Tag: eating disorder

A Theory on Eating Disorders

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My fascination with eating disorders was sparked when one of my closest friends developed severe anorexia several years ago. She almost died before getting the right treatment. Thankfully, she has recovered now, but her illness really got me thinking. I’ve come up with this theory, and someone is yet to prove me wrong. It’s this – everyone is a victim to disordered eating.

I know what you’re probably thinking: “No, not me, I don’t starve myself.” But it’s not just anorexia I’m talking about. I don’t just mean any eating disorder that you’ve heard of or that has a label for. In fact, maybe it’s not a full-blown eating disorder at all, but some level of disordered eating. There are these little quirks people have with their diets, which may not reach the extent of malnutrition, but nonetheless prevent an entirely healthy relationship with food.

PC: To the Bone (movie) https://m.media-amazon.com/images/M/MV5BYWIxZmU5ODctZGVmYi00NTViLTgxZTctMTE5YzJiMTI4MGVmXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMTE0NTczNDAz.V1.jpg

I’ll give you some examples because you can’t have a theory without evidence. My grandmother weighs out her muesli each morning to the recommended serving, a friend of mine feels guilty to be eating if she hasn’t exercised that day, and my dad forces himself to polish off every morsel left on his plate. I’ve noticed parents who never stray from their healthy foods, a boy at my school who loads his plate with hamburger patties in order to “bulk up”, and a long list of girls my age who skip breakfast because they apparently don’t feel hungry in the mornings. The list goes on and on.

Poetry Pt. I

graceovs1 Comment

So far, these past couple of weeks, I’ve been publishing very surface-level (and frankly, boring) writing. One day, I wrote a poem with the intent of posting it, but quickly decided against the idea. There is something so raw, and so vulnerable about poetry, that to share a piece can be both a creative outlet and an absolutely terrifying experience. But no one really reads these anyways, so I might as well.

PC: https://i.pinimg.com/736x/96/5a/32/965a32cd4f0928ec10f3fa4847730893.jpg

TW: Eating disorder/self-harm. A couple years ago, my best friend was suffering from a severe eating disorder and almost died. This was the inspiration for a poem:

the bathroom mirror speaks

It tells her she is a slut, to “cover-up.”

or she is a prude, to “show more skin.”

It tells her, with makeup, she’s “trying too hard,”

or without, she should “make an effort.”

It tells her she is too big, too curvy, too small, too flat

– she is too much, not enough

It tells her lies and truth

and truth and lies

until she cannot tell one from the other.

instead of math homework, she’s adding up calories,

instead of breakfast, she’s chewing on the cuticles of her thumbnails,

instead of sleeping, her bedroom is a 24-hour gym,

instead of showering, she’s drying her tears,

instead of living, she just is.

the sight of her reflection in the mirror is enough to make her shatter

and when the voices overwhelm her own,

she drapes a cloth over the frame, gagging their words.

but It claws and crawls its way out from the glass

slithers into her ears and slides down her throat,

spilling into the cavity of her diaphragm.

now the words on the bathroom mirror are her own.

who decided her skin was a sin?

who indicted her bones a cage?

who determined her flesh as a source of release?

you. 

you taught the bathroom mirror to speak.

The Ugly Truths About Eating Disorders and The Path to Recovery

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Many women who are convinced they’re in control, sticking to a dangerously low number of calories a day and severely suffering mentally and physically, most of the time have no idea about the seriousness of their situation. 

Looking back, it’s hard to explain the level of daily obsession that I suffered over my physical appearance. As a child, I thought of sticking a needle in to my thighs and calves, to see if I could squeeze out the fat. I also had the best idea ever… to just cut my stomach off with scissors. 

Suffering from eating disorders in the past I had no idea I was ill and most of the women I spoke to were in denial as well. 

I thought eating an orange per day was healthy and that everyone around me wasn’t. I didn’t think I had anorexia: real anorexics, I erroneously believed, ate nothing at all. And I was still eating? 

There’s no question that letting go of an eating disorder is one of the hardest things a person can do. It’s also important to note that each individual will follow their own unique path to recovery but here are some steps that may help: 

  1. Recognizing you have a problem: This step is crucial because if you don’t acknowledge that you have a problem there’s no point in changing. If you are not sure if you have an eating disorder the best thing to do is see a registered dietitian or therapist so that you can get a professional opinion. For me, I took an online quiz and then from there I started taking steps to change. 
  2. Decide that you are worthy of recovery and start to make small changes: start to research how you can make healthy changes to your diet and lifestyle. This might include introducing more balanced foods into your diet and exercise so that if you do eat more you won’t necessarily gain weight. 
  3. Instead of just focusing on your physical appearance and food intake incorporate various ways to practice self-care with your mind, body and spirit. If your body and brain are being deprived, you are less likely to reap the benefits of everything from therapy to mindfulness.

