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1.30.2014

a brief escape

It is early, and I am tired. There is no noise, but for clomping snow boots, zippers, and yawns. I am trying to breathe deep and mindfully, but I can't find my mittens.

The cold steals my breath as I step outside, but for once I almost laugh. Exhaust clouds billow across the freeway. The skyline is beautiful in the morning.

We slowly merge like sleepy bees up to the curb. I strip off my coat and boots and mittens, and I kiss him goodbye. The cold chases me as I run to the safety of the big glass doors.

I find my seat on the aisle. That one. The one next to a frowning middle aged man.

"Tight space." Is all he remarks. His knees are pressing against the seat in front of him.

I fit nicely into my small space, and smile politely.

A couple hours later, I glance out the window and spots dance in front of my startled eyes. How long has it been since I've really seen the sun?

There are palm trees growing out of the ground. I stare at them through the glass. Palm trees! Growing there in the ground. Real palm trees. And the sun! The sun is brilliant. I can't wait to get outside.

My friend, one of my best friends, is waiting for me on the other side of the secured doors. Amused bystanders watch our enthusiastic reunion, and I am truly happy. We drive with the windows down, and I am overwhelmed by the desert. She grew up in the sun, surrounded by cacti, but this world is brand new to me. Around us people move and talk and shop and scold their children and are entirely unimpressed by their surroundings. I have to resist the urge to shake them. 

"Don't ever take the sun for granted!" I'd shout, like a crazy person.

It is a brief trip. Fifty-two hours in paradise. We laugh and talk and talk and talk some more. She shows me the past pieces of her life. High schools and the house where she grew up. We walk into a tattoo parlor and walk out with new matching tattoos. We eat food and drink beer and sit in the sunshine and play with her cat and dog and watch movies and talk over a bonfire on the patio at night. 

It is perfect.

I have a middle seat on the return plane ride. The woman to my right explains twice that the sauce from her burrito has leaked. She dozes off halfway through the flight, but startles awake to tell me about her parents' thirteen year old golden retriever who likes rides on the ATV. The woman to my left is dignified and calm with her paperback book. She looks at me over her glasses, and I feel like a specimen on display. I buy a package of peanut m&m's during the flight, and I eat the entire thing.

It is not quite so cold when I step outside, but I run anyways. The Mr. is waiting, and his smile warms the entire car.

The next morning, reality is a whirling snowstorm, windblown drifts up to my knees, and a crawling commute on icy roads. I leave work early to attend DBT, but the lines of cars and the way my car slides as it plows through the snow chokes me. I take the exit for my house instead. I can't face the cold, the snow, the icy roads. Not now. Not today. 

Today it's hard to believe that the sun is still shining anywhere.

1.22.2014

in which things go back to being not good

Her name is Valentina.

She can't be much older than I am. She looks like she should be seen between the pages of a magazine or on billboards or strutting down a catwalk. Definitely not sitting in this small, plain office. When she speaks, I find myself listening to her accent instead of her words. I can't quite place it. Russian maybe? Italian?

She's not a Model though. She's my new Psychiatrist.

I expect to dislike her, to distrust her, but then I don't. She listens. She radiates calm. She speaks intelligently. I realize I like her after only a few minutes. So when I speak, I tell the truth.

....

Despite the cold, it has somehow managed to snow again. The world is coated in giant, fluffy flakes like a child sprinkled pretend snow over a playhouse. The snowflakes are so light that they fly in all directions when I brush them off my car, covering me in sparkling snow. 

....

I met my lunch goal 5 out of 7 days.

My dietitian is very pleased. 

I am making an effort to be pleasant. Turning over a new leaf.

"This is the most I've ever seen you smile." She says.

She takes my weight. I wait for her to tell me what it was so we can talk about it. Like she promised.

But she doesn't. 

Instead she asks me if I'll stop weighing myself at home.

Again.

I stop smiling.

....


