Do Not Look Where You Fell, Look Where You Slipped.~ African Proverb

One of the most glaring omissions from treatment, having been through it twice in 7 short months, is the guidance and support offered by various programs to the "support people".  The very people charged with the task of taking on the voices inside of our heads that they cannot hear or understand or sometimes, even believe.  They are charged with loving us through an insidious disease that they likely never saw coming, nor fully understand.  They take the brunt of its aim when our illness takes us over, acting as though she speaks for us, ruining any chance of lasting relationships with people who mean the most to us.

People whom we need the most, to help us fight when we are so sick that we cannot.

People who are forced to fight for us, with one hand tied behind their backs, ever-changing rules and in a darkness that threatens even the brightest of lights in our lives.

Mercy Hospital's New England Eating Disorder (NEED) Program requires that each patient identify at least one support person, who's job it becomes to offer 24 hour supervision (including mealtime and bathroom activity) when the patient is at home in the evenings and on the weekends.  They are required to help with meal planning, shopping, meal preparation, portion-sizes and meal monitoring.  In addition, they are asked to provide tough-love style support balanced with loving care and concern when emotions are high, when our eating disorders are fighting the hardest and without any direction or preparation for the onslaught that comes their way.

In the beginning of the treatment cycle,  Olivia was stronger than me.  I was deep in my illness, and I couldn't fight her alone, yet she had the strength to fight me AND anyone who loved me enough to try and hold me up until I could take over.

Let's face it.  Most of us have never had personal experience with anyone with Eating Disorders until, well... until we DO.   If you have been reading my blog thus-far, it has probably become clear that the unpredictable behaviors, powerful emotions, myriad of triggers, secrecy, relapse potential, serious danger of suicide and contentious socio-biological explanations for the disease that contribute to a dizzying and chaotic atmosphere for the afflicted, as well as the people who care about us, make success an almost impossibility.

I remember so vividly, looking around the room on my first and then subsequent Monday morning check-ins during partial hospitalization,  acutely aware of the often perplexed and usually horrified expressions on the faces of our support people as we discussed the "voices in our heads",  "urges", "noise", amounts that we purged or over-exercised, restricted, hid food when our unsuspecting support people weren't looking,  or simply wanted to truly die.

I couldn't help them.

My support person couldn't help them.

Often, the treatment team, charged with the task couldn't help them.

The first time I was admitted to Mercy, I didn't want to help them.  I was still trying to decide how much I actually bought into the idea of full recovery myself.

And it was MY job to share with my support person, what he should be doing to support me.

This never made sense to me.

It's akin to leaving the fox in charge of the hen-house.

Further, once our weight is restored and we are no longer medically in danger, our insurances (if we are lucky enough to have it) declare that it is time for discharge.  Often, we are discharged back to the stressful and unchanged environments where we became sick in the first place, or without having enough time to absorb the new coping skills we were exposed to, to a new therapist who doesn't know us, for one hour per week.

I (Olivia) could do an awful lot of damage in one short week between visits.

Anyone who recovers under this scenario must use Herculean efforts to get there.  It's no wonder that the recovery rates are so dismal.

Since most of us chose those closest people to us for support while in treatment, it is my belief, that if the whole system was exposed to the treatment model,  we would have a much better shot at recovery, while preserving the most influential relationships in our lives.

My own personal experience with this break-down in treatment has inspired me to recover so that I can be a catalyst for change in this important aspect of treatment.  This has the dual purpose of helping my own healing in finding (another) reason to heal and to direct my energies for future work that means something to me.

To that end, I am asking my readers to share their experiences, to the extent that you are comfortable, as people recovering from an eating disorder, direct support people who have been involved with a loved-one during treatment programs, and family members or friends who care about someone with an eating disorder, in this aspect of treatment.

Please feel free to share whatever you feel is important regarding your own personal experience with treatment in whatever role you participated in.

Share your frustrations, insights, true gut-feelings about the process and ideas for change.  Please be candid and brutal in your honesty, even if (especially if) you were involved with me in some way.

Share in your own narrative form, bullets, lists, photographs, drawings, poems, ~ however you can best express yourself.

If you would rather have a framework for the discussion, here are some things to get you started:

Patients who have Experienced Residential, Partial Residential or Intensive Outpatient Programs to treat an Eating Disorder:

~ What did you wish that your support people understood about you (or your illness) that you feel they didn't or couldn't? (through no fault of their own)

~ What do you think, looking back, is the single most important thing your support person did/said/understood  (or you wish that they did) that helped support you successfully in your recovery?

~How is your relationship now with your support person, at whatever stage you are in at this point in recovery?

Direct Support People

~What was the most helpful thing you learned from the treatment facility in understanding how to help your loved-one in his/her recovery process?

~What do you wish someone told you about being a support person, that no one did?

~Did you feel supported by the program in your important role of "supervisor" of the patient when he/she was home?  Did you feel you had all of the tools and knowledge that you needed to be successful in your role?  Why?/ Why not?

~Share some of the feelings that you associate with the process you went through (or are currently going through) and any ideas you might have for systems or processes that can support others who will go through this

~How is your relationship now with your (former) loved-one whom you supported through treatment, at whatever stage you are in at this point in recovery?  If you are still involved, what do you need (for yourself) as an on-going support person as treatment progresses?

PLEASE participate if you have ANY experience in these areas of Eating Disorder treatment, either as a patient or as a support person or family member/friend.  You can do so anonymously or if you are comfortable, feel free to sign your name.  If you happen to be writing about me, please know that you have my permission to share that fact, and any and all details that you feel are important.  I will not edit any entries (except for brevity and unless of course, they are not in the spirit of helping).

I plan to write a blog entry with all of your comments/input and will include all of the voices who take the time to share.

I think a candid discussion is the beginning to understanding how best to support the most important people in the lives of a patient with an eating disorder.  I anticipate with eagerness, hearing the experiences of all who are willing to share this important information.

I plan to collect your submissions for this blog entry through August 10th, 2015.

Please consider contributing!

Send your contributions to me at dori30c@gmail.com and be sure to include if you wish to be anonymous when I share the information.

P.S. If you plan to submit something, however big or small, please indicate that you will be, either in Facebook comments or the comments section below so I can get an idea of interest.

Please consider contributing! (Did I say that already??) :)

Whack-A-Mole, Wicked Witch of the West and Happiness

“In the midst of hate, I found there was in me, an invincible love. In the midst of tears, I found there was within me, an invincible calm. I realized that throughout it all, that…In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing back.”

~Albert Camus

There is a reason (many, actually) why I have embarked on this journey back to my old self of 5 years ago,  whom I left standing at the corner of life as I knew it, and the detour I took to the place where someone, unbeknownst to me, removed the sign that read, "Bridge Out".  

It was time to stop the free-fall that ensued from crashing through the flimsy barrier of free will,  a dimly-lit passage lined with demons heckling me daily, that this was what I deserved.  That the only way out of the guilt, shame and pain was to continue the fall until I reached the bottom where eventually everything (everything) would end.

