food to comfort myself during emotional times. Having been emotionally abused and still having to deal with my parents, those “emotional times” are plentiful. I binge to quell the feelings of self-loathing, abandonment, and fear. I hate myself even more after a binge and tell myself things and call myself names one wouldn’t use for their worst enemies. I then restrict afterwards. Sometimes for just a meal, sometimes for a whole day. I’ve weighed myself daily for several years. I’ve tried to stay under one thousand calories for the day, or less. I have long lists of reasons why I hate myself, of foods I do not under any circumstances eat (aka my “fear foods”), and of crazy food rules. For example, I DO NOT consume liquid calories. No juice, regular soda, smoothies, etc. Only skim milk, and even that sometimes is tough. I hate eating foods that are high in fat, even though fat comprises a necessary part of our diets. Topping my list of fear foods is cheese, ice cream, french fries, and desserts. I prefer not to eat foods that I find enjoyable, mainly for the fear they will trigger a binge.

Most of my food behaviors are centered around bingeing/overeating, restricting, following (or trying to follow) a complex and often contradictory list of food rules. I have never used or abused diuretics or laxatives. For a period of approximately two years, on and off, I used (sometimes properly, sometimes improperly) Alli, the over-the-counter FDA approved weight loss drug. I dabbled in purging a few times over the past few years. I’ve legitimately purged three times, all within the past two and a half weeks (more on the purging to follow). I’ve thought that a small bowl of oatmeal was a suitable dinner. I’ve gone food shopping at three a.m. to go on a binge. I’ve told myself I was a worthless piece of shit who deserves all of the hurt and pain I’ve felt from my parents’ abuse. And more.

Listing the ed behaviors/thoughts makes it clear there is a big issue. The above statements do not stem from somebody with normal eating habits. My disordered eating, combined with being emotionally abused, has led me to an eating disorder.

So, more on the purging. I feel that this is a HUGE taboo—people do NOT talk about purging. It’s embarrassing. It’s shameful. You don’t want to admit you do it, you’ve done it, or you think about it. It’s not pleasant in any way, shape, or form. It’s a desperate act. The feelings I’ve had when I’ve purged are below. They describe the moment. My thoughts, my actions. This is a warning: you might not want to continue. But it’s the truth. It’s honest. It’s raw. It’s out there. I’m not proud of myself for purging, but I am not ashamed of myself either. My first (and second) legitimate purge resulted from a multitude of reasons which would take too long to get into. I’ve had the urge to purge (my dietitian first said that to me in one of our initial sessions and it took all I had not to burst out laughing right there—after she said it in one of our following sessions I had to tell her she could no longer say that. I couldn’t deal with the rhyming when talking about throwing up. Just no.) for the past few months, but never legitimately acted on it. I never ate with the intention of purging afterwards. I never purposefully walked into the bathroom, stuck something down my throat, and vomited. Never, until two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago, I was in a bad spot. Things with my parents had escalated yet again. One of their biggest faults is that they’re largely inconsistent. They were (and probably still are) convinced that I’m taking a trip to Sedona for reasons that are still unknown to me. I’m not. Due to that, and other “evidence” (still not sure what), I was told that they would no longer pay for my co-pays for my appointments, even though they had promised they would at the onset of the semester. Between seeing my team, my endocrinologist (for the diabetes), and my insulin prescriptions, my co-pays run well above $100/month, and being a college student, it’s more money than I have. I panicked when they told me that. Due to scheduling difficulties, sickness, and it being a holiday week (Thanksgiving), I hadn’t seen anybody from my team in what felt like an eternity (it was really only a week or two). All of this, coupled with regular ed stress, was too much for me. The following are excerpts from the journal I kept before this blog began. Again, read at your own risk.

“11/24

I don’t even know where to begin. So much has happened in the past 24 hours, let alone week, that it’s an everything and nothing situation. Well, was. So much going on in my head that nothing could come out.

So it’s now 10 minutes later, and I’m still avoiding saying what I’ve been dreading.

So I finally did what I told myself I never would do nor was allowed to do. I purged. Last night. It was overwhelming, yet thought-out and deliberate and I knew exactly what I was doing. It hurt. I binged before it. Afterwards, I was numb and calm. I cried. My head is spinning now, my heart’s beating, and I don’t know what to think. I was deliberate about it, although completely frenzied and overtaken by the feeling. It was finally okay in my head last night. So I did it. And I feel like it was (is) a desperate act. It’s not easy, mentally or physically. The pain made it better. I wanted, needed, to hurt. I already was. I’m not sure why. I stood there, in the bathroom, for a minute or two, before I did it, looking at myself. My eyes searching my reflection for what, I don’t know. Something, anything. I found nothing. Probably it was more like 5-10 seconds, actually, but felt longer, like time stood still. Still in that moment, looking at myself, I took one quick glance upwards, meeting my own eyes, in a last ditch effort, to find what I was looking for—I hated what I saw. I saw myself. I then made the conscious decision, the point of no return, and I started. Several times. I don’t even know what equals “one time.” In my head, it was several. I started. I stopped. I caught my breath, blew my nose, wiped my eyes. Asked myself if I was done. Laughed at myself in hatred and demanded I keep going. Started again. Repeated another 2 or 3 times. Each pause, each time I gathered myself and rose from my knees, I couldn’t bring myself to even glance towards the mirror; I couldn’t risk even the slightest glimpse of myself. When my throat burned after the third time or so, or third “instance,” I don’t even know, I realized I had to feed the cat. I stood up, facing the mirror, completely numb. Told myself to suck it up and just look up. In pure terror and shame, I raised my eyes to actually look at myself, in my eyes. They stared back at me, red, bloodshot, in hatred, laughing and mocking me. Asked me if I was finally fucking happy with myself, now that I really was worth shit. I hated myself for doing what I did. But I also felt so relieved, because I was able to finally give myself the physical and mental pain I had needed all day. I know that’s mad fucked up. I needed it. To feel like I was worthless, to feel like complete shit. To have somebody, anybody, beat me down and tell me exactly how fucked up and worthless I really was. To tell me what I already knew, already felt. I needed to feel the physical pain. And I did. In my stomach, my throat, my head. And every time I paused and it subsided I told myself “No. More. You need more. Keep. Going.” So I did. Until I was so numb that I realized I had to feed the cat. I was going to feed her, and possibly purge again. But then the phone rang, and it was Allison…”

