Making Recovery Mine

Making Recovery Mine

At age 10, my recovery was my mom’s recovery. My pediatrician’s recovery. My dietitian's recovery.

My brain was so naive and new to the eating disorder that I had little awareness that I was even engaging in behaviors that would be considered part of an eating disorder. The eating disorder had very little power over me as it had only been a part of my life for several months.

And so, because I was so young, so innocent, so open to help and change, my parent’s stepped in and took control. My mom made all of the decisions about my food intake, and I ate whatever she put in front of me because I couldn’t imagine being disobedient to her to be obedient to something I had just met. And not just something I had just met, something that apparently was trying to hurt me. And I was okay with my mom making all the decisions and my obedience to her over my eating disorder because I didn’t have much of a connection with it, therefore not fearing much about the thought of losing it. As a result, my mind and body were restored to health under the careful efforts of my mom, my dietitian, and my pediatrician. My recovery team.

And I entered recovery. For three full years.

But unfortunately, relapse can happen. And at age 13, my eating disorder found its way back into my life. And this time, quite a bit stronger than its previous visit into my life. Stronger, louder, more defiant, rebellious, experienced, and deadly. This time, I already knew the eating disorder. So it didn’t just reside in my brain. It became friends with me and convinced me that it was more important, more knowledgeable, and more trustworthy than anyone else in my life. And because I was going through another difficult time in my life, I believed it. And I allowed it to transform me. My mind and my body. Until there wasn’t left much to transform.

And this time, the beast had become a little too strong to be tamed without treatment. So Walden Behavioral Care came into my life and saved my life. I tried an intensive outpatient program, which proved to be not enough. I tried a residential program, but that also turned out to be not enough. And before the eating disorder had a chance to take my life away from me, I landed on an inpatient floor with an NG tube to restore my body and ultimately my mind to the recovery I had lived for three years prior.

After eleven weeks of tube feedings six meals and snacks a day because I was too afraid to take the responsibility of recovery for myself, I was discharged, released into the real world to figure out how to live again. And even though I was outside of a hospital setting, I was not on my own to find my way to recovery. I had the support of an intensive outpatient program and most importantly, the support of my mom, who once again, took the full responsibility of my recovery into her own hands, preparing all of my meals and snacks and staying up with me until each and every bite was finished. I will be forever grateful for the amount of time, effort, and support my mom poured into ensuring I held onto my life and reached recovery again.

My mom followed a common approach in the treatment of children and adolescents, a method called the Maudsley method in which the family takes a very active role in the recovery process. And this approach worked for me at age 13. And it brought me to recovery again, just in time to enjoy my high school career and all the experiences that I was fortunate enough to have had. My recovery wasn’t complete recovery, but it was close enough to allow me to lead a normal, happy, successful life throughout high school.

At age 13, my recovery was the inpatient unit’s recovery. Walden Behavioral Care’s recovery. My mom’s recovery.

And my recovery lasted for three solid years, carrying me through the majority of my high school career. And I almost made it. I was so close to the end, with just a month left until graduation. But another relapse had crept in as I turned 18, again following a variety of difficult life circumstances that weakened me and built up the eating disorder stronger than ever. And the eating disorder was an entirely new beast with more experience and power than ever, and it wasn’t afraid to use it.

So with just a month left, I was too sick to continue with school and entered treatment at Walden Behavioral Care again, this time trying the adult Partial Hospitalization Program since I was no longer considered an adolescent, which was a 6 hour program, five days a week, aimed at restoring both physical and mental health. And I tried this program for around a month, until it became clear to me, my team, and my family, that I was too far gone physically and emotionally to continue on and survive in such a level of care. So, once again, I was admitted inpatient.

But this time was different. And, unfortunately, not different in a good way. This time, I was eighteen years old. I was an adult. Which meant that now, I was responsible for making healthcare decisions for myself, and the right to refuse came into play. The right to refuse treatment, medical protocols, medical care, and recommendations from medical professionals. And at that point, I was so sick physically and my brain was so depleted of nutrition that there was no possible way for me to combat the beast in my head that was stronger than ever before, determined to diminish me to the number zero this time.

I began refusing all treatment protocols including tube feedings and medication administration aimed at reducing my thoughts and anxiety. My treatment team and family became panicked as my heart rate continued to lower and my health continued to deteriorate. Clearly, I was not capable of taking responsibility for my body at that time.

