Call for Creativity...

 

Question # 9 is on its way, but...

 

Next week, my blog will officially be two years old, and I'd love to give it an updated look...something new and fresh, and perhaps a little more eye-catching. I recently changed some colors and cleaned things up a bit, but I'd like to do more for it's 2 year anniversary. I've had the simple look going for the last two years and I'd really like to keep all the wording the same, because my message is a simple yet important one... but I'm ready for a change.

 

I'd LOVE to change the main header (same wording, but something cooler). Put up something that really draws people in when they get here.

Any ideas for an image for my header? I'm basically image-less here (except for my little personal photo on the left-hand side). What would YOU like to see? What could embody the spirit of this site?

 

Leave a comment and I'll take it to heart. Ideas, suggestions, thoughts, and detailed descriptions welcome! Please assist!

Stop Pretending and Start Being Real

Here's my weekly Wednesday video for the ED recovery collaboration. Today I talk about learning how to stop pretending and start being real. It's a bit off the cuff, but hopefully you'll see its glimmer of merit. :)

You'll have to click to watch on YouTube...been having troubles with trolls stealing videos from people on the collab and using them on their own site claiming to BE the actual persons in the videos.

Question #8: Parents

Question # 8 comes from Licketysplit once again, and man, does she have some good ones. My little fingers were a'typing and a'typing. She asks:

 

Has your family always been supportive and understanding in regards to your eating disorder and recovery?

 

The short answer is no. Here's the long answer:

 

My family has always been pretty supportive of what I did and do in my life, but my mom is a lot more supportive than my father. Her take on me and my life is basically –I trust you, I trust your judgment, so if you're doing something, I support it. My dad would like to say he took the same approach, but he didn't.

 

In regards to my eating disorder, my family tried very hard to be understanding. It's a very difficult thing, having a child (especially one who's actually a teen or young adult) with an eating disorder. It's not easy for parents to "get it" and be able to magically understand. I still don't think my parents really understand, in the real sense of the word. But they did a lot to help me. They wanted me to get better. They were worried. They were concerned.

 

There were definitely moments I feel they should have done more. There were also definitely moments when they yelled and made me feel terrible. And there were also moments when they seemed to stop paying attention. You have to understand that all of this is from my perspective, the point of view of the eating disordered child. So can I really say they should have done more, felt more, acted differently? I don't know if I have that right. I am willing to accept that my perception at the time was skewed, not only about my body's appearance, but about many other things. I also know very well that there were times they were at their wits' end... times when their worries and panic overshadowed all else.

 

As far as moments I feel they should have done more— my two worst years were my freshman and sophomore years of college. I was far too thin—many, many pounds lighter than I am now at a healthy weight—and I was far too sad. I was so sick my hair was falling out and my friends were deeply worried. I was trying everything to help myself, because even at my sickest, I didn't want the life I was living. I saw a therapist at home, one at my university, had phone sessions when I was away, did group therapy, saw a nutritionist, etc. I sought out at least half of these resources myself. In fact, I'd made an appointment at the university counseling center before I even told my parents I had a problem. I personally think I needed IP and could have benefited from it. I think my state of mind was one that wanted to get better. Perhaps not totally, as I hung back and clung to behaviors and a "thin" identity, but I think the stronger part of me was bigger. Had they told me they wanted to send me somewhere, I would have fought them. I would have said I didn't want to go. I know I wanted to finish out college with no interruptions. But I wish they'd have tried harder to impress upon me that something more intensive was a possibility, was an option, was something that could help me.

 

Instead of using in-patient hospitalization or residency as a threat, they could have made it seem appealing, helpful. Instead of flinging around the phrase "We'll take you out of school and send you somewhere!" while screaming at me, they could have tried to explain that college would be there when I got back, that I could do IP while at home for the summer, over winter break, anything that was comforting and helpful, instead of making it seem like if I was sent to a treatment place it somehow meant I was a failure, had come to the last resort. Instead of likening IP to a mental institution, they could have took a breath and realized, hey she just needs more help than we can give her.