“11/25

I’m tired of having to pretend. Of having to smile, to pay attention to people’s mindless chatter, as if I really care. I’m tired of being so good at faking it that everybody sees me on a daily/weekly basis and nobody has one fucking clue. Because I can pretend and fake it. Pretend like I’m okay, pretend I don’t have crazy food thoughts, pretend like I like myself, pretend like I think I’m a good person, like I deserve to have fun, like I deserve to relax, like the tear that trickles out is just an itch or a piece of dust I’m wiping away, like I’m not freaking out, like all of this is easy. I’m tired of pretending that I can do this when it’s all too overwhelming. I wonder who knows. Who takes the time or has the presence of mind to maybe look into my eyes for a quick second if they dare, and then acknowledge what they see. Probably not much. When I look now, I see nothing. Flat, glazed over, numb. Unemotional. Broken and beaten down. Loss. Failure. Fading hope. Helplessness. Do they see what I see?

I want to purge and feel the pain. It’s the only proper way to punish myself. Then I can feel how worthless I am. And the worst part of that? I feel at last, calm, at one with myself, when I feel that way. It’s so familiar, it’s calming.”

“11/28, 12:30 am

I purged again tonight. I knew I wanted to. And I did. It was much easier than Monday, and didn’t hurt as much. I wanted it to hurt more. I think I was just feeling so numb. I needed to feel something. That physical/mental/emotional shitty feeling. I wanted it. Allison called before I was able to fully accomplish those feelings. I still purged plenty though. I don’t even know how many times there were this time. Maybe more. Maybe not. Quantity was better than last, quality was not, to an extent. But the reasoning and motivation behind it were different than last, also to an extent. There was no binge this time.

I feel lost. Helpless. Confused. Sad, angry, frustrated. Trapped. Begging, desperate, pleading. Sometimes, I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who I was, either.

Allison said it was obvious, and I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it. Not that I was purposefully trying to hide it from her, bur rather I didn’t want to admit it to myself: I am absolutely furious. Angry. Furious. I legitimately don’t really know at what. Everything, I guess. But specifics? No clue. I’m so angry that I’ve thought things that I’ve never thought before, or done. Like purging. On many occasions, I wanted to put my fist through a fucking wall. I’m not violent, at all. I thought to myself, if I didn’t need my right hand to write, type, or play softball, and if I had enough money to cover the co-pays, I probably would’ve broken my hand by now. I’m not sure why I’m on this physical pain kick. It seems to calm me down. Punch something. Purge until everything hurts. It’s like the ultimate “fuck you,” but to myself. It’s scary and frightening that that is who I am/have turned into.

I’m furious because of how all of this shit is affecting my life. I don’t eat normally. At times, I have a crazy voice in my head (not an actual voice, just the ed stuff). At times, I hate myself. At best, I can live with myself. In the past week, I’ve really hated myself. Purged until it hurt, and wanted to keep going. Both times, if I wasn’t interrupted by the phone, I would’ve kept going. I saw no end in sight. I’ve wanted to break my bones. I haven’t slept will in days. I can’t have a fucking decent orgasm. That’s how much [my parents have] gotten into my head. What the fuck. I hate it. Or myself?

I know the correct answer is “nothing,” but I’m still not sure what I did to not be loved. I know, I guess, that I need to be okay with now knowing the answer to that one, or knowing that there isn’t one. But there has to be. It doesn’t make logical sense. But I don’t know what does anymore. Why can’t [my parents] see me for me? Like the good person I am? Like when I was younger…

When my head was the size of a cantaloupe, like they always used to say, when I was a little kid. That had to be a good, happy time, right? I have pictures, so proof! Of me as a baby, and young girl, in their arms, and they’re smiling—they’re legitimately smiling. No fake smiles, no straight faces with signs of anger that I could tell. Real smiles. Like they were happy (happy!!!) that I was alive. I just wonder, where and how did it all go wrong…”

Whew, wow. It’s out there, it’s right above. It’s scary to see, but it’s even scarier to know that in those moments, that’s what I think and that’s how I feel about myself. I don’t have the above thoughts and feelings on a daily basis, or even a regular basis. But from time to time, they are there. They’re confusing, haunting. Painful. Scary. I don’t want them. I don’t want to hate myself; I don’t want to have a need for physical pain because I’m hurting too much mentally and emotionally. They can be the hell that I live in.