Mission Impossible Made Possible

*As always, I like to put a warning ahead of time if I include talk of behaviors or any sort of material that may be triggering. Please know your limits, and if you are in a vulnerable place, please wait until you are ready to read this. I do talk of previous behaviors, however, I use this as a way to show how far I have come*

15 weeks of fighting, surviving, thriving, winning, and LIVING. And I can officially say that I have made it.

I have made it through my first semester at college. A feat that seemed impossible just several months ago. A challenge that I had attempted to undertake once before only to fall down, losing the strength to pick myself up. A task that had every possibility of ending in another medical leave, another hospitalization, another cycle through treatment, and if I was too weak to fight the battle again, every possibility of ending in death.

But instead, a feat that I made possible. A challenge that I accepted and was willing to conquer, using all my strength to stand my ground and fight. A task that has had every possibility of opening my life up to countless opportunities, ending in an acceptance into the nursing program, success in academics, and a strong foundation for my recovery.

I conquered my mission impossible. And I am standing here today as living proof that no matter how hard it may seem, no matter how many challenges you have stacked up against you, nothing is ever impossible. The impossible can always be turned possible.

If you had told me on day one of the semester that I would end the semester as a nursing student, successfully completing five classes, who is strong enough to resist the urge to run and restrict, taking steps every day for her freedom, moving towards her physical and mental goals, I would have said that you must be hugely mistaken. You must be talking about someone else, switching me with another person who had a much brighter future than me. Because at the beginning of the semester, I barely had any hope that I would be able to pull myself through a challenge I had attempted several months before and failed at miserably. I was hesitant. I was scared. To be quite honest, although I never let it show, I was on the verge of hopelessness.

Especially when I began the semester and saw the traps that I fell into. The trajectory I was headed on. The weakness that seemed to shine through instead of the strength I had worked so hard to build up after I had hit my rock bottom.

Waking up at 4 am to run countless miles. Then walking countless more miles on campus. Choosing the longest routes to class. Counting every step, calorie, and micronutrient. Nodding off in class due to physical and emotional exhaustion. Failing to meet my meal plan. Slowly watching the number on the scale move away from health. And slowly seeing my mindset follow.

I knew this pattern would lead me to the same outcome I had faced just one semester before. And I was terrified. How could I let myself go down this path again? I knew exactly the outcome, yet I still failed to choose the right path. Was recovery even possible for me? Would I ever learn how to live for life not death? To live for myself, not for something that wished to kill me?

But there was a difference this time. There was a spark of hope, of motivation, of recovery that had developed following my most recent inpatient stay. That vision I had in the hospital of my future that held so much possibility, happiness, and life. And that moment as I sat eating breakfast in the hospital, feeling utter humiliation and defeat as I was watched by four UCONN nursing students who were completing their clinical. And that desire to never, ever let myself be the patient again, and to do whatever it takes to be that UCONN nursing student, and eventually that nurse saving countless lives, the life that I always dreamed of living.

And this time, I was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent sick and tired of living my life sick and tired, under the relentless rule of a monster with the will to kill me, putting my life through pain and torture, treating my body with the cruelest form of punishment and hatred. I was one hundred percent ready to give my eating disorder up and take my life back. I was ready for recovery.

Recovery is something that you need to be ready for. You have to commit yourself one hundred percent to the recovery process because anything less than one hundred percent allows room for the eating disorder to take back command and convince you of your grave mistake to destroy it. For years, I have said that I wanted recovery, yet there was still a part of me holding on to the eating disorder as I continued to believe its lies and rules promising me of a better life. And that part of me holding on, no matter how small, always got in the way of full recovery because I was always trying to find the way to accommodate the eating disorder in my recovery. The question I always asked myself was, “How can I get by to just be in recovery but still listen to and follow the lies of the eating disorder without anyone getting on my case?” And this question served to my detriment as it always set me up to be one step away from relapse. One step away from a very steep, painful, downhill plunge into the eating disorder.

But this time, I felt deep in my mind, body, and soul that I was truly and completely ready to embark on my journey towards recovery. After a 10 year long battle against myself, I was ready to take myself back into my loving and caring arms and give my mind, body, and soul the love, happiness, and life they deserve.

So this time, I caught myself. Before I relapsed. And before I lost everything again. My college education. My career. My future. My life.

And step by step, I gathered up the strength and courage to begin to combat each and every behavior that had taken me down previously. Not all at once. But one step at a time, starting with the behaviors that had the most impact on my health and success, I began to chip away at the eating disorder rather than at myself.

Instead of avoiding my meal plan, I began to follow it. And not just follow it. I began adding different foods that were previously deemed as “fear foods” and began to not just go through the motions of eating, but enjoy tastes and flavors. I started putting more thought into my meals and snacks, but not the obsessive, eating disordered, restrictive thought that used to control my food choices. I began to focus on what my body wanted to taste, tuning in to the flavors, combinations, and benefits that come with food, and allowing my food choices to be products of these thoughts rather than the rules of my eating disorder. I discovered that it is possible to enjoy food and participate in the joy of eating that makes life full of flavor.