The stage of recovery that I am in presently, getting traction with feeling the feelings that I have been numbing or avoiding for so long, brings them all back with such extreme intensity for some of us, that we are vulnerable to relapse.  This is due in part, to the ability to be lucid and clear-thinking.  Being able to pay attention.  One has to brace themselves for it because with a cruel last look over her shoulder, Olivia's visage trots in each trauma one by one, as a last-ditch effort to gain her place back inside your soul.  

But this entry is about the best part of recovery so far.  Along with the pain that I didn't trust myself to manage, I also numbed the happy moments, not believing or even caring that I could participate in this emotion.  

I didn't deserve to and Olivia saw to that.  Anything (or anyone) that brought me even the smallest amounts of happiness threatened my eating disorder like fire to the Wicked Witch of the West, inciting Olivia's strongest efforts to cancel out its effects, digging in more fiercely to hold her ground.

We are told in treatment that complete recovery from Eating Disorders is possible, unlike that of drug or alcohol addiction, where many believe that once one is an addict, they must live out the rest of their days in recovery.  

The Psychiatric Doctor at Mercy explained it like this.  "Remember that rebel boyfriend you had back in high school or college...the one who was completely opposite of everything you ever really wanted but there was something about him that you just couldn't resist?  Then, when it ended, you thought you would never, ever, ever get over him until one day you woke up and thought, what the hell was I thinking????"  Recovery from an Eating Disorder is like that.  After successfully abstaining from all Eating Disorder behaviors for 3-5 years, people who once suffered can enjoy life like a normal person again, completely free from the illness.  

But it is hard work.

I'm not the slightest bit scared of hard work.

The very best part of this stage of recovery is that even though it is a little like "Whack-A-Mole" sometimes, with triggers lurking around every corner, I have lately been able to experience true and genuine happiness not only as I once did before, but even more intensely as I work through each trauma, releasing the masking pain that once served Olivia in stealing my right to it.

I have been able to truly be present, and experience the treasure that my daughters are to me.

I have deepened my relationship with my own mother, learning that allowing her to care for me conjures strength, not weakness.

I have embraced the gift of a quiet weekend, without the guilt of  "wasting" the time.  

I am learning patience.  (I know.  It's true.)

I have learned to acknowledge moments of extreme pain and sadness and to ride their waves  of crest and falls, without judgement, without action, peacefully letting them take their course.  Gaining the confidence that I can survive them with each success.

I have experienced the love of others who have reached out to me in a selfless and genuine desire to carry me over the rough patches, when I couldn't maneuver the path alone. And I welcomed it.

I remembered how much I freaking love to cartwheel.  Probably my truest and purest sign of elation.

I can handle what comes my way with confidence.  With capability.  With dignity.

I can look in the mirror in the morning and think I look pretty.

I believe that I deserve to be happy.

I believe that I deserve to feel love.  And that love will come to me again one day.

I can eat pizza with greasy pepperoni.  (And ice cream for dessert).

I can accept a compliment.

I have hope.

I love my life. <3

Meet Olivia

This has been the single most difficult blog entry for me to write to date.  In my effort to shed light on how one becomes open and vulnerable to the insidious promises of Anorexia Nervosa, I feel compelled to honor my promise in my opening blog post, to choose honesty over decorum, to show the parts that aren't pretty or dignified. But real.

One day early in my first round of treatment at Mercy Hospital's New England Eating Disorder (NEED) Program, I was listening to a young woman who has Anorexia Nervosa (Binge Type) explain that "Ed" was really loud over the weekend and that she couldn't make him shut up.  The young woman is a starting center for her college basketball team but she is in this program with me because her coach and Dr. both told her she can no longer play due to her extremely low weight and because of her last two suicide attempts, still freshly visible on her arms.

"Ed" was telling her to restrict all weekend, even though she was getting close to discharge and to her healthy weight.  Practicing with the team was on the table for her in the next weeks as long as she could maintain her weight.  I wondered to myself who this jerk, "Ed" was... her Father? Brother? Boyfriend?  And, why on Earth would he be telling her to restrict?  It made no sense to me.

Later, when I met with my therapist in the program for the first time, she explained to me that the behaviors of our Eating Disorders start out for many of us, as ways of coping with something unbearable in our lives.  Later, they take on lives of their own and the disordered thoughts become our way of thinking and we are completely overtaken by them, often unable to distinguish between the disease's and our own wills.

She drew two circles, one on top of the other.  The first circle was the "me" that I used to be, with normal eating patterns and a healthy attitude towards food and exercise.  The other circle, which she drew over the "me" circle, was my Eating Disorder.  We had become so enmeshed that the Eating Disorder thoughts became my thoughts.  One important goal of recovery then, was to eventually disentangle myself from the Eating Disorder circle so that it was a separate entity from me again, and I could eventually eliminate it from my life.

She went on to explain that many people found it useful to give their Eating Disorder a name so that it had its own "identity" to help me recognize my thoughts from "It's" thoughts.  Before this moment, I was frighteningly and genuinely concerned that I might be crazy.  Having heard this "voice" in my head for so long and never telling a soul for fear that I was losing control and that others would certainly concur if I told them, I lived 4.5 long years in it's hell of twisted, painful and daily, self-loathing derisions.   After the suggestion from a therapist that I might try naming my Eating Disorder, I was certain that I was only a short distance now from that special room with the padding on the walls and that as I had, even the medical community had given up on me.

I wish that the story of naming "Olivia" was more memorable or exciting.  I hadn't really bought into the idea and honestly, felt a little silly doing it, so I asked the group to name it for me.  (This was not a condition of treatment... but I was willing to try anything to start feeling better so I took the suggestion).  Somehow, they arrived at the name and it stuck.

Like an abusive partner, my relationship with Olivia started 4.5 years ago all hearts and flowers.  Abusive partners are cunning and charming.  They draw their victims to them when we are at our lowest, willing to try anything to make the pain of what was happening in our lives, loosen its grips.

"Olivia" swooped in at that moment, promising that she knew how to stop the bleeding of my soul.

I was ready for her.  Open to the salvation she could deliver.

When she arrived,  my life was becoming unrecognizable to me, due in large measure, to my misguided weakening to the guileful encouragement of a poisonous man outside of my marriage, paying attention to my transforming figure, which I mistook for the love I craved.

You see, inherent in all extra-marital endeavors, I have come to learn, is a lack of foundation, trust and genuineness.  What I know now to be truth is that no action required to take place in darkness and deceit could ever lead to true intimacy or fulfillment.  

What I have also learned is that many people find themselves in situations that they never dreamed they were capable of.  I used to be one of those people.  Full of judgement and ready to scoff at the bad decisions of others, blaming them for their weaknesses.

Now I understand when people make decisions that hurt others.  I understand the faulty thought-processes that lead them there and make it plausible to do what others would consider unthinkable.

I don't judge people anymore.

In the beginning, Olivia was subtle, worming her way into my brain through the doors left open by a yearning to rectify the gap between what I valued (marriage, family, truth) and the unimaginable opposite actions I was engaged in (infidelity, lies and deceit).

"If you run a second time today it will help with the anxiety you are feeling about what is going on in your life.  You can make those feelings go away if you run more.  It's a healthy way to deal with your stress".

