By the time I finally entered therapy, I knew what my eating disorder represented. I had read all the books. I had analyzed myself up one side and down the other. I knew my e.d. was not about food. It never is. I knew it was a coping mechanism. Starving myself meant starving my feelings away. The less I ate, the less I felt. Binging equaled stuffing my feelings down. So far down that they didn't exist anymore. Or so I thought. Purging equaled bringing the feelings up. To be flushed down the toilet. I wasn't puking up the food. I was puking up my feelings. After vomiting, I was void of all feelings. I felt nothing. Total numbness.
But with all my self-analysis, I still found it impossible to stop.
I wanted to - at times. Other times I was so thankful for it. I thought that if I didn't have it, I would be forced to face myself and all my negative feelings. I wouldn't be able to handle it. They would crush me. I would die from mental exhaustion. I was sure of it.
Deciding to get help was one of the scariest things I ever did.
I had flirted with the idea for so long.
But it wasn't until I was scaring myself that I decided to stop. I had been scaring my family and friends for years. That didn't bother me. I felt they were over reacting. I mean, I controlled it. It did not control me. What a big fat f-ing joke that was. Only I didn't get it. For me to get the punchline would have had to be me dying, I guess. Thank God and Daddy, I started scaring myself with it.
The purging episodes were getting to the point where I would basically pass out by the toilet. The room would be spinning. I would be spinning. I felt as if I didn't know where I was or who I was. I would pull myself up by holding onto the sink. Once standing the room spun more. My eyes couldn't focus. Everything was muggy and foggy. I would have to get on my hands and knees and crawl to my bedroom, where I would have to pull myself up on the bed. Once safely under the covers, I would pass out.
Now I've always been one for the dramatics, but this was a bit much. This wasn't me being a drama queen. This was real.
I was scared.
I didn't mean to start crying on the table of my gynecologist's office. I really didn't. All he did was ask me how I was doing and the floodgates came bursting open. I told him how I was starving myself and that when I would eat, out it would come. How I tried and tried to stop, but couldn't.
When he was finished examining me, he left the room saying he was going to call (the treatment center I went to). I am to this day ever so grateful for this man. I really don't think I could have ever made that call. But for some unforeseen reason, I was made to cry on that table, however embarrassing it was. And it was.
I could hear him in the hall on the phone taking charge. He told me to come out and talk to them. They made me an appointment for me to come in for the next week. I am told to come by before to fill out papers and a questionnaire about my e.d. to see how best to treat me.
I am at once scared and excited. All for the same reason. The thought of giving up my constant companion, living without it, making it through life without it, succeeding without it. I was split down the middle. A part of me was like, forget it, you'll never make it. You're wasting their time and your money. The other part was filled with unspoken hope.
It is scary to ask for help. Very. For so long, we have been hiding in shame with our disease. We thought we didn't deserve help. Other people do, but we don't. I'm here to tell you, you do deserve it. You can't do it alone. Ask for help. It is out there.
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