My I.D. is NOT my E.D.

[This essay was written by a young person with whom I worked who wrote this as a college essay assignment about her identity. She was in the middle of treatment when she went away to college and returns whenever possible to complete our work. In the meantime, she keeps in touch. She gave me permission to post her words here.]

     Here is the funny thing about eating disorders. They creep up on you, and before you know it, you’re trapped. I know firsthand, it happened to me. I went from a happy- go-lucky teenager to a cold shell of my former self. It sounds melodramatic, but the fact is, I believe that I am stronger now because of suffering from anorexia. I’ve learned a great deal about myself from the endless hours of therapy I’ve endured. Though I have learned so much, I still go back to my eating disorder. It is like a bad boyfriend; you know you need to get away from it, but you just cannot. However, I know I would not be the woman I am today without having had anorexia.
    
     To be honest, I have always been obsessed with my appearance and body size; even as early as age four. I began dieting in about sixth grade, but never took it to any extreme. It wasn’t until my freshman year of high school that I began to heavily scrutinize my body. As a freshman, I had made the varsity cheerleading squad. I was so extremely happy, but knew right off the bat that I was much larger than the majority of the girls I had to practice with for hours every day.  I wanted to change, so I did. I asked my mother, who I considered the weight loss guru at the time, what the best way to lose weight was. She suggested a high-protein, low carbohydrate diet. Though this was not the easiest thing for me to do, I stuck to it.

     Three pounds came off, then another. I had lost ten pounds in a month and was elated. I can honestly say that weight loss was my drug at this time; for I was completely addicted. My coaches, teammates, friends and peers all began to notice my progress. The results seemed to continue in the same fashion as the first month; about ten pounds. I began this diet in September, and by January, I was down fifty pounds. This sounds pretty great, does it not? It was!

     Soon this positive feedback changed and people began to stare at me for the wrong reasons. I began to look emaciated. I had lost too much weight for my frame and my entire body and mind began to suffer. But people began to stare at me for the wrong reasons. I was emaciated. I had gone from 150-pounds to 100 pounds in an extremely short time. My bones jutted out of my chest and every other which way. I also became a little psychotic. Starving will do that to you. After all of my fat was gone, my body began to eat my organs, including my brain This made it extremely difficult to focus, be positive and think of anything other than food, weight, and exercise. Strangely, the more people worried and wanted to help, the more I withdrew. I felt like they were all just jealous of my accomplishment and wanted to sabotage me because they were unable to do it too. Hardly could I realize at the time that everyone in my inner circle feared I would die soon.
 
     A funny thing happened while swimming in the pool in gym class one day. I nearly passed out in the water. I got scared and asked my gym teacher, who was not the nicest lady, if I could go to the nurse. She agreed. When I got there, the nurse looked shocked. She told me to just lie down; she would call my mom and have me picked up. I fell asleep almost instantly. When my mom answered the phone, the nurse told her she was monitoring my breathing. That my mother better get there right away and rush me to a doctor. All of this did happen, and within a week, I was admitted to an Eating Disorder Clinic.
 
     I was upset, angry and in serious denial. HOW could this be happening? I knew I could not exercise there, and that I would be forced to eat. There is nothing more terrifying to an anorexic than this. The first d ay at the clinic did not go well. I locked myself in the car and refused to get out. I grabbed the keys out of my mom’s hand, somehow pushed her out of the car and locked myself in. I felt like I could defy this, I could be in control. But dear lord, I was crazy. I needed help so badly. I remained in this outpatient program for five weeks. I was making emotional progress, talking to the other patients and my therapists, but I was not gaining any weight. I’d go home every night and workout for hours to burn off the calories I had taken in during treatment hours. I threw away the night snack my mom gave me. I was conniving. I learned quickly that anorexic’s metabolisms often go on overdrive during the re-feeding process; so I used that excuse continually. At the weight I was, all of my major organs were in danger of failing at any moment. My parents and doctors and even fellow patients had had it with me. They could no longer bear to watch me destroy myself.
    
     One night before dinner (which we ate in the hospital cafeteria) a nurse took me into a tiny room. My head doctor and mother were sitting there. They explained to me how I had to sign this paper to have more privileges. I wanted to know why. They then told me they were admitting me into the children’s psychiatric ward so I couldn’t kill myself hurt myself anymore. I screamed and cried. Then I signed out of fear because maybe this would give me the go-ahead to work out in this hell hole of a place. That night, my mom tucked me in and left. I live an hour away. I was terrified. My insomnia got worse in there. I hated the nurses, the food, the activities, the other horrible little kids. What was I doing here? I don’t have a problem I continually told myself. Then one day, about a month into my stay, it smacked me like a brick wall. It was as if I was watching myself in an episode of True Life: I am an Anorexic; the charts don’t lie. Most of my stay is a blur. But I learned that I am much more patient than I give myself credit for. The kids aren’t so bad. The only vivid part of my hospital stay was getting into trouble for exercising and Abbey.