All of this is supposed to make me feel better, but it's not. I don't think the program is broken, I think I am. Therapists and dietitians all operate under the assumption that you want to get better. 

And I am still defining "better" wrong.

Or right?

I don't know.

I hate myself right now. I hate myself more than I have in months. I hate how I feel. I hate how I look. I hate the numbers on the scale. I hate my dietitians smile. I hate it when Molly talks about my "ED voice." I hate the diary card I'm supposed to fill out for DBT that monitors how I feel. 

I feel awful.

Last night I couldn't take it anymore. So I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and spewed out all the horrible, hateful thoughts I've been having about her, the girl in the reflection. I took my pills like I was supposed to, but they didn't stop me from slamming my arms into the door frame again. 

The pain worked better than the pills, anyways.

I don't want to do this. I don't think I can. 

1.19.2014

of achievements

Wednesday evening, I slog my way through the wind and snow and slush to the big glass doors. I am still trying to straighten my wind blown hair with numb fingers when I approach the reception desk. Today it's the only guy. He has a silver piercing that glints in one ear and hair that makes me jealous. He looks up, smiles, and says, "Hi, Kay!"

I bristle. 

I don't want to be known by name here.

I stomp up the stairs and sit on the couch right in front of my dietitians door. Her door is closed, but I know what's behind it. The thing I've dreaded since my first day. The meal plan.

She finally emerges, but something is different. Someone else is lurking in her office, and there is a question on her face. I know what she's going to ask even before I see her lips form the word "intern."

My answer is no.

I feel guilty as she returns to the office and tells the young girl waiting that she cannot observe me. I feel resentful of that guilt as the girl walks quickly past me and down the stairs. 

She's just trying to learn. You've been an intern, you know. How's she supposed to learn if she can't observe?

I am already so many things. I don't want to be someone's science experiment, someone's research project, someone's homework. 

My dietitian reassures me several times that my answer was totally fine. It's my choice. If I don't want an intern sitting in, that is ok. My guilt fades quickly anyways because I am far more anxious about the sheet of paper in her hand.

We start with one meal. I get to choose, and I pick lunch. Lunch feels the safest. She slowly crafts a plan based around what I am already eating, and it's so simple, I feel suspicious. The plan is this:

1 serving of grains
1 serving of fruit
1 serving of vegetable
1 serving of protein

I am free to pick and choose whatever I want to fill in those categories. I just have to consume a full serving as detailed by the nutrition info. 

I am so relieved, I relax a little.

Then she starts trying to convince me once again to stop weighing myself at home.

Frustration boils over until I suddenly just tell her the truth. If I don't know my weight, it triggers me so much more. I assume I've gained a ton of weight. I assume I'm obese. 

She starts to argue with me, but then suddenly, she stops.

"Would it help you if we talked openly about your weight every time?" She asks.

I open my mouth to say no, but I pause. "Yeah." I say instead. "That would be....that would help."

We both look at each other, and we both know something has changed. I am suddenly no longer certain she's the enemy. 

I step on the scale. She tells me my weight. And we talk about it. 

I am not happy with the number. She asks if I have a number I'd like to be, and I do. I want to weigh what I weighed a couple weeks ago. So I tell her. She frowns.

"What if I told you that was an unhealthy weight for you?" She asks.

I start defensively explaining that all the charts I've looked at online say it's just fine, but halfway through I realize how foolish I sound. In the face of a licensed dietitian, my internet facts suddenly seem rather weak.

We don't reach an agreement, but when I leave, we actually smile at each other. Driving home, I am overwhelmed by something that feels like achievement.

...

Thursday afternoon finds me in a large room full of couches and chairs and kleenex boxes on every side table. 

I am the second one to arrive. Slowly the rest of the group files in, and I am shocked that I am nowhere near the oldest one there. There are a few younger college students, but most of the group is made up of women in their 30's, 40's, and even 50+.

We are a terribly strange arrangement of women.

I am not the skinniest. 