"You have to be the thinnest in the room to be special.  To matter.  I can help you get there and look at how much better you feel when you do what I tell you ".

"Look at what you can do.  I can help you be smaller, more perfect than anyone.  I can help you feel better.  Just do what I tell you".

This worked for awhile.  But as time went on, Olivia became more demanding.  My life was spinning out of control as my deceit became exposed to the light.

"You are disgusting.  You are weak when you don't listen to me.  You need me to get through this. No one else cares."

"I can help the pain go away.  Just listen to me.  Don't eat breakfast.  You are fat and disgusting and no one is going to love you that way"  (This was one of Olivia's favorite lines right up to my last ICU hospitalization this past May.   It hits me where it hurts.  She knew it).

Then, as my marriage began to unravel and my family and community became aware of the terrible decisions I had made, Olivia's quest for the ultimate cure for my life began.

"You can eat one meal today as long as you purge it after.  Make sure it is small and easy to bring up. I promise you that you will feel better."

"If you drink wine tonight, you will see that your hunger will stop.  Do whatever it takes to make it stop.  You are weak and fat.  Everyone knows what you did.  You have to be smaller.  You don't deserve to take up the amount of space that you do.  Throw.up.now"

"Yes, Olivia", I said.

To this day I remember with agonizing detail the first time I gave in to her demand to over-exercise, restrict my food intake to one meal a day, purging, and abusing alcohol at night.   I was both appalled and amazed at the ease with which I could make my own body betray me.  How I (Olivia) could take what was left in my life that was still good (nutrition and exercise) and use it against myself for her agenda.

I dutifully stood before the toilet.  Stuck two fingers down my throat and instinctively wiggled them around to cause the gag reflex to invoke the kind of violence within myself that when it strikes normally as the flu, makes people stay home from work/school for its discomfort.

When I was certain that I brought it all up,  I looked in the mirror and could see the damage I had done emerge instantly.

My eyes were bloodshot, my glands were swollen.  My face was puffed out.  But that wasn't the worst of it.

I felt better.

The calming that ensued for the next few hours, hunger subsided, anxiety and Olivia quiet, was like a fix for a junkie.  I was instantly hooked by this way to make the pain stop.  Even if only for awhile.

The next morning, I woke to a disturbing reality.  I had strained so much to forcefully expel the food that Olivia deemed my enemy, that where my eyes were once white,  a bright and demonic red had filled them.

The image looking back at me so startling, that I had to be sure that I was actually awake and not still dreaming.  I was frightened by it.

Looking back, I should have seen the symbolism so evident to me now.  Food was not my enemy.

It was Olivia, now inside of me, looking back at me that morning.

I quickly googled "red eyes from vomiting" for a reasonable explanation more palatable for my family and the children I worked with as the K-8 librarian than what actually caused them.

I found one.  I told everyone that the freakish look that I now was stuck with for the next two to three weeks was caused by the strain of attempting pull-ups for the first time in the gym.

To my astonishment, everyone bought it.

It got easier over time to bring up the food that Olivia forced me to expel from my body anytime I was given to eating it.

My eating disorder began the day I crossed the line of infidelity.

My marriage ended and I moved away from the place where I could no longer stand the haunting.  The shame.  The real and imagined pointing and sneering as I attended my childrens' sporting events.  "Home-wrecker".  "Bad Mother".  "Selfish Bitch".

Please understand.  I was not a victim in this.  I have owned my part in how my marriage ended and take responsibility for my part in it.  But in so doing, I also took on all of the judgement and guilt that people who once loved or respected me, heaped onto my already burdened soul, without regard for the heart that was breaking quietly behind their view.

I moved away from the area, but all of the pain came with me, packed in between my belongings, and hopes for healing, with Olivia carrying whatever didn't fit in my boxes.

She turned up the heat.

"You are a bad mother.  You left your life where you should be.  Where you should stay and endure the pain.  You have to be a perfect mother.  Everyone knows now that you aren't."

"You don't deserve to eat.  Purging and exercising are good but you don't deserve to eat.  You don't deserve the space you are taking up.  Be small.  Restrict."

After purging two and sometimes three (and sometimes more) times per day for 2 years, my body began to turn on me.  What was once so easy to do, bringing such perfected and predictable calm to my burdened life, now began to elude me.  At first I thought it was a fluke.  Just some strange malfunction in the reversal I had trained my body to so efficiently execute at my (Olivia's) command.

But the task became a chore.  Surely my body's attempt at survival.  To try and take back some semblance of calm, a fleeting moment that my healthy self perhaps recognized that I (Olivia) was trying to kill myself slowly, and its attempt to halt the demise.

"You're such a failure you can't even throw up right anymore.  What's wrong with you!"  You have to eat less.  If you can't throw it up, you have to eat less.  We are getting so close to your goal.  You can't stop now.  You are so fat and disgusting to look at.  You don't deserve to eat." 

Later, after restricting with great success, and purging anything I might have eaten for another two years, failing at any attempt to start or maintain a relationship, exercising to the extreme of exhaustion, unable to think clearly anymore for a lack of nutrition, Olivia added,

"You don't deserve to live".

And I believed her.  That's a story for another day.

What I now believe, after being a slave to Olivia's daily and relentless noise , is that I gave her the power over me.  I created this "other" and then later even gave her an identity by affixing a name, further inviting her to stay and be a part of my life.

Was this helpful to my recovery?  I'm honestly not sure.  While it probably helped me to separate from the eating disorder itself at times, I think it also distracted me (and others who tried to help me) and took valuable energy to "fight" Olivia.  "Fight" my eating disorder that I could have used to build my healthy self instead.

Fight.Fight.Fight. Until I was exhausted and defeated from the fight, and wanted to give in.

I almost did.  On the way to treatment for the second time, Olivia was telling me,

"You are not going back there.  Drive off the road.  You will not go back to treatment where they are just going to make you eat and get fat.  You will be miserable again.  You will lose all we have worked for.  You are at the lowest weight you have ever been.  You are special now."

"You can do things other people aren't willing to.  They admire you for being able to have so much self-discipline.  When you start to eat again, you are going to be fat and disgusting and miserable. No one will ever love you."

"Drive off the road".

I didn't drive off the road.  I reached out to a person who had seen me at my lowest.  Whom I had let Olivia drive out of my life with mean and hateful behavior.  I don't know how or where I got the strength to do so, but I am certain that a Power Greater than myself had a hand it it.

And this person, who had every right to ignore my cry for help, who had every right not to respond, told me that Olivia was trying to kill me.  That it is her end-game.  That I had the strength to beat this and that in spite of all that had happened, he believed in me.

I made it to Mercy that morning.  Determined.  Dedicated to healing.  Scared as hell to be back at square one again.

It was here that I was able to finally enlist the support of my family, including  my daughters and my mother, who I essentially left out of the process the first time around.  It was here that I was able, in spite of (or because of) all I had lost and still stood to lose, that I started to understand.

It was here that both of my daughters expressed both verbally and with their support, that they had forgiven me.  Long ago, my ex-husband had forgiven me.  My own family had forgiven me.  It was time for me to forgive myself.

It is not an accident that my daughter's high school graduation occurred the day after I was released from the Partial Residential program at Mercy, into the less-restrictive Intensive Out-Patient program.