 

Lucky for them (and for me too I suppose), I finished college in 4 years with 2 degrees, my double major propelling me forward instead of holding me back. I figured it out on my own. I ate up the support I got from my best friend and leaned on her when I was weary of my journey. I utilized my resources and turned myself around. It just took longer.

 

As for moments when my parents yelled and made me feel terrible, I think it's par for the course. I don't blame them. I remember a specific night when I was 19 and they'd come to have dinner at my university (in a different state). My room mates and I had made dinner for our parents and my mom and dad noticed that I did not eat much of what was served. They abruptly left as soon as the meal was over and everyone else was still sitting around the table. I had to walk them downstairs and out of the building, while knowing that everyone was exchanging looks and talking about me back inside, other parents included. My parents chose to scream at me outside my building, in front of several people that were walking or sitting nearby. I still find it hard to understand what screaming at a frail, scrawny, scared 19 year old girl (in front of other people) is going to do. I know their frustration at my situation got the better of them. But I was thoroughly embarrassed, ashamed, depressed, and hurt.

 

They told me I "wasn't even trying" on more than one occasion, which made no sense to me considering I was doing everything in my power to get a handle on the situation and use my resources. Once, my father even threatened to stop paying for my therapist, as if that was somehow a solution. His reason: it obviously wasn't helping me, because I wasn't as far along as I should be.

 

I'll tell ya, though, I was a girl with "daddy issues." It's plan and simple, though as far as that phrase goes, it was really anything but simple. My dad and I didn't have a good relationship and while it's gotten better over the years, there is still room for improvement. The eating disorder thrived off of my problems with my father, his words to me, his manner towards me, and his lack of support.

 

My mom picked up the slack, though she still had her faults.

 

But you know what, everyone does. I can't blame her and I don't. She did what she could and she was wonderful to me, providing me with help that I needed, financially and emotionally. My dad was a different story, but since they're married, he was along for the ride whether he liked it or not.

 

And as for moments when they seemed to stop paying attention, well, it happens I guess. When I was doing better, doing well, they seemed to forget that there was ever a problem. Seemed to ignore that I was still in pain, still dealing, still healing. They didn't seem to understand that even though I would eat 3 meals a day, I was still not mentally recovered. They didn't "get" that even though I gained weight, I was still freaking out inside, still not in a place that was good. I got the distinct feeling, and often, that they thought Well, her weight is up, she's eating and doing pretty well—she's out of the woods. Finally.

 

Not that simple, but of course, you and I both know that.

 

You have to understand, though, that I answered your question from my own memories and thoughts, and that I now look at it all with a few more years under my belt, some extra wisdom, and a healthy recovered mind I was lacking before. At 25, I look at my past with my parents with the ripe desire to be a parent myself as soon as it happens for me, and the knowledge that nothing is EVER as easy as it looks...and that what seems so obvious to me may never have been obvious to the people around me. I love my parents and they did more for me during my illness and recovery than many parents do or can. They have always loved me and my mom supports me so much now with all my endeavors to reach out to others, to help and support, to spread the message that recovery is possible. She sees how far I've come and she's come pretty far herself. My dad's transformation is yet to be seen, but that has very little to do with my eating disordered past and very much to do with his own life.

 

It's not always about us. Parents are people. Parents are people. Parents are people. I think every child should be required to say that three times every day as s/he grows up. :) It can take us a while to realize that. And while I still would have done some things differently if I was them, I'm sure their job was no piece of cake. It's the now that matters. And I'm happy with the now.

 

What a question! :)

Back to the Questions...#7:

Here's another one (and a good one) by Licketysplit. She asks:
"Is there anything you can remember helping you specifically with being able to accept your body? Although I'm in a much better place than I have been in past years, it seems like every time I get momentum to finally kick this thing to the curb, my body image gets in the way and takes me back to ED."

I know this is going to sound strange, but I think Women’s Studies helped me be able to accept my body in a big way. I was an English major in college, but I also ended up leaving with a degree in Women’s Studies as well as English. I dabbled at first, taking a Women’s Studies class here and there, ended up making it my minor, and then took the plunge and added a second major to my workload. I liked it that much... and what's more, it made me feel good about myself.