This nags at me, despite the fact that it's really only one girl. She sits shivering in the chair next to me and tucks handwarmers into her gloves despite the moderate temperature of the room. I am not cold, and this makes me ashamed of myself.

Most of the group are what would clinically be called "overweight." I find myself feeling superior to them, and I am ashamed of myself.

I check my purse for the fifth time. The small notebook is there, hidden inside. I think of all of you who suggested it and feel a little better.

My very first DBT group begins with a Mindfulness exercise. 

We each take a smooth stone from a bowl. We set it down in front of us. We observe the stone with our eyes, taking in the shape, the color, the irregularities. Then we pick it up and do the same with our hands. 

Inwardly, that cynical part of me is majorly rolling her eyes, but I try to follow the prompts. And it is relaxing in a way to put all my focus on one object. My rock is smooth and cool and white with streaks of soft orange like sherbet. I start picturing it as an egg, and soon I'm lost in my own imagination. I miss the last of the prompts, and suddenly the exercise is over. I reluctantly return my rock to the bowl. 

Of course, next we are instructed to talk about how we felt about the exercise. The responses run from love to cynicism to extreme dislike. I try to aim for somewhere in the middle. 

There is a check-in where we answer questions like what is your mood? What skills did you use this past week? What is a victory and a challenge you encountered? Do you have any safety concerns? What ED symptoms did you struggle with? The current group members read off their diary cards and talk about the goals they made last week. Along with the other new people, I answer what I can and try to be honest.

Then comes the binders.

In all of my life, in all of my education, I have never owned such a gigantic binder. It is terrifying in size and overwhelming in nature. But I don't have much time to panic because the leader announces a 15 minute break.

"We strongly encourage everyone to eat their snacks now." She says.

I eat my low calorie granola bar and try not to feel like a kindergartner. 

What comes next is basically a lecture. Since we are in the first module, "Mindfulness," it is pretty basic. There are no shocking realizations or life changing epiphanies, but the information is something that I not only understand, but can relate to. I do take notes in the binder, my own notebook staying in my purse, and I do find it interesting. When we are finally released two and a half hours later, I am ok.

I am not super excited to go to these groups every Thursday for the next six months, but I am also not afraid or dreading it anymore. 

Perhaps that makes two achievements in one week.


1.15.2014

the notebook

Tomorrow is my first day of DBT, and I am panicking because I don't know if I should bring a notebook to write in or not.

I was going to ask Molly on Monday, but she had to cancel on me.

I could just bring one. But if no one else does, I'm going to feel so stupid. I can feel it already. That horrible shame creeping across my face. I'll feel the same way if I don't bring one and everyone else does.

I don't know why I always make stuff like this a huge deal, but I do. This damn notebook dilemma is twisting my stomach up in knots.

I had an appointment with the treatment center doctor last night.

I was anxious about it and about my weight and being weighed, so I didn't eat anything all day. I seriously considered pretending I'd gone suddenly deaf and mute as the doctor's assistant chattered and joked as she took my vitals. The combination of the assistant and the doctor is jarring. The assistant treats me like we're BFF. The doctor treats me like I'm about to shatter into a million pieces.

"What have you been most concerned about in regards to your eating disorder?" The doctors asks.

I want to cringe away from that question. I debate lying, but I'm crabby enough that I tell the truth.

"I feel like I've been eating too much." I say.

"Oh, so, overeating?"

Now I'm both offended and horrified. No. Not overeating. Not like the clinical definition of overeating. The fact that she thinks I'm capable of that fills me with shame.

She's just doing her job. This is what she does.

It doesn't matter. I'm angry now.

I do my best to explain. Not overeating. It's the damn goals that my dietitian keeps setting. Whenever I follow them, I panic. I feel like I've gained weight. I feel bloated and huge. My life has become a roller coaster of eating and restricting and eating and restricting. I said I have "unsafe" foods, but I don't really anymore. I eat practically anything and then I eat nothing.