Everything happens for a reason.  This was no exception.  I told my counselor at Mercy that my eating disorder began in Carrabassett Valley, and that I intended to leave it there after the festivities were over.

And that is exactly what I did.  In a very un-ceremonial quiet prayer to forgive myself for what I had done and to dedicate myself to healing this wound.

Once I said this prayer, I fell into the deep and peaceful sleep that had been eluding me for years.  A sign that it was the time.  It was the right thing to do.

Now, as I have reached a point in my recovery where I have never been before, with more days of choosing to honor my healthy self over my eating disorder self, it is time to say good-bye to Olivia.

What I believe truly, is that it is time for me to take back the power I gave to Olivia because it is mine to take.  It is time to tip the balance of power, with all that I have gained (quite literally) back to my healthy self.

It is time to put Olivia to rest.

Not violently, not ceremonially, but deliberately, as one who has a broken leg once requiring crutches to aid in its healing puts them away when she no longer needs something to do the work that her own healthy self can once again take on.

Just Keep Swimming.... (Part III in a Series)

"Very slowly and carefully, you let go of the log and practice floating. When you start to sink, you grab back on. Then you let go of the log and practice treading water, and when you get tired, hold on once again. After awhile, you practice swimming around the log once, twice, ten times, twenty times, a hundred times, until you gain the strength and confidence you need to swim to shore. Only then do you completely let go of the log."-From Eating in the Light of the Moon by Anita Johnson

This is the third in a three-part series of "A Day in the Life".  You can read Part I, which depicts a day in the life when my Eating Disorder was at its worst HERE  and Part II as things got better and when I was admitted to  Mercy Hospital's New England Eating Disorders Program for the second time in 7 months HERE.

In this last part, I wish to illustrate what a day in my life is like now, 9 months into my recovery journey, which included 2 ICU hospitalizations and 2 additional  Emergency room visits.

Recovery isn't a place.  It isn't a destination where I will arrive, unpack my bags and announce, "I'm here!".

Or, maybe it will be.

That's the trouble with recovery.  It is difficult to define and therefore quantify as each of our experiences, while etiologically similar, have varying manifestations of behavioral idiosyncrasies.

Recovery is messy.  It isn't linear or predictable.

There isn't a specific medical definition or even a "recipe for success" that professionals agree upon except interrupting the starvation cycle, stabilizing medical issues, and normalizing eating.  That is precisely what (most) treatment programs do, period.

It is the focus of treatment because it is medically proven that recovery cannot happen until nutrition (and therefore, proper brain functioning) is restored.

And that is where most insurance companies declare an Anorexia patient, "cured" (and where they stop paying for treatment).

If you have had an eating disorder or care about someone who does, you know that discharge from the treatment facility is where recovery actually begins.

So, we get discharged to do the long and difficult work of recovery, with very little professional support, back into the environments where our eating disorders thrived.  And if you do not have a strong support system, who understands the nature of and warning signs for relapse (this is most of us, because our support people are almost universally left out of the treatment process) its little wonder that the statistics for full recovery are so grim.

Anorexia is a disease.  People with diseases are not told things like,  "find the motivation to heal"  or, "choose recovery over your illness".  Imagine if that was our new course of treatment for people diagnosed with Diabetes instead of insulin and medical monitoring.

Remember, it wasn't that long ago that the Medical Community espoused that the cause of Autism was "Refrigerator Mothers".

Now you see maybe why it is true that people diagnosed with Anorexia have the  highest mortality rates of any psychological disorder, due in part to medical complications such as brain shrinkage and heart attacks.  

But there is something even more sinister at play.

Studies cited by the American Association of Suicidology (Holm-Denoma et al, 2008; Kaye, 2008; Keel et al., 2003) indicate that the suicide mortality rate of people with anorexia is one of the highest of all psychiatric illnesses including Depression.   It was noted in this same series of studies that people with Anorexia who are at the point of attempting suicide are not simply crying out for help.  They use the most lethal methods to seal the deal.

They jump in front of moving trains.

They injest toxic chemicals (and large amounts of prescription medications).

They just want the noise to stop.

All of that said, (and this may sound contradictory) there is an important component of recovery that is up to the individual.

Dr. Sarah Ravin calls it, "Insight".  

She puts forth that when one has the physical components of recovery in place (weight restoration and medical stability), it is then the work of the individual to recognize and subscribe to the factors that will keep recovery moving forward, and eventually, make it a reality:

1.) Acknowledging and accepting that you have (or had) an eating disorder, which is a biologically-based brain illness that you did not choose to have and your parents (or partners ) did not cause

2.) Acknowledging and accepting the possibility of relapse

3.) Ability to recognize eating disordered thoughts, feelings, and behaviors in yourself

4.) Understanding the necessity of maintaining full nutrition, every day, for life

5.) Accepting the necessity of maintaining your ideal body weight in order to reduce the risk of relapse

These are my five commandments.  I live by them because I know that in order to continue enjoying a life free of Olivia's nonsense, I have to move away from the log (Olivia)...swim out further each day...until I can let go of it completely, and swim to shore (life).  

Let me share with you then.  A day in MY life of recovery: (Beginning with last night, July 7, 2015)

8:30PM~ Sit down to a delicious dinner made by my oldest daughter, along with my youngest daughter and one of her friends.  (Sweet potato "Nachos" made with Sweets and Beets chips, chicken sautéed in Siracha and BBQ Sauce, peppers and onions, covered with cheese and baked in the oven with a side of home-made guacamole.  I had seconds.  We laughed genuine laughter, enjoyed each others' company and I did not notice any thoughts of restricting or purging.

9:00PM-11:00PM~ Get out the checkbook I have been needing to balance because my computer crashed last week with all of my savings data wiped out.  Gone.  

Oh, and right before that happened, all the cash I had left in my wallet for groceries and gas was stolen while I was at work.

If you know me, you know what kind of stress this causes a perfectionist, meticulous budgeter, who is living on the tightest budget I ever have.  

Olivia would usually convince me in this situation, that tonight is not a good night to attempt this because of the stress caused by the computer crash and the theft.  "You deserve some wine... you have been abstaining for weeks now.  Go ahead and have some so you can sleep tonight.  Hanford is open until 10PM now"

Tonight though, I notice that she is still quiet.  

I work through the bills and the budget, $42 short of what I needed to cover, due to my recent hospitalizations and lack of income during that time. 

Olivia is still quiet.  

Or, I can't hear her.  

Or maybe I choose not to hear her.

Louder than Olivia is my determination to get through this rough financial patch without loans or having to dip too much into my savings.  And free of eating-disorder coping behaviors.

Louder than Olivia is my commitment to being the best mother I can be to my girls, who are sitting close by, trusting my ability to take care of them.  

And because I have eaten enough calories to both sustain my weight in a healthy range and for brain function, I am able to handle these small stresses that each alone, would have tipped me over at my sickest.  

11:30PM~Get into bed and work a crossword puzzle to help clear my head of distracting thoughts and worries of my future, to keep me grounded in the present, so I can sleep easily.