Let me explain: While I sat in a lot of my Women’s Studies classes, I began to GROW a deep appreciation for my female body. I was super proud to be a woman, and I realized that a body came with that. I also was able to delve into a lot of eating disorder issues via books, films, discussions, and courses, so I could explore my own feelings, experiences, and better help myself and others. Being a Women’s Studies major helped me to like myself.

I don’t by any means think that the answer to accepting your body is Women’s Studies. (Haha.) It just happened to be a big part of the equation for me. I found my voice in those classes. I found some of the spirit I felt I had lost. I became less shy, less self-hating, and I discovered things about myself I didn’t even know. Plus, the feeling of...sisterhood, for lack of a better word... made me feel comforted and at ease. I liked feeling like a part of something and that something happened to be womanhood... a piece of the human race... which allowed me to express myself, accept myself and my body, and understand that all women are incredibly different and beautiful.

A lot of accepting my body was the “fake it ‘til you make it” rule of thumb. I just pretended really hard to be okay with myself and like myself, and the rest began to follow.

I took a lot of photos of myself. A lot. Not for bones and thinness and other things. But for beauty. I took pictures of myself and looked for beauty in them. I ended up liking a lot of photos I took of myself. I learned to smile at myself. Used my artistic eye to see loveliness. Told myself it was okay to have thoughts like, “Wow, I look really pretty here.” It didn’t mean I was conceited. It meant I was learning to like my own appearance, even as the weight went on. I used to just sit with myself, inside or outside, hair up or hair down, and snap photos of my own face and body with my digital camera. I saved them on my computer in a folder and instead of picking them apart, I admired them. It gave me a really good feeling to know that I was ADMIRING myself. Finally finding beauty in my appearance. (I don’t mind sharing these nutty things, as they obviously did a world of good. Haha.)

I also tried to make things a celebration instead of a meltdown, even if I had to force myself. It usually ended up transforming anyway. Prime example: When I was doing really well in recovery and I had to buy new clothes because my old ones were too small, I didn’t let it freak me out. As you know, it’s not a very good feeling to pull on pants and have them not fit. Especially if it’s not just one pair, but many pairs. It had the potential to make me panic. I had to buy a bunch of new clothes. Bigger sizes. And when I came home, I could feel the panic rising...so I called my best friend and turned what could have been a meltdown into a celebration. “I had to buy new clothes!” I yelled into the phone, happily. “A lot of my stuff was too small. I bought BIGGER sizes! I can’t believe it! It’s so amazing that I’m not wearing a size X anymore!” I was proud of myself, but I was antsy and uneasy. So I simply tried to portray the happiness I knew I should wholly be feeling. I knew I should be congratulating myself.

She was so happy to hear what I told her, and so proud of me. And obviously glad that I was at a healthier weight that I wasn’t fitting into my old clothes. So she celebrated with me. She congratulated me. We made it a good and a happy thing. I got off the phone feeling good, feeling proud of what I had done: stuck with recovery long enough to gain weight and keep it on... then not fit in my clothes, then buy NEW, BIGGER ones, then NOT freak out. It was huge.

Body image may get in the way for a while, but you don’t have to let it cause you to restrict or (insert other behavior) and head back down an unhealthy road. Work with it! If you don’t give in to it, it will pass. It will come in spurts for a while, here and there, but eventually, it will pass. You have the power to turn things around. Don’t let fear stop you.

Accepting that You Have an Eating Disorder

My weekly video is up and this week I respond to the viewer question:
"How do I come to terms with the fact that I have an eating disorder? I know rationally that I have a problem, but until I am completely willing to accept that I am not sure that I can even think seriously about recovery."

Question # 6: Therapy's Role

Question # 6 is from Licketysplit. She actually asked me a few questions, but I’m going to answer them in separate posts, because my responses are rather long! :)

She asks: “What role did 1:1 therapy play (if any) when you were in active recovery, after you had the tools you needed and were utilizing them and rarely using behaviors but still not yet 'recovered'?”