I got rid of MyFitnessPal, an app that was completely controlling my life and every single decision I made, dictating what I could and couldn’t eat based on how much I had exercised and already consumed that day. It tracked every single calorie, every single macronutrient and micronutrient, every single step taken and minute of activity. It consumed my every move. So I deleted it, taking my power back, and most importantly, taking my life back, allowing myself to be free from the constant reminder to move, eat less, and get thin. I took charge of my recovery by allowing my body the freedom to make decisions for itself rather than allowing an app to make them for me. I let myself be okay with not knowing every single calorie, every single macronutrient and micronutrient, every single step, every single calorie burned. Because sometimes, ignorance is bliss. And in this case, ignorance is essential to recovery.

I gave my Garmin watch to my boyfriend. I gave up a tracking device that controlled my every move, pushing me to the absolute extremes in steps, miles, and calories burned. Because, again, ignorance is bliss, and in having the number of steps walked, miles gone, and calories burned displayed constantly on my wrist as a persistent reminder that I could always push myself further, more steps, more miles, more calories burned, I fed my eating disorder every second of the day. The watch was my eating disorder’s best friend, its source of validation and power. So one way to begin to kill the eating disorder was to strip it of its power source. And so that is exactly what I did. With the unconditional love and support of my boyfriend, I handed off the watch to him. Out of sight, out of mind.

I cut down the amount I walked on campus. Going from three trips back to the car in the course of a day plus walking to classes that were quite a distance from each other, I eliminated at least one walk to the car per day, took shorter routes to class, and made it a goal to reduce the mileage each week so that I could bring myself back to normalcy and relieve myself from the pure exhaustion my body had accumulated. I cut my mileage in half by the end of the semester and am still working each and every day to not let exercise control my life.

I began to reduce the mileage of my runs. But I was still waking up at 4 in the morning, and I couldn’t seem to get myself to take a rest day. So out of pure exhaustion, both physically and mentally, and realizing just how destructive the running had become in my life, for both my lifestyle, my social life, my health, and my future, I made the decision. All by myself. To stop running. I hit a point of pure exhaustion, my body screaming out in desperation for mercy, agony resonating through every inch of my body as I pushed it through every mile, and I could not take it anymore. So after five months straight of running every day with no breaks, I stopped running on April 5th, 2018. And although I had never felt so scared out of my mind, so disgusted with my body, and so uncomfortable in my skin, I had also never felt so proud of myself, so relieved with my decision, and so ready to take on my recovery. This step was essential in proving that I was completely dedicated to the recovery process. That I wasn’t just attempting to recover in some areas only to hold on to other behaviors that compensated for the progress I appeared to be making. That I wanted my life back. And I was willing to do whatever it took, no matter how hard it would be, to reach my goal of my life, my recovery, and my future.

I stopped fighting the number on the scale and trying desperately to prevent it from increasing towards the healthy range that my body wants to live in more than anything. I have begun to accept as the number starts to move in the right direction. I have given up the fight against my body. And in the process, I am working on detaching my self-worth, self-acceptance, and self-love from the number on the scale. I am working on accepting my goal weight range as a healthy, happy, full of life place to be. I am telling myself that weight gain is my friend, not my enemy, and hoping that the more I hear myself say this, the more believable it will become. And in the meantime, I am giving my body the compassion and care it needs as it goes through this difficult physical transition.

And most importantly, through all of these steps forward, I took responsibility for my recovery, making each and every step forward MY step forward. Making every decision to move forward my own decision rather than the product of others telling me I need to. Making my recovery MY recovery. I have chosen to stop restricting. I have chosen to get rid of apps and devices that only feed my eating disorder. I have chosen to stop running. I have chosen to start the path to restore my weight. And I have chosen the path to recovery. These were my decisions. And these decisions were everything but easy. Everything but painless. But because of the pain and difficulty, I have grown in strength and capability. I have grown in independence and confidence and experience. I have grown in myself. And I have grown in recovery. Because these are my decisions, and this is my recovery. My full, true, beautiful recovery.

15 weeks later, I have successfully made it through a semester of college. But not just a semester of college. I have successfully made it onto my path towards recovery. A path I have been searching to find for ten years.

A new message appeared on the red barn near my house this week. Very timely, and very fitting.

Every end is a new beginning.

And this message fits in a variety of ways. First, as the end of this semester has approached, I have opened up the beginning of my recovery, fully and truly dedicating my efforts to achieve the life and happiness I have longed to live for so long. This semester challenged me, tested me, and pushed me to take up the responsibility for my own life, realizing that the only way to begin my recovery is to begin.

And this message is also reflective of a deeper level. With the end of my eating disorder, I am beginning my life. In order to begin the life of possibility, happiness, love, and recovery that lies within my reach, I must take the step to end the eating disorder. To end the behaviors, patterns, thoughts, lifestyles, and obsessions I have held on to for ten years in hopes of achieving the false reality the eating disorder promised to me. I must end the eating disorder, eliminating every single part of its being, to begin my life. And I have never been more ready.

This is my mission impossible. And I am making my impossible, possible.