11:45-4:45AM~Sleep soundly, only to be awakened by my intentionally-set alarm, to meet my running partners for the first time since last Friday, to do a cardio run.  

No push-ups.  

Eat a banana while I am waiting (with coffee of course....I'm not perfect!)

Check my phone and in spite of some occasional sadness that it reminds me of in the morning, place it down and lace up my shoes to wait, wondering how late my friend will be this morning (Hi Erin!)

                                               <A Short Moment to Celebrate a Small Victory>
Today is now Wednesday, July 8th.  It is a special day in my recovery journey.  It marks the longest time  since I began recovery in November, that I have gone without both an incident requiring medical intervention and COMPLETELY FREE of all eating disorder behaviors, including abstaining from alcohol.  

 You see, after my first round of hospitalization at Mercy, I didn't understand that I needed to, nor did I want to (subconsciously) let go of ALL of the disease.  I was still coping. I wasn't recovering.  

I needed Olivia.

I wanted to keep exercising and did so without asking anyone's thoughts or opinions about it.  I got a job that has many possible triggers that I had to face on a daily basis, without asking anyone's thoughts or opinions about it.  I slowly re-introduced alcohol back into my life, even though my body weight was going down and I knew I was restricting.  I left the loop-holes open that gave Olivia just enough of a foot-hold to take me down...again...and again... and again... until I finally hit a bottom that was lower than I ever dreamed I was capable of.

This time, I have closed the loop holes.  I hardly make a move without confiding with my therapist and/or friends who know me and have been with me through all of the ugliness this disease has caused in my life.  Some of them took the brunt of it.  And they are still here, walking beside me.   Now I reach out to them and not Olivia.  She can't help me.  

So, the reason why today is significant and that it is possible, is because I have the most number of solid days of true and actual healing of my body/mind/soul than I have ever managed since beginning treatment.  And THAT is what makes it possible to wake up tomorrow, in spite of the trials I have had over these last few months, and choose recovery again.  

I swim further from the log each day...

                                                     <gratuitous back-patting over now>

6:30AM~ Return home from our run, make a recovery shake with a powder containing 500 calories all by itself, that I add almond milk, frozen berries and a banana to, and drink it while I get ready for work.  This replaces the calories I burned in our run.  The point is for me NOT to exercise to lose weight, but to have fun and be strong.  

Olivia wants me to skip it.  She berates me for even adding to it.  

My healthy self remembers how good it feels to work out the next day when I have had enough calories to avoid Negative Energy Balance.  I drink it and imagine the cells in my body, which I have deprived for so long, repairing and getting stronger.  Rewarding me with strength, and endurance, and my dignity re-emerging. 

7:30AM~ Because I have to be in court, I eat breakfast at home so there is no excuse to mess with the timing or skip it all together, blaming it on the court schedule.  (Two poached eggs over two slices of Canadian Bacon, on top of an english muffin, topped with melted cheese and a fresh fruit cup with strawberries, blueberries and cantaloupe on the side).  

9:30AM~(So far, Olivia is fairly quiet... but I  know that she has been turning up the heat over the past few days because of the significance of today to me.   I expect her to get loud at some point today.)  

I eat my mid-morning snack at my desk because court is over.  (white chocolate macadamia nut Cliff Bar and another banana).

11:30AM~

Enter Olivia

I planned to go to the cafe across the street to get a sandwich (major fear food!) because I didn't have anything at home that appealed to me this morning to pack for lunch.  While backing out of my parking space, I heard that sound every auto insurance agent dreams of.  

My car is the Element with the fender folded
over.

Of all of the things over the past couple of weeks that could have upset me to the point of that familiar panic attack where I find it difficult to breathe and then cry with emotion, a fender-bender with Willy Nelson (my car's name....don't ask...) brings it on.  Usually, when that feeling would come over me, I would want to make it stop.  As soon as possible.  

Olivia didn't disappoint.  

"Skip lunch.  You will feel better, it will stop this terrible anxiety about the bills you are going to have to pay.  You will be able to think better and feel less stressed about this if you just skip lunch."

Sitting at my desk, breathing like I learned how to and that is becoming my first reaction to stress now as I get more traction in the process, I  shout (out loud), "shut the FUCK up!".  

(It's a good thing I was working alone today).

I kept breathing.  I stayed present and I waited as the anxiety first climbed to its crescendo, then felt the newly-familiar release of its grip on me, as I continued to breathe, and it faded as quickly as it came.  

I went back outside, talked with the owner of the vehicle I hit, and we sorted it out amicably.  

When we were finished, I went back inside my office to take a moment to try and understand what triggered the flood of emotion over vehicle damage, of all things.  What I realized, was the sadness stemmed from the grief of not having my partner anymore to call for support in that moment.  To lean on and ultimately, give me advice or take over the problem for me.

I acknowledged the thought without judgement, and let it pass for what it was.  

Then, I used another skill learned in treatment which is essentially an antidote thought.  Replace the thought that caused me grief with a thought that is closely opposite.

So, I thought to myself,  "I am alone now because I am healing and it is necessary to my process.  Because I was alone today, I handled this situation without self-destructive actions or letting someone else fix things for me.  I am capable.  I am lovable.  And I when I am whole again, I won't always be alone. " 

It probably sounds hoakey to those of you who do this with ease.  It would have to me 6 years ago.  But this process allows me to slow down each process.  Look at what is REALLY happening and prevent Olivia from using stressful situations to entice me back into her grip.  Further, when I can expand a negative thought and sort out what is truly underneath it, It allows me to change how I feel about a situation.  

That's right.  Thoughts are not facts.  But they do cause feelings.  If the thoughts are faulty, the feelings are too.  This tiny nugget of realization just might save my life.  

I can change my thoughts.  I can change how I feel.  

You all probably knew that.  Somewhere along the line, I missed that (along with a sense of direction, but I digress...)

12:30PM~ I employ a little Yankee Ingenuity and get on with my lunch excursion.

1:00PM~ Eat lunch at my desk.  

Turkey, avocado, tomato, lettuce and mayo (yep!) on ciabatta bread with a side of German Potato Salad and (REAL, not diet) lemonade.  

Healthy Self - 5, Olivia-zero.

1:30-3:30PM~  It is quiet in my office so I sit at my desk and work on a project that I often put off because it is tedious.  (Data entry from Hotline calls).  I notice during this time, my ability to focus on the task.  To be present in what I am doing.  I don't hear Olivia's voice, I am not starving or counting the calories I've eaten today.  I enter the names and the numbers and demographic information of each victim I worked with in the month of June, this time, remembering each of them and their stories.

This makes me smile.  I notice that I am feeling real joy.  I acknowledge it and stay present with it, because it is important not to let it pass by without notice.  Because it's beautiful.

3:30PM~ Midday Snacktime. 

 Peppermint Luna bar and fresh cherries

3:30PM-5:30PM~  I finish my data entry and drive home, calling my mother as I often do on the way, telling her of my triumphs of the day.  She has become my biggest cheerleader.  My solid-as-a-rock support.  I feel proud to tell her of my successes today because she knows of the dark place I was not too far back in the rear view mirror.

5:30PM-9:00PM~ Spend some time at the park, in the sun with my blanket and a book then get home in time to see both girls before they leave me for the evening.  

