It has been such a long time since I’ve written here. Eight months? Can that really be? That feels neglectful, like a cop-out. Really, though, writing and sharing hasn’t been easy for me lately. I haven’t really even written in my personal journal much. I’ve felt so stuck and angry and embarrassed of where I am that the words just didn’t come. I feel the need to write again, though I’m not really sure where to start. It wouldn’t be unreasonable for me to just copy and paste the whole last year of my life and, poof, there’s your update. But I guess the truth is that it’s not that simple. It’s never that simple, is it?
The truth is, I’ve really been struggling lately. For those of you who don’t know, I had to go back out to Eating Recovery Center in Denver for another round of treatment. I made it through most of the semester, loving being back in school and around my friends, playing my bassoon, and teaching, but I had to leave one paper, one final, and one jury short of finishing the semester. I felt like a failure all over again. It was a crushing weight. I really wanted to finish and I think I could have, but my team really pushed me to just go. So I did.
I spent a few days in the hospital in Atlanta while I waited for a spot to open at ERC. It was a surreal experience. Sure, I was tired. I’ve been tired for years. Aren’t all adults tired? Isn’t that what it means to “adult?” Keep pushing until you can’t anymore? I just could not quite wrap my mind around it. I sat there in the hospital with IVs, oxygen, telemetry, and another damn feeding tube and wrote the final for my undergrad music theory class. I entered grades. I had a few amazing friends help out with my class when I couldn’t physically be in the classroom even though I wanted to be. I kept going like this was all some big mistake, even though I was so weak I had trouble walking to and from the bathroom and the PT people at the hospital had me up using a gait belt, which let me tell you, was a humbling experience. I am still confused about how my brain can be screaming I’M FINE I’M FINE I’M FINE when clearly, all evidence is to the contrary. In my mind, I genuinely was (am) fine.
Eating Disorders are lying little shits.
I flew out to Denver shortly after I got out of the hospital. The last time I was at ERC, I was afraid and unsure, but even though the anxiety of being away from home there was an underlying feeling of calm, of finally being able to let go of the reigns and breathe. There was no such feeling this time. I flew by myself and had a full-blown panic attack in the airport when we arrived. I couldn’t figure out which direction to take the airport train and I got hot and dizzy, I couldn’t get my breath, and ended up throwing up my coffee in a terminal trash can. That was the high point of the day. I arrived at ERC and panicked again. I refused to sign the paperwork and begged to leave until they let me go back downstairs to the lobby with the unlocked doors to outside. I couldn’t bring myself to go in the doors again. Several hours later, they convinced me to just stay the night, just to give it a try, and I was so exhausted I agreed. I ended up staying, but it was very touch and go for the first two weeks. I never unpacked my suitcase. I wanted to be ready to run the second I felt I needed to. My intense level of anxiety never let down this time. I was never able to relax into it. I was tense and angry the whole time. The refeeding and weight gain happened so fast it made my head spin. I felt like a crazed, rabid animal and when cornered, I lashed out. It was like not even being in my body sometimes. I slammed doors, threw things, yelled, refused to eat. I had never seen myself like this before. Who is this scared, rabid girl? I cried for weeks.
Eventually I settled into the routine, and though it was never comfortable or really enjoyable, I began to trust my team, just a little. They kept saying “just a little more time, we’re almost there” long enough to extend that “just a little more time” to ten weeks and three days. I unclenched enough to enjoy some fun times with some lovely fellow patients in the evenings, but the food part and feeling confined never got easier. This time at ERC wrecked me. It saved my life, again, to be sure, but it also changed something inside me. I can’t name it yet, but I feel different. Altered.
Coming home has been so hard for me. I wanted nothing more than to leave every single one of those 73 days, and while I’m so glad to be back to my husband and family and animals, I still feel different. I’ve been home a month now and I’ve not yet wanted to see anyone. Well, I wanted to, but I haven’t let myself. I am so ashamed of what I let them do to my body that I just want to stay inside and hide. I feel like I’m wearing a Mrs. Doubtfire suit and I can’t get it off. I feel claustrophobic inside my own body. It doesn’t move like I’m used to it moving, doesn’t feel the same way when I sleep or curl up and watch tv, when I walk. I try and keep my eyes closed when I take a shower. None of my clothes fit the same, even my “healthy” clothes. When I left, I was wearing jeans I bought from the kids section at Target. Now I have a closet full of clothes I’m terrified to try on, but I’m even more afraid of having to go buy new, bigger sizes. It feels like such a crushing failure.
And yet, at the same time, I know that’s not true. I know I was never supposed to be wearing kids clothes. Heck, I didn’t wear kids sized clothes when I WAS a kid. My body couldn’t function where it was and it almost died– again. I felt okay in my body, though, and to me that’s all that mattered. I felt small and safe enough to really enjoy what I was doing. Except, when your body slowly shuts down, you don’t really get to enjoy those things to the fullest (or so I’ve been told, anyway). It’s still very confusing to me. Retrospectively, it feels like I was fully present and living my dream life– finishing my degree, playing bassoon, teaching, spending time with friends. I have a very hard time remembering now what it was like to be in that place. Was I really not present? Did I really have to sit out of ensemble because I was so dizzy and weak I couldn’t play? Was that real? Did I really compromise my whole life just so I could feel comfortable in my body? Apparently, yes. (By the way, please note that there is a difference in wanting my body to *look* a certain way and wanting it to *feel* a certain way). It is so sad for me to write that, and I feel ashamed, too. Looking back at some pictures from that time, I can see that perhaps I don’t look my best. My eyes don’t have any depth to them. How did it feel so ok at the time? It’s so confusing, you guys, I can’t even explain it.
The difference is pretty clear, but it doesn’t make me ache any less for the smaller body I felt so comfortable in. I’m working every day to find positives about this change, but it’s still really hard. I’m uncomfortable and angry and ashamed. You’ll have to work with me while I figure out how to navigate the world wearing something I feel so distanced from. It’s a genuinely disconcerting feeling. I wasn’t kidding when I said I felt like an avocado with a grape stuck on top. It’s a humorous picture, but it feels rough. I feel like my face is too round for my glasses now. Just let it go, Kristen. What you see isn’t real.
So that’s basically the last eight months. I’m home now, doing on IOP program in Atlanta a few evenings a week. I’m attempting to let them help me, though goodness knows I don’t like being told what to do. I’m working on some projects that I’ve been wanting to do for a while and easing myself back into my life. I’m optimistic that even though this is so, so hard, that the hard means I’m doing the work. What the “work” actually is is hard to figure out sometimes, but I guess the more miserable I’m making myself, the more I’m challenging myself to question old, unhelpful beliefs and doing things I’m not comfortable with. So, maybe it’s ok after all. I’m looking forward to being strong enough to finish my degree in the fall and to start my ETSY store with my watercolors and drawings, soon. I’m aiming for a starting a little stationery store.
Things are moving. I’m getting there. Reminding myself that life is a process for everyone, and this just happens to be mine. I don’t judge people based on how they look, so why would they judge me? I am not worth less because I take up more physical space than I did. Logically I know this. Logically, I understand all of it. Moving it from my head to my heart is where my challenge lies.
Have patience with me, friends. I want to see you and I want to do all of the things. It’s just hard right now. It will get better, I know. So, invite me, ask me, and please don’t give up on me. I don’t give up and I don’t do anything less than 110%. This is no exception. It just might take a little while longer than I was hoping.