And so one morning, I was told that I had a visitor, which surprised me since visiting hours weren’t usually until the evening and my family meeting wasn’t for a few hours. I was shocked to see who met me in the visitor’s lounge, dressed in a suit and tie and equipped with a multitude of documents. A lawyer awaited me. A lawyer I had never met in my life, not that I had worked with any other lawyers before that point in time. He greeted me and explained that my parents had contacted him, desperate for the return of power into their hands regarding my medical decisions. He told me that if I was willing and signed these documents, my parents could obtain a medical power of attorney over me, giving them all rights to make medical decisions on my behalf. Noting the seriousness of the situation, I figured that my health was far more concerning than my eating disorder allowed me to believe. And I wasn’t quite ready to lose my life to the hands of a monster.

So, gathering all of the strength I had left, I picked up the pen and signed each paper, signing over my rights to my parents. I handed over the responsibility of my life back into the hands that had given me life not just once, but countless times in my journey with an eating disorder. I trusted them with my life. They had saved my life too many times to count. They deserved to have the responsibility at this time. I, on the other hand, did not trust myself with my life. I had dragged my life towards death too many times. I had let the eating disorder win. So to get my life back, I had to hand my life over to the hands of my parents and medical professionals so that they could repair the wounds my eating disorder created and give it back to me, healed, when I was capable and ready to take it back.

And by no means was this easy to accept. At age 18, there was nothing more that I wanted than to have full rights over myself and my decisions. There was nothing more that I wanted than to be independent, free, and capable of living my own life. But it also became very clear to me that morning in the family meeting when my glucose levels had significantly dropped as soon as I was connected to a continuous tube feed, indicating that my body had been on the edge of failing due to hypoglycemia, that I was not capable of caring for my own body and health at that time. My brain was so deprived that it couldn’t make proper decisions for itself, even if it wanted to.

So with the proper nutrition, my body and brain slowly began to kick in again, and I fought to start eating solid food, taking the responsibility of my recovery into my own hands rather than the hands of the hospital. With the constant threat of a tube feed if I didn’t complete a meal, the responsibility for my recovery was still significantly held in the hands of the hospital, but I was choosing to put each and every bite into my mouth. And so I was making the steps towards taking that responsibility back.

And I became responsible enough over my eating and body that I was allowed to discharge on the day of my graduation, walking across the stage that night and receiving my diploma in my own hands. Taking that diploma in my hands, I was also taking my life back into my own hands, slowly but surely learning that I can in fact be responsible for not just my life, but for my healthiness, my happiness, and my future.

And so my journey back towards recovery began again. With an immense amount of strength and effort, I pushed my way through the summer months with the ultimate goal of being allowed to attend college at UCONN that Fall. This was my chance to prove that I could, in fact, take responsibility for my own life and become independent, living on my own as a student on a college campus. And my efforts over the summer did not go unnoticed, resulting in the final joint decision of my parents and treatment team that I had shown enough progress to be given a chance at living on campus. This was my test. And this was my chance.

And so on August 25th, 2017, I moved all of my belongings into my own dorm room and stood in disbelief that this moment was actually happening. Three months prior, I had been told in a hospital room that there was very little hope I would even be graduating high school, let alone having the opportunity to attend college in the Fall. But three months later, I was defying the odds and was about to face the reality of independence. As my parents and I said our tearful goodbyes, we all acknowledged the fear hanging heavily in the air. Had we made the right decision? Would I be able to hold my own? Was I really ready for this?

And with those unspoken thoughts lingering, we went our separate ways, and I began my journey at college. Deep down, I had a feeling of the inevitable. I think we all did. That this may have been a bit too much too soon. And that it might not be as smooth of a transition as we had dreamed. It, unfortunately, didn’t take much time to figure out.

This was my first shot ever at trying to be independent. And so naturally, I was quite clueless as to how to go about it. Ever since the age of 10, I had been completely reliant on my mom to make all food choices for me, and I had developed an extreme dependence on her, even though it was a subconscious choice, to hold the responsibility of my eating and health rather than me having the strength and courage to call the responsibility my own. And I hadn’t really noticed just how much dependence I placed on her until I could no longer use her as my constant source of accountability. I was alone now. And I was completely, one hundred percent responsible for feeding myself, my mind and my body, and taking full responsibility for it. A task as simple as eating. And I couldn’t quite figure it out.

The eating disorder saw my vulnerability and lept into action. It forced me to believe that the last thing that would lead to my success would be taking responsibility for my own eating. That in obeying it and reverting back to its rules, I would finally achieve the goals it had set for years as it dreamed of the opportunities it could have once I was finally allowed to live on my own. It told me that this was the chance I had been waiting for. I was finally on my own. Was I really going to give up this chance to get skinny, to reach the goal weight I had never had the opportunity to reach before?