"Do you think that's you or your ED talking?" The doctor asks me.

I mumble something. I don't even remember what I said. I hate it when they do that. When they split me into two people. As if my true self is inherently good and my eating disorder is inherently bad. As if they could put me under and surgically remove the bad, and I would be cured.

Because the truth is, my true self? It doesn't want to be cured. I am not split into two. I am tangled up in one.

She keeps asking me if I have any questions for her, and I slowly realize that she expects me to have questions. I search my buzzing brain, and come up with one.

"I've been having horrible night sweats lately."

She gives me her serious look and launches into a lecture about how lack of nutrition causes night sweats. I point out that my medication also lists night sweats as a side effect. She brushes that aside.

"You are underweight. You might not believe that, but you are."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Are you trying to lose weight?"

I scramble for an answer. "Not really. I mean some days I'm fine as long as I stay at the weight I'm at. Other days.....yes....I want to lose more weight."

She holds my gaze. "You haven't gained a single pound since I saw you last."

If I'd eaten today, that would be a different story.

"Has your therapist talked about any of the other more intensive programs lately?"

My eyes narrow. "No." I say it firmly. I don't want to go down that road again.

To my relief, she doesn't push it. She just moves on.

Next up is the question of bloodwork. She's pushing to take another blood test. By this time, I just want to leave.

"I saw my GP a little while ago, and they did a blood test. Everything was normal." Maybe it was a little longer than a little while ago, but seriously, I need to get out of here.

She hems and haws, but finally agrees to wait on the blood test. She asks again if I have any questions, and I shake my head emphatically. No. I don't have any more questions. Except the unspoken one. Can I fucking leave now?

Thankfully, the answer to that is yes.

Tonight I have to see the dietitian again. She's going to present my meal plan.

This morning I woke up drenched in sweat and freezing again.

I gave up and ate M&M's for breakfast.

Apparently I enjoy hating myself.

And I still don't know if I should bring a notebook tomorrow.

1.09.2014

of [self-inflicted] dietitian drama

"Do you think you could do that?"

I am nodding. My head bobs up and down. Across from me my dietitian is nodding too. We both silently sit there, nodding like idiots as we stare at each other. I can tell she's trying to read me, but the instant I step into her office I turn into an emotionless robot who agrees to everything.

I lie to her a lot.

I try to convince myself that I am not a bad person because I'm lying to be nice. I don't want to hurt her feelings by saying no. I don't want to tell her that she's stupid and her ideas are stupid and her office is stupid and I hate everything about it because that would be mean.

I am a bad person.

So I keep nodding, and she keeps nodding. She keeps making goals, and I keep pretending I met them. I lie without even thinking about it. I lie without even feeling guilty. I lie because that's what I do. I lie.

We've moved past the simple goals. Next week she's going to present me with my meal plan. The meal plan I said I'd try to follow and really have no intention of doing so.

She has really big eyes, and she looks so fucking concerned all the time. I don't know how to be honest with her. Telling her the truth would be like kicking a puppy.

[A puppy you really don't like but is still a puppy and should not be kicked and you are a terrible person for even thinking about  it]

The first thing I do when I enter a room now is look for a scale. If there is a scale, I am instantly defensive and sullen. If there is no scale, I can relax. I am safe. Molly's office is safe. The dietitian's office is THE WORST.

I've gained a little weight. I knew I'd gained some weight. I hate that I've gained some weight. I have grand plans to lose it, but I keep putting food in my mouth.

It always starts the same way. The day begins. I am strong. I am disciplined. I have everything lined out. I have counted every calorie. I have a plan.

Then I make one mistake.

One cookie. A small piece of candy. A chunk of cheese.

This starts a downward spiral. I feel instantly horrible and guilty. I tell myself that I've already ruined everything and I'm going to get fat and ugly and die, so I might as well eat another cookie. Three cookies later, I'm ok with getting a latte. After the latte, I decide I might as well eat dinner. And a snack. I am ok as long as I am chewing something. As soon as I stop, the self-loathing cracks me over the head again. So I eat some more.