Recovering from an eating disorder is difficult but definitely possible. The most important thing is to accept help and seek support.

Statistics

mypetlobster11 Comment

Everyone on my mom’s side suffers from depression. Some members on my dad’s side are alcoholics and suicidal.

Addiction is 50% genetic and 50% due to poor coping skills.

Depression is 40% genetic and 60% environmental.

Due to this, I am 90% screwed.

Mental health is something that has affected my life for years and will continue to.

When I was thirteen I was diagnosed with anxiety, depression, and OCD.

By fourteen I was engulfed in an eating disorder that controlled and altered my life. My eating disorder was a blend of all evils, a coping skill for all my problems.

I hated my body, felt out of control in many aspects of my life, experienced great anxiety around food, and believed people would love me if I was skinny.

Starving myself fixed my problems, or at least I thought it did. I lost weight rapidly. I felt in control when I refused to eat. I got hooked in my ways.

But like for all things, the high only lasted so long… Even after losing sixty pounds, being underweight, and having every rib and bone in my spine visible, I still looked in the mirror and thought I was fat. My anxiety began to get worse, the panic attacks were hourly occurrences, and my heart began to fail due to the lack of calories and nutrients. I felt out of control once again, so I restricted even more.

It was a vicious cycle, and it continued… leaving me falling deeper into darkness, insanity, and sadness.

By the summer of that same school year, I was in the hospital. My struggles with mental health were close to taking my life.

Years have gone by now, and much has changed.

I no longer cope with anxiety and depression by restricting my food intake, I no longer weigh 80 pounds. I’m back in school, back in sports, and am much more emotionally stable.

But some things haven’t.

I still have anxiety attacks weekly, I still hate my body and worry about weight, and I am still extremely insecure and it affects how I act (making me seem full of myself when in reality I just need someone to reassure me that I’m not absolute shit). And lastly, I still feel out of control around food. I am unable to stop myself around certain types of food and it scares me.  I feel like my previous ability to say no to food has disappeared, and it scares me. I feel like I have gone from starving my self to binging. It scares me a lot.

I need to find balance and balance is hard to find.

Due to statistics and my past, mental health is something I am going to have to deal with for the entirety of my life.

I don’t like this, but I can’t change this. So every day I strive to find healthy ways to cope with the way my brain thinks, the emotions I feel, and my general outlook on life because I believe, with effort and dedication,  everyone has the opportunity to be happy, no matter how hard it may be.

Photo via usablilygeek.com

“sometimes it takes more courage to live than to kill yourself”

mypetlobster1Leave a comment

i hope you’re okay.

i miss you.

you seem happier now, we both do.

but, we both know deep down that we will most likely never be fully okay.

i ask myself all the time… what could i have done better?

how could i have helped you, made you see what i saw in you?

you sat on the edge for a while, staring over the ledge at the busy freeway. i stood starring at you from below, sobbing.

in your mind, there was nothing to live for, nothing worth living for.

live for me, i thought. live for me. please live for me.

it’s selfish, but i needed you, in all honesty, i still do.

i loved you then, i love you now.

you didn’t jump because you knew that if you did, it wouldn’t kill you. you’d survive the fall and, when you woke up, you’d be sent to a place far worse than the center we were at.

i lived with you for two months in a residential treatment center for eating disorders until we were both discharged.

we suffered together, we cried together, but we laughed together too.

we’d talk in spanish complaining about the staff, we’d talk about boys, we’d talk about all the things we’d do once we got out of center for discovery (the treatment center we were at), and all things we would do together.

at the center, all sharp objects, from knives to pen caps, are locked in a cabinet which only the staff has a key too.

i remember that one night in our room. i heard a noise coming from your side of the room.

the staff who watches us at night had fallen asleep and someone had forgotten to lock away a pen cap.

you lay in bed, a broken pen cap in your hand, and blood on your wrists.

i ran to you and tried to take away the cap. you pushed me away, i lunged at you again and took it.

i grabbed your arms and forced them around me. you sobbed, begging for the cap. i could almost hear you internally begging to me, “end this please, end me please.”

you kept on saying please in between sobs. over and over again: “please.”