I was in therapy with the same professional for several years. I started out hating it, grew to tolerate it, and eventually—to even be eager for it. While I was away at college in a different state, I still had phone sessions with her each week. I also saw a therapist on campus at the university’s counseling center. I also did group therapy. Sometimes I was therapy-ed out, but for the most part, I think I was collecting as many forms of therapy as I could in order to help pull myself out my hole.

But back to the question at hand—as I progressed to a place where I had the tools, used them and rarely used behaviors, but still was not “recovered,” one-on-one therapy was a way for me to know that I had an outlet. Once I was doing fairly well, I didn’t have therapy sessions once a week or even twice a week. I spaced them out to once per month, and sometimes with even longer spans in between. I knew that if I was having a rough time with something—a situation, a person, a behavior, etc.—I had an appointment in the future, however far away. It allowed me to breathe and find the balance between living completely independent of any help and being dependent on help. I was able to live on my own and take care of myself, but knew that if I needed some help, it was there.

One thing I learned from therapy that I will always take with me is this story (I call it My Claim to Shame):

Shame. It's a word that trembles with negative feeling. It's a word that has a lot of power. It's a word that I used to associate with my eating disorder.

I felt shame when I restricted, when I counted calories, when I fit into tiny clothes, when I threw away food that I couldn't bring myself to eat, when I worried my friends and family. But most of all, I felt shame when I cried.

When I cried, I felt so weak and so helpless and so out of control that I was absolutely disgusted with myself. I couldn't fathom someone being as stupid as I was. I couldn't understand how a girl with a brain could hurt her entire family and all her dear friends by continuing on a path of self destruction. It wasn't rational. It was shameful. At least in the eyes of a girl struggling with anorexia.

My shame when I cried overpowered me. I took to crying in private, waiting until doors were locked and my dorm room/apartment/bathroom where empty and I was the sole occupant. I cried in the shower. I cried in bed at night, in the dark, silently, when my room mate was but feet away in her own bed. But sometimes--when my life and my emotions and my pain became too much--I cried in front of someone. And that was when the shame flooded my face with heat and made me wish I were dead. If I cried in front of a friend, I would instantly apologize over and over again. I would shake my head and cover my face as though to say, "Don't look at me!" If I cried in front of my parents, it was worse still. I had to walk--no, run--away; the shame was just too great.

Once, I cried in front of my eating disorder therapy group. All eyes were on me. I was explaining something or telling some weekly tale, and out came the tears in a torrential cascade. I was mortified. And the therapists and participants alike were stunned--because they'd never seen me cry before. I couldn't SPEAK for the rest of the group session; I was so overcome with shame. Shame had in me in a fierce and unyielding grasp.

I'll never forget the time I cried in front of my former therapist. I had been going to her for about 2 years. One particular day, she was prodding me about something that was a tender point. I was getting angry. I was getting upset. I was getting... overwrought. I was becoming a mess. I let go. I cried. I bawled. I couldn't stop and I couldn't speak for a moment or two. I played my old game of covering my tear-sodden face with my hands and apologizing. When I looked at my therapist again, she was smiling. No, grinning. I was dumbstruck. But I'll never forget what she said to me: "I can finally see YOU. The real you." I questioned her with my disbelieving eyes and she said, "Finally you are giving me something. You're not closing off or holding it in. You're crying. Sometimes you need to cry." It had a real effect on me.

I've since transformed her words to mean: "Sometimes you need to cry in order to get better." I've learned that being ashamed of something real serves no purpose and will only keep you from gaining ground. I've also learned that by crying, you can get out some of the bad that's inside and make room for the good. I apply this whole concept and attitude to my eating disorder in general. So much shame enveloped me that I couldn't get past what was going on inside me. I had to come to terms with the shameful behaviors and feelings in order to move forward.

Shame is a dirty word. An anagram for shame is: has me. And have me it did. I think of that when I feel shame about something. I don't want to be had by anything. I want to turn it around. If eating disorder = shame, then it stands to reason that if you get rid of the shame, you are that much closer to getting rid of the eating disorder. It certainly was an important step for me.

Eating with Others

Just a quick video in the middle of my responses to reader questions.

This week, for my Wednesday video, I responded to the question: "Is this rare or does anyone else find that eating with others can be easier than eating alone?"