When I step off the scale, my dietitian scribbles down the number where I can't see. I put my boots and coat back on and watch as she narrows her eyes at the clipboard. She quickly logs onto her computer and checks something. Then she looks at me with a smug little smile.

For the first time I don't ask her how much I weighed. I don't want to know.

1.07.2014

tired



"The world is too big, Mom." -a young Clark Kent in Man of Steel

There is so much depth inside that sentence that I could never explain with words. You don't have to be a superhero to understand it, to feel it. It is a constant presence for the lost, the lonely, the ones who don't belong. It is a landslide of emotion, and I know it well. 

The world is too big.

It's too much.

It buries me before I even have a chance.


...

“That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end.” 
― Elizabeth WurtzelProzac Nation


Tonight I am tired, and there is no end in sight.

1.06.2014

the paper cranes

The coldest days are always the brightest. The sun bears down on us, but it brings no warmth. It just shines, malicious and blinding against the white, white, white. 

"Limit your outdoor exposure." The weatherman says. The thermometer reads -20° F, but the wind plummets the temperature even further. It is -41° F with windchill when I step outside into the merciless sun. I am wearing an obsene amount of layers, but it still cuts through me. My car groans pathetically when I start it, whining slowly to life. Everything is quiet. There is no movement on my street. I would be inside too, but I have to drive across the river to a normal looking office building and see if I meet the requirements for DBT.

I sit in the waiting room, still wrapped in my coat, my gloves, my hat, my scarf. The cold is still lingering in my bones. Next to me, a man and woman sit with a skinny teenage boy. The woman keeps dabbing at her eyes. The man is tapping his foot, restless. He eyes me with blatant curiosity. I look away.

"...don't want to!" The boy is whispering sullenly. 

His father replies, a short sentence muttered under his breath.

The boy retorts his own muttered reply, and his mother dabs her eyes again. His father on the other hand, lets out a dramatic sigh, his voice rising.

"God, I don't know why you can't just get over it. Just get on the internet. There's at least twenty different ways to fix this."

The mother sniffs. The boy glares. I stare at the floor and clench my teeth.

Just get over it.


...

"How do you feel about DBT?"

She smiles, this therapist. I look down at my hands.

Anxious. Pressured. Angry. Frightened. Unenthusiastic. Curious.

I am honest about my feelings, and I wait for her to tell me I can't join, that I need to want this.

I start next week.


...


I turned twenty-seven over the weekend. 

It was a date that I dreaded, and age had nothing to do with it. I have always loved my birthday, but my twenty-sixth birthday was a dark day. My twenty-sixth birthday was when everything started going downhill. I was sobbing in the dark on the kitchen floor, and I knew that everything was going to fall apart.

I was so afraid I would experience that again.

But this year? This year everything was perfect. I was surrounded by people I loved. We went out. We drank. We danced. We laughed. We celebrated. It was everything I wanted.

But a birthday is just a day.

Sunday, my actual birthday, I woke heavy-hearted. I wandered around the house like a ghost all morning until I suddenly realized what was wrong.

I had expected my perfect birthday to magically fix things. My perfect day would lift the curse placed on me one year ago. One perfect day and everything would be ok.

Later my friends came over again and we ate cake and I opened presents. The last one was from one of my closest friends. I opened it to find a framed piece of art. It was delicately crafted, just a simple colorful drawing on white paper. I was holding it upside down at first, but when I flipped it over, I almost broke down in front of everyone.

It was a drawing of paper cranes.

I folded so many paper cranes while I was in the hospital. It started as a distraction. To keep my hands from using a plastic comb to attack my wrists. But then I started giving them away to the other patients. And those little brightly colored paper cranes spread across the ward. People smiled. And with each one, life didn't feel quite so hopeless.

Maybe everything is still broken. Maybe I'm still not ok.

Maybe life isn't hopeless.