But little did my eating disorder realize that just because I was on my own didn’t mean it could have it the way it wanted. Eventually, it would be stopped. Whether that meant me dying or my family and team stepping in. And fortunately, I am still here living today, and my family and team intervened after three weeks of unsuccessful attempts to turn my life around. And I hit another rock bottom as my mom drove me up to Rockville General Hospital and I sent the email to the Dean of Student Affairs at UCONN explaining that I would be taking a medical leave for the semester due to serious health concerns. When would this ever end?

But this time was different. And THIS time, different in a GOOD way. This time, I stepped onto the inpatient unit and realized that I couldn’t continue to live my life in this way. That something had to change. And that change came down to one simple fact. This needed to be mine. The change to get better needed to be mine. The action to get better needed to be mine. The responsibility for each and every step forward needed to be mine. Recovery needed to be mine.

I couldn’t continue to be a bystander in my own life, looking to others to do my recovery for me. Hoping that if I just kept passing it off to hospitals and treatment facilities and parents that it would eventually go away and I would avoid the pain and suffering and struggle that accompany the journey to recovery. I needed to take this into my own hands. I needed to take full responsibility for my recovery and accept each and every step forward as my own. Because this was my journey, and I needed to be the one to make each and every footprint to prove to myself and to the world that recovery is possible. And recovery is mine.

So instead of relying on the tube to feed me and restore me to health, I took matters into my own hands and completed each meal and snack under my control, eating one hundred percent of my meal plan, proving to myself and to my team that this time, I wasn’t just here to survive. I was here to recover.

And although I knew this was the necessary change I needed to make and the right choice for my ultimate goal of recovery, this was the farthest thing from easy. But they say the best things in life never come easy, and so I held on tight to this belief, knowing that at some point it would get easier. And at all points it would be worth it.

And so the day of my discharge, my team met me with confidence in their decision, knowing that this time I was ready to have my life handed back to me, that this time, I’d be able to step out into the real world and handle it. And most importantly, that this time, I had proven that I coud take responsibility for my life and my recovery, that I was in power of my mind, body, and recovery this time. No one else.

So that evening, I grabbed my belongings by the armful and waked with confidence out the doors of the inpatient unit. Knowing that this time, I was the one carrying my life. In my own hands. And knowing that this time would be the last time I stepped foot through those doors.

As a patient, at least :)

And here I am today. No, I am not in perfect recovery yet. No, I am not behavior free yet. But, yes, I am taking full responbility for my journey towards recovery. And yes, I am taking steps each and every day, on my own, by myself, for myself, with myself, to reach that recovery I have been after for nine years.

And yes, I have made it through a semester of college. Not only surviving, but thriving.

This past week, as the semester has begun to wrap up, it really hit me how despite all of the difficulties and struggles that characterized the past semester, I made it. And the reason for me making it this time lies in the fact that I took the responsibility for my recovery. I took the responsibility to break the behaviors that would have taken me out of school. I took the responsibility to stop running. I took the responsibility to get up to my meal plan. I took the responsibility to begin stepping out of my comfort zone with food and body image and life in general.

But I also cannot take away from the fact that the unconditional love and support of my family, boyfriend, friends, and each of every one of my recovery supporters has been the foundation I have needed to gather up the courage to take this recovery as my own. I have realized that taking responsibiity doesn’t mean that I can’t receive help and support from all my recovery supporters. It just means that I am the one making the choice to step forward and I am the one willing to accept that this is MY recovery and not the recovery that someone else has made me do.

And because I have taken the responsibility for my life, my happiness, and my recovery, I have become a member of my recovery team rather than just a bystander. I have become the captain of the team. And I still have my mom, my outpatient team, my family, my friends, and my supporters as members of my team. But I have taken the role as captain.

In years past, I have avoided even becoming a member of my recovery team because I was still very afraid of the idea of recovery and my eating disorder continued to convine me that if I gave in to the responsibility of returning my life to normal, I woud be completely ashamed and would regret my decision to abandon it. I never became a member of my recovery team because in all honesty, there was still a part of me that didn’t want recovery. And so I didn’t want to take responsibility for something that I wasn’t ready to have.

But now, I am ready to take on recovery. One hundred percent, competely, fully ready to have my life back. And so I have taken up the great responsibility of saving my own life. And I have made my recovery something I am proud of, not something that I am ashamed of. I would be more than proud to say that I saved another person’s ife. So why wouldn’t I be proud of saving my own life?

And so,

At age 19, my recovery is MY recovery. And this time, my recovery is my FULL recovery.