“shhh,” i whispered crying. “shhh”.

you were seventeen at the time, i was thirteen.

i was a ninety-pound, anorexic, thirteen-year-old girl living in a metal hospital.

you were a bulimic, suicidal, seventeen-year-old girl living in a mental hospital.

i held you for what felt like hours, i hugged you until you stopped crying.

you’re nineteen.

i don’t see you much anymore, we talk sometimes though.

you were sent back to the center twice because you relapsed.

you seem better now though, you seem happy now, but i worry a lot.

Photo Credit: peakviewbh.com

you’re nineteen. if you go back to your old ways, you’re parents can’t legally force you back to the center, you’re an adult.

if you wanted to, you can find a bigger ledge, one that could end it all.

i can’t protect you anymore, i’m not there to grab the pen cap.

you are happy now, but we both know how fast things can change.

i hope you stay happy forever. please stay happy forever.

if you are ever sad, please tell me.

thirteen years old in a treatment center, fifteen years old in my room writing this, twenty years old wherever i’ll be then, no matter what age or what place, i will always be here to hold you.

The First Time I Saw My Father Cry

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Trigger Warning: Eating Disorders

Photo Credit: tearsforfears.com

My dad always seemed to find a way to stay strong. During hard times, he remains tough and tells me it’s going to be okay. The day he found out he had a blocked artery and needed heart surgery, the day my grandfather died,  the day my mom got hurt and had to go to the hospital, and the day his favorite pet died, he never cried. It’s not that it wasn’t hard for him, it all was. The reason he didn’t cry was because he always wanted me to know that it was okay, that it was all going to be okay. He stays strong because he hopes that no matter how bad the situation, we will find a way out of it. My dad doesn’t cry because he wants me to think that everything is going to be okay.

The outline of all my ribs were visible, even through the tank top I wore. My hip bones stuck out and created a visible lines in the XS leggings I wore which were still too big. You could see my spine through my shirt and my tail bones were visible too. There were bruises on my back from laying down, my bones would cause purple and blue marks to form on the skin covering them. My jaw had become sharp and it looked as if my cheeks went inward. My collarbones practically popped out of my skin and my sternum was defined and visible. If I lifted up my shirt,  my deteriorating heart beating slowly through my chest was easily seen.

About a month before the day listed above was the day when I had officially been diagnosed. We had known something was up for a while. The cutting out of food groups; skipping meals; weighing myself at least twice a day; crying before, during, and after eating; the fact that all my clothes now fit loosely; my low energy level; and much more made my parents suspect something wasn’t right. But, today, a professional had given the thing controlling their daughter an official name: anorexia nervosa . That same day, the result from my EKG came in, my heart rate was dangerously low and we were called in the doctor’s office immediately. As soon as I walked in, she put a device on my finger that revealed my heart rate: 38 beats per minute. Due to all the weight I had lost, and the fact that I had been depriving myself of the calories I needed, my body started to break down the muscles in my vital organs in order to  receive the energy needed to survive day-to-day life.

My heart was the main victim of this.  The doctor told me that I needed to stop water polo and all exercise until my heart rate was normal. Water polo was what made me happy: it was my identity, my passion, my motivation to get better, and my dad knew this. I had never cried so hard in my life. After five minutes of me in tears, my mom broke down too, but my dad stayed strong and comforted the both of us. She then told my parents about the hospitalization programs she recommended for me. I cried on the drive home and for hours when we were home, I cried and cried and cried. As I lay alone in bed that night, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t sleep. My plan was to go to wake up my dad and ask him to be with me, I felt bad about waking him up, but I didn’t know what I would do without him right now. I knew if I woke up my mom, she would start to sob too. It was hard enough dealing with the pain I brought upon myself, I couldn’t manage to see the pain I inflicted on her. I wanted, no, I needed him to tell me that I was strong, tell me that I could get through this, tell me that everything was going to be okay. I walked into their room and used my phone for light, but to my surprise he wasn’t there. I walked back to the hallway and looked at the shut office door with light coming from underneath it. Maybe he wasn’t tired and decided to do some work. That thought made me feel better because then I wouldn’t be waking him up, but as soon as I opened the door, my heart already-failing heart felt like it had stopped working completely. There was my dad: eyes red, cheeks stained. He sat on the floor holding a tissue wet with tears. This was the first time in my thirteen years alive that I had seen my dad cry.