My Fight With Eating Disorders - Health - http://maxpages.com/elliesownpage/My

I was never a fat child, not too skinny either. Just normal. A healthy normal. I was a gymnist from age 3 until I was 10. During that time period, I was also being sexually abused by a man whom I thought was my father (we'll call him "H"). Every morning....in the same chair...doing the same thing...day after day...year after year. All of the wrong things he was doing to me seemed right. Normal. Around the age of 8, him and my mother got divorced because he was abusive and cheating on her. That was about the time that I came out and told my mom and councelor what he was doing to me. They were shocked, and I didn't know why. They explained to me that what he was doing was WRONG. I had no idea; it seemed like something loving that a father did to his daughter. As I finally began to get into some more serious therapy, I realized that what he did was not right. However, I didn't have any negative feelings towards him or anything like that. I pressed charges, and got the bastard in jail, but I still wasn't feeling any pain. It wasn't until years later that the pain and grief finally hit me. And when it hit, it hit hard .

Back to around the time that I was conceived...

My mom met up with a guy who she used to date (He will be "G") . When they dated, my mom was also sorta dating H. She had sex with both men during the course of 4 days. So, when she was pregnant, she didn't know whos baby it was. After I was born, we did the blood test, etc. The tests showed that I was H's daughter. Naturally, we all grew together as a family.

Then they got divorced and my mom started dating G again. G was still unsure about the fact that I was not his daughter. We did another blood test. It showed that G was actually my father. It turns out that H got ahold of the results before my mom had a chance to see them, and changed the report to make it appear that I was his daughter. Bastard.

My mom and G continued dating for about 6 monthes. I felt that G was trying to take MY mother away from me. Shortly after they had begun dating, they tied the knot. My mother was married to my real father. Anyway, when I was 11, our family went on a ski trip in Colorado. Long story short, I ended up falling while on a ski hill, and tore a ligament in my knee. Right then, I decided that I would HAVE to go on a diet, because I wouldn't be able to do any physical activity for quite sometime. To me, being 'fat' seemed like the worst possible thing in the world. At first, I just cut certain foods out that I thought were fattening, and just not suitable for a girl like me. Two months after I injured it, I had surgery, which was very traumatizing, considering I was only 11 years old. While I was recovering from my surgery, I was also beginning to cut more food out of my diet. Obviously, I was losing weight, but nothing to be too concerned about. As time passed, my "diet" became more and more entrenched. I became totally focused on food and weight. It quickly became an obsession.

For a long time, I was in a state of denial. Sure, I probably wasn't eating quite enough, but I WAS eating. In February of 2000, I went for my annual check-up at the doctors. (I actually think that my mom had begun to worry, so she scheduled me an apointment.) Upon arrival, they weighed me. I was amazed at the amount of weight I had lost. It seemed so cool. My doctor came in, and she didn't look happy. Her first question was, "Why are you losing so much weight? Twenty pounds is quite a lot for a girl of your age." I just stared at her and said, "I am on a diet." She then went over how much I was eating a day, and from that information, she diagnosed me with anorexia nervosa. She recommended to my mother that I begin therapy. A few days after this appointment, I purged for the first time. I remember it clearly. Our family had gone out to dinner at the country club with my grandparents. I had ordered a salad and a STEAK. After dinner, I had 3 cookies. On the way home, I was beating myself up over what I had eaten. I got home rushed to the bathroom and made myself vomit. It came up slow, and that frustrated me. My first official purge took 2 hours.

That was the first time that I realized I had a problem. I went and told my mom that I just threw up my dinner. A few days later, I was sitting in a therapist's office. Over the few months that I had seen her, things did NOT begin to improve. In fact, they slowly became worse. In addition to the restriction and occasional purging, I found a new self-destructer: laxatives. After I ate, I would force liquid laxatives down my throat until I felt that the food I ate would be purged. Needless to say, my digestive system became very disfunctional. Around July 2000, I began cutting. At first, he was just minor stuff. A blade across the arm here, snip of skin there, burn there. It was nothing too deep, but it was just the fact that I was doing it.

One day, in early August, my mom came in and asked me what I had had to eat and drink that day. I told her that I had a few goldfish and an apple, and nothing to drink. She asked me if I would eat something and have some water. I refused. She then tried to get me to drink only the water. I refused to do that too. So, she called my therapist, who told her to take me to the ER. My mom did just that. After a night spent in the hospital getting rehydrated, my parents communicated with my therapist about what the next course of action would be. One word: TREATMENT.

I was horrified. I had no desire or need (or..so I thought) to recover. I wanted to get sicker, thinner, etc. I decided that the moment I got out of treatment, I would go back to my eating disorder.

I entered Laureate Eating Disorders Program in August of 2000. I walked through those door, and I was scared shitless. My parents walked me in, kissed me with tear-filled eyes, and left. My first meal was chicken, mashed potatoes and milk. I ate it in the "Fish Bowl" with the secretary. It was so uncomfortable. I spent most of the time mashing my food up, until I decided that I might as well eat it. My mentality was that the more I ate, the faster I would be released.

As my first week in the program ended, I was beginning to build a bond with the other patients, staff, therapists, and doctor. For the first time in a year, I actually wanted to get better. It wouldn't be so bad being healthy again. My laughs were real, and my tears genuine. I worked through some of my issues, and developed meaningful relationships.

Upon discharge, I left with tear filled eyes. My time there was over, and I didn't want to leave. The hospital was my haven; a place for safety from myself and my illness. I cried all the way home.

When I got home, I stayed on my meds, and did reasonably well for about 3 weeks. Then I started slipping. My relapse first began when some landscape dude was over at my house while I was eating frozed yogurt. He said, "How do you spell DIET?" I spelled it for him. "D-I-E-T," I said. Then he goes, "Why don't you go on one?" I got so pissed. I went to my room for about 5 minutes, and came out and said, "You know what?! I really do NOT appreciate what you just said. You know where I spent the last 2 months of my life?" He was shocked and said, "Well, no."

I screamed, "AT AN EATING DISORDERS TREATMENT CENTER!"

I began to think that maybe he was right. Maybe I did need to diet. So, I did just that. Slowly, I began to cut things out of my meal plan. A carb here, a fruit there. Before long, my "diet" windled down to lettuce, vegetables, and an occasional piece of fruit or low-calorie bread. I lost a dramatic amount of weight, and became very sick; much sicker than I was before admission to the hospital.

During that time, we obsession with self-mutilation intensified. I was cutting up to 5 times a week. They were not small scratches, but deep long cuts. Each time I dragged that blade across my skin, I became one step close to suicide.

I was left with very few options: There was no way I could go into treatment again, because insurance refused to pay. My two options were to: 1. be admitted to the hospital with tube-feedings (which would only make me relapse as soon as I was releases) or 2. Continue out-patient therapy with my awesome therapist. We chose the second option.
Yes, there was a chance that I would die durning the course of therapy, but we took the chance. I put all my trust in God, and took a giant leap of faith.

I am now proud to say that I am doing okay. I am not, by a longshot, recovered. My everyday thoughts are tormented by the depression and the eating disorder. I still have days that I don't eat as I should. To this day, I am still in a state of being majorly depressed, but I am working on it. I have cut down on the cutting, and plan to keep cutting down.

If there is only one thing that you gain from this story, my hope is that it will be that YOU CAN RECOVER. At times, it seems next to impossible, but it is possible. It is an uphill battle that has to be continuously fought with all of the strenth that you possess.

Always remember that YOU CAN DO IT!

Some Poetry of mine is here

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Ellie

United States

help4eds@yahoo.com

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Page Updated Sun Aug 12, 2001 11:20pm EDT