Olivia doesn't miss a chance to try one last time.

"Everyone is gone for the night. You are alone until morning.  You deserve some wine.  C'mon, you should celebrate.  You deserve it! Nothing bad is going to happen.  Just one night, no one will know if you skip dinner and have wine instead.  I promise I won't bug you to do it again tomorrow.  You can go right back to recovery tomorrow."

I made my dinner, (shredded chicken I cooked in the crockpot all day, mixed with mayo and curry/cumin, mixed with pumpkin seeds and raisins spread on toasted multigrain bread.  I also had guacamole and carrots and some weird popcorn crackers my mother sent home with me (Thanks, Mom!)

Then I sat down to write this entry.  

And celebrated the small accomplishment of the past few months with a dish of Ben and Jerry's Salted Caramel Core.  Which is a gift from Heaven.

In the words of a very dear friend, tomorrow I have to get up and "...just keep swimming..." (for the shore.  For my life).

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.  

Trading One Hell for Another (Part II in a series of III)

This is Part II of a three part series which depicts a "Day in the Life" of my own personal journey from the most active time in my eating disorder to the road which I am presently on to recovery.  You can read Part I HERE.

In Part II, I wish to share what a typical day in Mercy Hospital's New England Eating Disorder Program was like when I began to take recovery seriously.  I was hospitalized twice in this setting, once in November, 2014 and then again in May, 2015.  The two experiences were similar in structure but worlds apart in substance.  That's a story for a different day.

Here I am trying to depict what a day in the middle of my treatment was like, when it was still difficult but not as trying as the first two weeks.  I have gained a little traction by now and have started feeling the positive effects of proper and regular nourishment.

4:30AM~Wake up and fight immediately with Olivia about exercise.  While in the program, I am prohibited from all exercise.  I am not even allowed to walk up the stairs to the 6th floor of the hospital.  I am required to take the elevator.  No caffein allowed.  This works against Olivia and she chides me to break this rule each morning.

5:30AM~Drive to Portland to make it to Mercy by 7:00AM.

Every morning on the way to the hospital, like a movie reel which only plays an unsatisfying, repeating preview clip that never gets to the happy ending,  I re-live all of the ugly moments that caused so much pain in my life and which threaten my ability to stay in recovery.

By the time I arrive, I am filled with anxiety from the negative thoughts Olivia has managed to berate me with in an hour's drive.

"You can't eat today."

"They are making you eat bread AND butter AND sugar AND meat.  There are way too many calories in that and they are just trying to make you fat."

"You HAVE to resist it or else you are going to leave this place so out of control you will never be able to re-gain control."  

"Everyone will see what a failure you are, even at Anorexia."

"If you eat all that food, no one is ever going to think you are pretty or strong."

"Being thin is what makes you special.  If you lose that you have nothing else and you will be alone your whole life."

7:00AM~ We are required each day when we arrive to submit to a battery of tests (vital signs, etc.) and to answer questions about pain, bathroom habits, etc.  Then we are summonsed by the nurse to go into the office, strip down and put on a johnny.  Next we have to stand on the scale backwards, so we cannot see the result.  Olivia always pesters me to look.

I don't look but I do try and encourage the nurses to tell me at least if I gained.  "Yes" says the nurse.  Inside I am filled with anxiety.  To fake my not-yet-solidified commitment to recovery, I say, "good".

Olivia turns up the noise even louder. "You failure!"

It is the start of a new day in treatment.  8.5 hours each day, five days each week, devoted to the job of recovery.

7:30AM~ We move as a group, dutifully to the "dining room" when the nurse announces, "time for breakfast!" in her best effort to inspire motivation into a group of people who would rather have slow, unmedicated root canals than eat this meal.

Once in the room, we circle the table in what must look like a crude attempt at musical chairs... previewing the meals, hoping that the one with our name on it has nothing under the ominous plate cover that will provoke our Eating Disorder voices into their ruthless torments.  They move us around the table each meal...often to put those of us who might be struggling, closest to the supervising nurses at each end.  (i.e. hiding butter in our pockets or intentionally dropping food to the floor).

They have been around a long time.  They know all of our tricks.

There are strict meal-time rules:

1). We must eat 100% of what is on our tray.  Each butter pat must be completely scooped out, dressing packets must be squeezed empty, if you don't slurp your juice through the straw at the end, you didn't drink it all.  Any missed/dropped/hidden or otherwise uneaten food is "replaced" before we leave the table with a calorically-equal ration of Ensure which must be consumed before the allotted 40 minutes for the meal is over.  

2).  We are not allowed to "deconstruct" our meals.  In other words, if a sandwich is on your tray, you may not take it all apart and eat the bread first, then the veggies, then the meat, etc.  We must eat foods as they are intended to be eaten (Most of us have rituals and rules that they are trying to help us move away from).  

3).  We are not allowed to talk negatively about our (or anyone else's) bodies, foods that we don't like, overeating, undereating, tricks for eating a little, tricks for eating a lot, (you get the picture...)

4).  We are given a mood-monitoring sheet at each meal where we are required to log our present feelings about the meal and whether or not these feelings contribute to or hinder our recovery.  At the morning meal, we are to write (and announce) our goal for the day in treatment. 

This morning, the breakfast with my name on it consists of two scrambled eggs, two slices of french toast with two packets of butter that must be used and one tub of maple syrup.  I also have two links of turkey sausage, a banana and two 4 ounce orange juice cups staring up at me, threatening to bring on the familiar rapid breathing, tears and self-doubt about my ability to recover.

Olivia is incensed.  This is more food than I would eat over a week.  To say that it is difficult to eat 100% of this breakfast is like saying that the Pope is a little bit religious.

Filling out my log, I note that I am feeling determined and provoked.  Many of my "fear" foods are here on this plate in front of me (our personal nutritionists get to know us very well) and it is a struggle to eat with all of the noise of Olivia in my head...trepidation to commit to recovery...pain in my heart that I am still dealing with from both ancient and recent history.  It almost seems to be too much but my goal today was to "choose recovery over my eating disorder" and I would use the coping skills, "4-4-8" (breathe in slowly for 4 counts, hold it for 4 counts then breathe out slowly for 8 counts) to achieve it.

Noticing that my pace is slowing down and I am tearful and frustrated at this meal, another patient who is half my age (yet full of empathy and compassion) reaches out to me and pats my arm in an effort to let me know she is there and fully understands.  Much like the words of encouragement my readers have offered me since beginning this blog, it is a small gesture at the right moment, that lends me the strength to complete the seemingly monumental task in front of me.  Through tears, I grit through the last bites, fighting the anxiety and nausea that threatens to reverse what I have just done, Olivia's handiwork.  

From the second day of treatment (the first day is hell, even when you know what to expect the second time through treatment), I ate 100% often reminding the staff that something was MISSING from my plate.  With each day, my determination and confidence begins to accumulate as I own my recovery for the first time.

8:30AM-11:00AM~ Since it is Monday, we have multi-family group where all of the patients have their support people join us for the morning daily check-in.  Here, we discuss how the weekend went, struggles, victories, emotions, etc. with the lead Social Worker.  at 9:30AM our snack is delivered and we are to eat 100% of it in 20 minutes, while in this group.  Still full from breakfast, I now have to choke down an apple with peanut butter and a strawberry greek yogurt cup.