     Abbey was only eight years old at the time. Both of us were severely underweight and terrified of food. We were sitting at breakfast in the dining room one day anticipating the delivery of our trays. Everyday felt like the onset of an anxiety attack until we saw that our trays were correct; exactly what we ordered when working with the dietician. On that particular day, Abbey’s tray was wrong. Some “evil person” put sausage on her tray. First of all, it was bad enough that she had to eat to begin with. But let’s not ignore the fact that it was SAUSAGE, one of the most calorie-laden foods on the face of the planet. We both stared at it. Being older, I asked a nurse if she HAD to eat the gross, oily meat in front of her. The nurse read over her meal card, recognized that Abbey had not ordered the item, but told her she HAD to eat it anyway; it would be good for her. At that point in time, I cried. Here I was, fifteen years old commiserating with an eight year old.

     At this point in life, seven years is a HIGE gap not only in age but in maturity and what is important in life. Nonetheless, her pain was my pain. I held her hand and cried my eyes out with her over the dreaded food item. The smell emanated relentlessly, the grease shined so brightly it nearly blinded us and the sight made us both sick inside. We sat there for an hour together. I finished my meal hastily, and Abbey ate all but the dreaded meat.
     At last, the nurses got angry with us and threatened a feeding tube if Abbey didn’t suck it up and eat what was left. Abbey, like me, was obsessed with pleasing people. Adamantly, she cut up her sausage and ate it with tears in her eyes. I had fire in mine. I told the nurse she was a terrible, wicked person and stormed out of the room but only after I congratulated Abbey on finishing 100% of her meal.

     Soon after the instance with Abbey, I was discharged from the Medical Center at 20% of my “goal weight”. I was excited to leave that dreadful place, but I was also nervous. I knew I had to go back to high school eventually. I was scared but excited the cheerleaders had kept in contact with me during my entire hospital stint; making me inspirational posters and sending me gifts and telling me how wonderful I am. I called my coach from the hospital one day and told her how I was basing my recovery on returning to the sport I loved so dearly.

     Unfortunately, the welcome back was less than warm. It was barely even cold. In school everyone, even those who were my friends acted like I had the plague. Though I was furious at the time, it forced me to focus on myself. I learned that I am sensitive. I hate being rejected and I turn into the meanest person in the world when I feel like I am being ostracized or scrutinized. Those people thought they were being all cool shunning me. Guess what? I got the last laugh. Now, in college, I am much better off than they are. I am mature, I know how to act appropriately. I steered away from bad high school situations because I didn’t have any friends to influence me anyway. I made my own decisions and that makes me feel powerful.
 
     The rest of my high school years are also a bit of a blur. I was bitter. I got nasty with people who wanted to be my friend. I hung around my mother exclusively; who in my eyes is the strongest woman in the world. I still worked out and ate properly, which enabled people to single me out. Every time I wrote in my food journal, consumed tofu or any other “weird” food, I was the subject of annoying stares and rude remarks. It used to bother me. But now, I feel like my diet is more in par than theirs, and that I will live longer because of it. Hey, I even beat the freshman fifteen! Just a side note, I would like to thank all of the idiots I went to high school with. Thanks for shunning me, making fun of me and making me feel like a loser. I have more confidence today because of it.
 
     I have also developed an expertise due to my eating disorder. My refusal to gain and my desire to lose weight have cornered me into my expertise of weight loss. My methods for doing so are most definitely NOT healthy and are borderline dangerous. I know all the tricks. I can lose weight quickly by drastically reducing my calories and exercising compulsively. If I am not satisfied, I will take more extreme measures via sweating or shivering to burn calories. I even incorporate fidgeting into my day because I know that those movements can blast away the kcals. I can fake weight gain in ways you may not imagine. Most people would just drink a lot of water, but I am smarter than that. It’s like I am professional. Only amateurs do the water thing; but being a professional, I know that doctors and nurses can TELL when patients to that. I get around actually gaining by eating something dense right before my weigh-in and then run extremely hard to burn off the calories in that item when I leave the doctor’s office. I realize today how detrimental this can be to my body. I am living proof of the side effects. I am infertile now because of the havoc I wreaked on my body. At my lowest weight, I had a fur on my body called lanugo; an insulator after all my fat had melted away. This was highly unattractive. My hair on my head began to fall out. Sitting became difficult due to my protruding bones. I became an insomniac because I was too cold, hungry or emotional to sleep. I feel like I can advise others who are engaging in this risky behavior not to. Living like that is almost not worth it. Though doing this to myself has not exactly made me stronger, but it has made me wiser.
               
     I have even gotten to the point now where I know EXACTLY what to say to get doctors off my back for being too thin. I know what to say in therapy so the psychologist thinks I am making improvements. Amateurs would say that they are just “having a hard time” or the excuse of “I just hate this food” but professionals know how to lay on the sob story so that the doctors, nurses, psychologists, parents and other patients feel sorry for them. It makes them feel as though you really can’t help it. To an extent, this is true. I can’t help my drive to waste away, but I can help the drastic measures I take. Those measures make me feel powerful; like I can really, really sneak around the system. But the charts for anorexia do not lie.
    
     Here I am in college now. I have made it really far in my life, made a lot of accomplishments.  I have not been in treatment for some time now but I feel like I am doing alright. Even though I know how to pull out all the stops, I can control it more. I feel as though it is because I have gotten away from my parents. They aren’t trying to control me anymore. They trust my judgment and know there is nothing they can do while they’re at home and I am here. Do I struggle? Yes. But I can rest assured that help in always there when I need it the most. I have the support I need from my family, namely my mother, and my treatment team from years past. I now have the confidence to live my life to the fullest.