First I would like to apologize for my lack in posts. As I began my recovery journey I found it more and more excruciatingly difficult to formulate thoughts and sentences about what exactly it was about my story that I wanted to share. I quickly learned that recovery was going to wear me out like a full time job; emotionally, spiritually, physically and relationally. I also learned that in order to vulnerable with others you must first learn how to be vulnerable and honest with yourself. As I began treatment for my eating disorder I found myself slowly slipping back into deafening silence, but I am finally ready to break that silence.
Caveat: I wrote this after my first week of treatment in the beginning of February, but had a really hard time sharing it with the world wide web. As I begin writing again and opening up to myself and my family and friends I will continue to fill you in on what my recovery journey has been like so far. So 6 months later, here is blog post number three. Thanks for all the love, encouragement, patience and support while I remained distant. Whether you know it or not it kept me going.
Back in October of 2015 I had my very first experience with a day treatment program. After being mugged in early September I had reached a point in my battle with anxiety and depression that made it clear I was in need of more support than one 50 minute therapy session a week could provide. A week or so later I found myself in a partial hospitalization program for adults recovering from mental illness and addiction. During my first day at the program I already had my discharge date in mind. Despite knowing that you have to do more than just show up to make any sort of progress in therapy, just showing up seemed to be all I could manage. I had a panic attack on the first day, and the second day, and the third day, etc. Anytime I tried to speak up in group I could feel my cheeks ignite, my breath quicken and my legs start to shake. After a few experiences like that I resorted to coloring and keeping my lips sealed. I made it to treatment everyday for the first week, but by the second week I was down to 2 or 3 days and by the third week I discharged myself. I didn’t invest much of myself into that program, but I learned a valuable lesson about commitment and investment in therapy. I was able to take that experience and learn from it, so I could approach recovery and therapy differently this time around. I tend to be extremely goal oriented and often get way ahead myself which causes me to pressure myself with expectations. My first few days at Renfrew I realized I was in need of a major shift in perspective of the recovery process if I wanted to make the most out of my time there. My unrealistic expectations kept me trapped in my cyclic negative thoughts about myself.
My first day of treatment at Renfrew went fairly well. It was mostly a day of introductions, tours, familiarizing myself with the other girls and the layout of the day. My emotions were a compilation of anxiety, ambivalence, excitement and dread; but I walked out of those doors at the end of the day knowing and believing that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Every moment leading up to the one when I stepped into that building for the first time was ordained. I spent the weekend prior to treatment attending a training conference for individual and group crisis intervention and suicide awareness in Pittsburgh which didn’t give me much time or space to build up anticipatory feelings until I got on the bus to go back to Philadelphia Sunday evening. As I sat down on the bus a wave of anxiety and fear crashed down on me and soaked my cheeks as I began to acknowledge what I was going home too. Thankfully I had the seat to my self, but there was a boy about my age sitting across the aisle from me. Right before the bus pulled out he put his hand on my backpack to get my attention. Tears still streaming down my face I was hesitant to look up. As I met his eyes I saw concern and compassion as he looked at me and asked if I was okay. Feeling slightly comforted and mostly embarrassed I tried to reassure him that I was fine and thanked him for asking. I eased in my headphones in attempt to drown out the voices in my head uttering, “You are alone. You are alone. You are alone.” About two and half hours and a not so fabulous nap later we pulled into the rest stop and I quickly grabbed my purse and bee lined for fresh air. Thirty minutes later I plopped down in my seat and noticed the boy across from me already sitting down. He took out his headphones and leaned across the aisle and asked me, “Are you sure you’re okay? You looked really upset. If there is anything you feel like you want to talk about I’m here to listen.” I gave him an vague and brief description about what was on my mind and he responded by asking if I prayed. I replied yes and he laid his hand on my shoulder and said a simple but powerful prayer. Together we said, “Amen” and in that moment I knew I wasn’t alone. That boy was a steadfast reminder of God’s unfaltering presence and unconditional love. I am not alone. You are not alone. We are not alone. Even if you or I were the last soul on earth, we would still not be alone.
If you’ve read my last post you know that it is borderline absurd to believe that an eating disorder is about vomiting, starving, exercising, or any of the other abusive tactics one reaches for when struggling with an eating disorder. If extreme enough, these behaviors will eventually annihilate health and well-being, but isolation is the real killer. Eating disorders are an illness of silence, shame, and disconnection. Choosing to suffer alone with an eating disorder is often a choice that serves to validate the worthlessness and self-loathing those struggling often feel. Since my eating disorder has taken control my social anxiety has imploded affecting most of my relationships in one way or another and holding me back from making new ones. As I was standing on the platform waiting for my train to take me to my first day of treatment. The whispers had turned to screams, “You are alone. You are alone. You are alone.” I entered my first group therapy session that day where I was clearly not alone, but the voices in my head remained unfaltering. Despite the love and support from friends and family it took about two days before those voices lowered their volume and I truly started believing that I really was not fighting this battle alone.
If you’ve ever had an eating disorder I’m willing to bet that you have cried through a meal. If you’ve never had an eating disorder I’m willing to bet that crying through a meal sounds ridiculous. Well, damn was I glad to be surrounded by women who’ve shed tears over pizza, fig newtons, and birthday cake when I got to lunch on my second day of treatment and my fear of carbs and a bloated stomach got in between me and a slice of bread. Immediately the girls around me began encouraging and comforting me, thinking back on all the times a meal has sparked a similar emotional reaction in them. I really wasn’t alone. I was surrounded by people who knew exactly what I was feeling. It was then I realized how truly important the group therapy setting is in this recovery process. I had been isolated for so long I forgot what it truly felt like to be in genuine community with people. I am not alone. You are not alone. We are not alone. All you have to do is speak up and test the waters of vulnerability.