11:30AM~ Lunchtime.  Same dance as breakfast.  Same daily berating from Olivia for disobeying her demands to quit, same colossal pile of food in front of me.

My lunch today consists of home-made macaroni and cheese with breadcrumbs and butter on top, cooked carrots with a pat of butter, garden salad with Italian dressing, dinner roll with butter, a carton of low fat milk and a piece of lemon meringue pie.  All to be eaten, 100% in 40 minutes....

Olivia takes aim where it hurts because this gets more and more difficult as the day progresses, feeling full and uncomfortable because early recovery does NOT feel good.

"Just STOP this right now.  If you don't stop eating  you never will be able to and you are going to lose control of your life again."

"You are so weak."

"Remember how you feel? You don't deserve to eat.  You made everyone in your life hate you.  You are never going to be able to feel love again if you eat this meal and take up more space than you deserve to."

"If you think people rejected you before, wait until you get fat.  It's bad enough to be weak but you are going to be weak, fat AND rejected.  Stop listening to these people.  You KNOW you will feel better when you start running, stop eating like a pig and lose that weight they made you gain."

It gets louder and more cruel as my healthy self stands up to Olivia.  This is the place where my recovery is most vulnerable.  Two parts of my self, given life by me, in a desperate battle for my soul.  One wants me to live.  One wants me to die.

Today, I choose recovery and let my healthy self win.  It isn't without cost however, as Olivia sensing that she is going to lose, turns up the heat and causes real and brutal nausea that increases with each bite.   I  remember that I can breathe through this moment.  Stay present.  Fight.  Breathe in for 4, hold it for 4, breathe out for 8.  Over and over and over again, until the last bite.

100% eaten.

One more victory in my corner.  The confidence that I can survive eating normally continues to accumulate.

12:30PM~Bathroom visits are not allowed during meal times for obvious reasons.  When we do need to use the restroom, it is always with staff supervision.  Yes, they come in WITH us...backs turned, trying to balance preserving our dignity with making sure that we don't attempt to purge.

Anorexia is not a choice.  Who would choose this??

12:30-1:30PM~ This is group therapy time and is usually run by the head of the program or the staff Psychiatrist.  I am tuned in, trying desperately to learn how to overcome this hell.  Sometimes literally lying flat on the floor, trying to get the food to stay in.  Looking for ways I can maybe keep a piece of Olivia alive, in case I am not really ready yet...so conflicted.  It is so confusing and frustrating all at the same time.

This is the point.

The discomfort that is associated with the changes that must be made to overcome Anorexia is real.  They are the exact emotions/physical pains/memories of past traumas and hurts that we are trying to avoid with our eating disorder behavior in the first place.

It's an evil truth.

In order to overcome this disease, I have to bring the demons into the light that I have worked so hard to bury over the years.  I have to feel all of the feelings head-on, without my familiar and faithful remedies to soften their jabs, so I can stand up to them one by one, then lay them in their graves outside of my body for good.

I force myself to discuss, out loud with this group of strangers who now know things about me that my own loved-ones and past partners never did, the painful hurt that is haunting me the most.  It's uncomfortable.  It's frightening.  It's necessary.

One more nail in Olivia's coffin...

1:30-2:30PM~This time is spent with the Recreation Therapist who has disclosed to us that she too, has overcome an eating disorder.  She is pivotal in my recovery.  She gets it.  She gets me.  Failing miserably at finding things to distract me during this hour where we are supposed to learn self-care and relaxation (this comes later for me) like nail-care, massage (NOO thank you!) and arts and crafts, she finally loans me a book she thinks will change my life.

It did.

8 Keys to Recovery from an Eating Disorder: Effective Strategies from Therapeutic Practice and Personal Experience by Carolyn Costin

If you have an eating disorder, please read this book.

If you love someone who has an eating disorder and you want to understand how to help them, please read this book.

If you know how to read.  Please read this book.

2:30-3:30PM~ Back to the dining room for the last snack of the day.  Mine is always the same.  6 graham crackers and two packets of peanut butter.  All to be eaten in 20 minutes.  Still full from the earlier victories.

We process our day over snack.  Declare whether we met our daily goal (I did this day) and share something new that we learned.  Some of the new girls don't take this part seriously.  I didn't when I was here the first time.  I didn't want to heal.  Some of them don't either.  I don't care.  Their behavior has no bearing on my recovery.

I need to participate because I am starting to find during treatment this time around, that the more I talk honestly and openly about this disease, socially exposing my own jugular for the sake of healing, the more I stuff a figurative sock into Olivia's relentless mouth.

3:30PM~I take the elevator back down to the first floor, walk to my car emotionally and physically exhausted from the work of the day.  Carrying a lighter load of "weight" in my heart with each passing day of treatment, that adds weight to my body I am overwhelmed always at this point.

Each day, I cry the entire drive home.  Drained, conflicted, saddened by the memories that I can now access of things I have done to the people I love the most.

I give in to the process fully, eventually.  Trusting the process because I haven't yet before and so far, this hell is starting to improve, unlike than the hell I have been living the past 4.5 years.

Tonight, after dinner with my daughter (prepared without gulping poison to try and kill the demons and not purged so as to continue to choose recovery, one meal literally, at a time)  I sleep soundly.

Rinse, lather, repeat....

                                                               
Someone told me the other day that I have "Fortitude".  I had to look it up.  Yeah, I think he's right :)          

A Day in the Life (First of a Three Part Series)

This is the first of a 3 part series.  If you are in early recovery and you are reading this blog, I wish to warn you that there may be some triggering language in this series such as numbers and behaviors.  Please proceed with that in mind.

If you are lucky enough not to be in recovery (because you do not have an eating disorder) My purpose in writing this series is two-fold.  First, I wish to illustrate for myself, the leaps and bounds I have achieved towards my new reality of a life without Anorexia.

Second, I wish to help answer the question often asked of me, "how do I support you (or my spouse/friend/significant other) in their recovery efforts?"  I feel that though it leaves me more vulnerable and exposed than I ever care to be publicly, this exercise will help others to perhaps empathize with their loved ones who might be suffering from an eating disorder, so that when the time comes to lend support, you might have a better understanding of what we are recovering from.

 The three parts will illustrate "A Day in the Life" when Anorexia was in charge of me and was at its worst, when I was in the hospital treatment setting and finally, as it is on my recovery journey:

                                                     Part I (When Olivia Called the Shots)

2:00AM~ wake up even though I didn't get to sleep until 11pm, because I am starving, dizzy with a headache from the lasting effects of alcohol on my food-deprived body, and my mind is racing...trying to remember..."how many calories did I eat today?" having obsessively counted them on paper and in my head all the previous day long, just in case I missed something.  Always rounding up.

2:45AM~finally drift back to sleep

3:30AM~wake from a startling nightmare.  This is the 4th night this week that this plays out. Unresolved trauma which haunts me when I give in to sleep, unable to drown it out or purge the feelings with the conscious action I take when I am awake, to keep it pressed in the corner where I wish to keep it.

