The Darkness

It’s gotten easy for me to talk about my eating disorder. To talk about how I starved myself until my heart started to fail, how I counted my ribs to make sure I could feel each one, to talk about the feeding tubes that were put down my throat. I can talk to those who are struggling and tell them that it gets better. That there are bad days but eventually the good start to outweigh the bad and eventually you don’t start to detest every inch of your body. I can talk about that.

What is scary to talk about is the darkness.

The darkness that has haunted the better part of the last ten years. When I forget what joy feels like. But it’s time to talk about it. It’s time to stop being ashamed of it because as much as I try to disown it, it’s a part of me.

Not many know that I used to swallow bottles of pills and pray to die until I woke up in the hospital getting my stomach pumped. Or that I used to slice up my wrists with a razor because it was the only pain I could feel. Or that I would carve words like fat and ugly into my skin to serve as a reminder to what I was.

These weren’t one-time occurrences. I got used to hearing the sound of an ambulance and know it was coming for me. People around me no longer reacted seeing new cuts on my body. My roommates knew how many pills were too much and what I could sleep off.

My dad never got used to policemen knocking on our door in the middle of the night while he waited to see if they would say I was dead or just another person found me unconscious. He never got used to holding my hand in the hospital while I pleaded with him to just let me die.

I excise this part of my life and pretend it wasn’t me. That’s not who I am. But the scary truth is that it is, and sometimes the darkness still comes back. Sometimes I have days where I wake up and refuse to get out of bed because being under the blanket feels safer. I have days where I ignore my friends because I don’t want them to worry, to learn this part of me and leave because it’s too much. These days have been happening recently and it’s been terrifying. To want to slice into my arms for the first time in four years and to be crying on the floor after my friends rip the pills from my hand. It’s scary and I don’t like to talk about it. I don’t want to be the crazy girl anymore.

When I started this blog I promised to be honest and talk about what recovery is really like, every aspect. So here I am talking about the crazy. Owning that dark part of me. Because it’s the only way to get better. As cliché as it sounds after the rain comes the sunshine. And I have to keep believing that the clouds and the darkness aren’t going to last forever.

One in Eight

It was May of 2005 in Wickenburg Arizona and a therapist was talking to the group. "1 in 8 will die from this disease," he said. "Look around the room. Two of you won't be here in a few years"

I hate that he was right.

This is one of those weeks where I've felt completely helpless. Sometimes I have to take a step back and remember that this isn't a normal thing someone in their 20's go through. I spent about five years pretty consistently in different treatment centers and hospitals and the number of people I've met is in the hundreds. People that I consider my closest friends are scattered across the country. Usually the only way to know that they're okay if listening for the little changes in their voice on the phone when they're lying or their texts getting less frequent.

I asked my therapist today at what point and how many years out will I stop getting the phone calls that someone I know lost their battle with this disease. She gave me the answer I knew in my heart but was hoping she wouldn't confirm. Never.

Tears start running down my face as I type that sentence. It's scary to know that people you love are dying and you can't do anything about it. It's not a situation that you can understand unless you've lived it. Unless you've gotten your fifth phone call from ICU and gone to bed praying this time will be a wake up call for them.

It's not even fair for me to say that. In March of 2008 I was the girl laying in the ICU with doctors saying they didn't know my chances. I remember being angry when I finally woke up and realized that I was still alive and hadn't succeeded. I guess that's what makes it so frustrating. Knowing what it feels to be on the brink of death and come out the other side with a reason to smile.

And while this past week, month and even past few years have felt like a string of bad news I have to remember the good. Remember that I've ssen people who were barely alive when we met graduate college, get married, and start families of their own. I have to remember that I can't control who will die next. The only thing I can do is keep fighting and hope those still struggling can see that it is possible to find a reason to live. 

Something Worth Fighting For

I’ve always had a hard time looking into the future. It scares me to think about what life will be like three months from now much less three years. It’s always been safer to view my future self as in a casket rather than in life.

A few years ago that was a very big possibility. These days as I see small glimpses of what life can be it terrifies me. It’s scary to view a future for myself and not be able to achieve it. It’s scary to work towards something only to have my eating disorder come back in and take everything away.

It’s no secret that I’ve been struggling on and off for the last year or so. Ending up in the hospital as recently as a few months ago. Wanting things to be different but never really setting a bottom line and making it not an option to go back. Too scared not to have my only coping mechanism to fall back on. It’s funny that while I’ve been in the midst of feeling like I’m in limbo God has slowly shifted things in my life.

I’ve been able to open up to my friends in a way that I never have before. To let them know what’s really going on. The good, bad, and the ugly and having them remind me that they aren’t going to run away when things get hard. I’ve begun to set up plans for being done with school and leaving Oklahoma. And as recently as last week I had an internship kind of fall into my lap that I love and makes me feel so fulfilled.

As corny as it sounds, these things give me something to keep fighting for. Something to make myself wake up each day and eat three meals for, and something to look forward to. I can’t say that I have visions and goals for the next ten years but I’m slowly beginning to see a future for myself other than six feet below the ground.

"Don't cry over lost years and forgetfulness. The tales tell what they can. The rest is for us to learn"

I always get reminiscent around my birthday. Another year older reminds me of the years lost. It reminds me that I spent ages 16-22 in treatment centers and hospitals consumed with my eating disorder. It reminds me of all the milestones in life I missed out on. Of no high school graduations, 21^st birthday parties, and going on to college from my parents house. Nothing about my life was normal and I want more than anything to go back and change that. But I can’t.

At my birthday party last night a friend reminded me about this time exactly a year ago. How she remembers telling me I was getting too skinny again and how I couldn’t celebrate the joy of another year because I was in my eating disorder then immediately back in a treatment center. Two weeks after my 24^th birthday I was admitted to treatment. I’ve lost count as to what number this was. I wish I could say that I got myself back on track there and spent the rest of the year enjoying life and doing the things that I love but I can’t. I spent the entire last year obsessed with my weight, reverting back to behaviors I hadn’t done in years, and pushing everyone in my life away. This is something that I am just now coming to terms with. Admitting that I wasted yet another year of my life.

But right now I am vowing for this to be different. I’ve started out this semester on a better foot. I am doing things that terrify me and exploring things that I’ve never ever talked about. Life isn’t perfect and it never will be. I will spend the rest of my life fighting this. But as of this year, I am reclaiming the things that I lost. I am reclaiming the parts of my life that people took from me and vowing to no longer let them drive my decisions and behaviors. I can never change the fact that the guy in 10^th grade told me all I am is a beautiful face and I will never be anything more than that. I can never change my assault at age 20 or the people closest to me being a constant judge of how I look. But I can change how they effect me and try my hardest to stop letting them rule my life. I can remind myself that my hatred of this body is not because there is something wrong with it, but because I am constantly telling myself all those things that have been told to me over the years and believing them.

I cannot say this next year will be perfect but I can say that I am ready to reclaim my life.