Sleep will not come again for me at this hour.  Olivia is telling me, "if you get up now, you can get 100 pushups, sit-ups and dips in  before it's time to run (and before you get on the scale)."  I cannot resist taking advantage of this thought.  Like the itch on your back that you can never quite reach to relieve the discomfort it causes, I can never do enough exercise to satisfy Olivia's persistent desire for more.  I set my timer and execute my first round of self-destruction.

4:15AM~use the restroom one last time in hopes that the scale will reveal the truth I wish to see.  It's the same ritual every morning now since I bought this scale, ostensibly to ensure my continued weight-gain.  No coffee or water before the scale.  Exercise as much as possible before stepping on the scale.  Strip off all clothing.  Close my eyes until I can't stand the torture of looking/not looking/looking/not looking any longer.  Then ultimately, always look.

You see, it really doesn't matter what the scale says.  If the number is too high, it would send me into even more self-punishing restricting/over exercising/purging and self-loathing because Olivia would be at her loudest and most cruel.  If the number was lower, I am elated because my efforts have been rewarded, and I continue the path of destruction because it is working and shuts Olivia the fuck up.

4:30AM~drink coffee for energy so I can run with my running partners and keep up with their pace.  They begin to notice and comment that I am losing weight/stamina. I outwardly acknowledge that I need to eat more to placate their concerns, while on the inside, I am high-fiving Olivia for the success that even others are beginning to notice.

5:15AM~run 6-8 miles, depending on how much time we have and how late my friend (Hi Erin!) is getting here.

7:30AM~more coffee on the way to work after fighting a loud and daily morning battle with Olivia about eating/not eating breakfast.  Like most mornings for the past 4 and a half years, Olivia wins today.  "You can't eat anything now and undo all the work you have done this morning.  Are you really that stupid and weak? You are losing weight and people are noticing and that is why they love you.  Everyone will love you more when you are thinner.  You will show them how disciplined and strong you are.  It's who you are.  It's your identity.  It's all you have.  Don't give in now you loser.  Everyone will see how weak you really are if you get fat and then you will be alone again." (Or some daily variation of this theme)...

I ignore my familiar growling stomach, white and cold fingers even though it is 70 degrees outside, and my shaking body by distracting myself with a news story from the radio (that I can't even begin to comprehend or remember because I am really only thinking about my growling stomach and my freezing and shaking hands)

8:00AM~get to work and collect the things I need for a morning of court hearings for the clients I work with.  I put my "lunch" (4 carrots and 2 TBS of hummus... because it is the easiest thing to bring back up and the colors are bright enough so I can tell that I am being successful) into the refrigerator so I am not tempted to eat any of it before I am allowed by Olivia.

8:30AM-12:00PM~ court proceedings which occupy my time but where I miss important return dates and sentencing conditions because my mind is wandering "you have to put off eating today because you have to eat a normal dinner with your daughter tonight and you might not be able to purge it".  "Don't be such a weak person! If you give in to this hunger you are going to lose control and gain weight and no one will ever love you because you are going to be fat and weak." I even begin to nod off a little, a cumulative effect of the inability to sleep night after night.

12:30PM~ having successfully put off eating for this long now, the reward for my efforts begins to emerge.  My anxiety over finances, past hurts and guilt, a future that feels out of my control, finally begins to wane.

I have a quick conversation with my co-worker, making sure to confirm that she will be out of the office later this afternoon (so I can purge if I actually eat my lunch).  Dash to an hour-long meeting not remembering driving there or what was discussed.  Mechanically going through the motions.  A robot.  A slave to Olivia's ever-present deriding.

2:30PM~I return to my office and see that my co-worker is indeed gone now.  I am alone.  It's the perfect time to eat my lunch.  In the first moments, my healthy self (who does still reside inside of my head and who's voice sometimes finds a crack in the space occupied largely by Olivia) promises me that I deserve this nourishment and that purging it in my place of work is not an option.

By the third carrot, Olivia has elbowed any positive thoughts from my head, "Hurry and eat the rest, and down some water so you can purge this.  You don't deserve this food.  What are you thinking?! You are hopeless, giving in to hunger.  You KNOW you are going to have to eat tonight with your daughter...what a pig you are...you have no self-control and don't even deserve to live"

As though I am watching myself in a movie, and I have no idea of the plot or the ending, I dutifully do what I know is the only way to shut Olivia the hell up at this point.  Hastily, I shove the remaining carrots and hummus into my mouth, a snack for most people, hardly chewing.  I follow with a large glass of water and run (literally) to the restroom, frantically reach for the toothbrush I stashed in the drawer, which assures I will be able to undo the damage I have done by giving in to my hunger.

It's the only way I know of to quiet the noise.

Not caring that vomit has splashed onto the floor and my shoes, that I am now sweaty and my eye-makeup is streaming down my face, eyes red and watery, Olivia implores me to get in another 100 pushups.  Right here, right now.  Dropping to the slippery floor, I comply, then wash away all of the evidence of the hell I am trapped in, never truly able to wipe away its stains.

<I wish I was making this up.  I wish that I could say I am embellishing this to make it a good read.  If you really know me, you know that if anything, I am probably softening it a little to protect my dignity>

3:00-5:00PM~having (literally) purged the anxiety that taunted me all day, hunger quiet from the exertion of what recently transpired, I am at my most productive, Olivia quiet for a blessed couple of hours until it's time to go home and face dinner.

5:30PM~with my daughter at practice for another two hours, I quickly drop my bags, change out of my work clothes and lace up my still-sweat-soaked-from-the-morning's-workout running shoes and I am off for another hour of punishment.  Not because I am a "runner".  Not because I enjoy this, but because it is a mandatory component of Olivia's program.  "Just Do It" says she.  "Of course, I say".  And as a result, dinner will have to wait until almost 8pm.  I must sacrifice all for the sake of Olivia.  All values, all relationships, my body, all of my dignity.

7:00PM~I begin to prepare dinner, gulping wine to both numb the sharp pangs of hunger and to turn down the volume of Olivia's relentless emotional beatings for what I am trying to do (have a normal dinner with my daughter).

Like most evenings, this dinner goes as usual. We discuss the day, and what is happening tomorrow, talk about everyday teenage-girl drama and eat in less than 15 minutes.  My daughter announces that she is going to take her evening shower now ("finally!" says Olivia)

What ensues is basically "Lunchtime, Part II".  Minus the push-ups because even Olivia concedes that I don't have the energy to pull that off.

I come downstairs, once again calm with the knowledge that I have won the battle against food, pour more wine and clean the kitchen.

8:00PM-10:00PM~I sit with my daughter, sneaking wine in a coffee cup, until the pangs of hunger, along with the anxiety of my life are numb enough so I can try and sleep.  Counting the calories I ate today and most assuredly accumulated to expand my un-deserving body.  Making me visible and vulnerable to everyone.

10:00PM-2:00AM ~after my daughter goes to bed, I will once more purge (the wine and the anxiety of the day), crawl into bed, shaky, weak and full of guilt, shame and self-loathing, praying for peace and normalcy and quiet in my head.

Rinse.Lather.Repeat.