An Eating Disorder Story Every Woman Needs to Read

Two days ago, I asked Breaking the Mirror’s community to share their eating disorder stories with me.  One has arrived, and it’s an incredible tale of resilience, recovery and hope. 

My goal is to share this with as many people as possible, so please feel free to link up and ask your friends to drop by. 

Oh, and if you have your own Ana or Mia tale to tell, you can contact me at lemonpepr(at)aol(dot)com.  All letters will remain anonymous, though I’m giving pieces pseudonymous titles.

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Hope’s* Story

*pseudonym

I was fifteen when I began a journey that’s lasted a lifetime thus far.

A USGF gymnast in elementary school, I traveled the state for competitions, but was never more than mediocre. Still, it was the discipline of the grueling 4-6 hours training sessions, 6 days a week, which taught me perseverance.

A move from a small town in ND, raised in a private school, to big town Phoenix, AZ gave me my first taste of public school life at age twelve. Another move at age fourteen into a different school district was more than I could bear, and I retreated into the confines of my own mind.

I began restricting as I simultaneously developed an interest in cooking for my family. I would make elaborate French meals, as I studied the language and gained secret satisfaction from watching them eat. I began running, waking up early in the morning, running miles and miles until my shin splints halted my efforts.

One evening, I thought I would try purging my dinner; I had overheard my Mom talking about an old babysitter who was bulimic. How wonderful, I thought – to be able to eat, and not have to deal with the consequences of my actions! At the time, it was like a dream come true. Only years later would I learn the nightmare I had volunteered for.

My parents discovered my secret, and a family prayer session was held. That was the end of the story, from their perspective. I think they were ashamed, or embarrassed; I don’t know. It subsided for awhile, and came back with full vengeance after I moved out on my 18th birthday. College brought with it plenty of drinking, and I began a love affair with coke for a couple of years, followed by ecstasy. I should have died, numerous times, but God had a purpose for my life.

One of the last horrible memories I had during this time was laying over the toilet, by myself, after purging violently for what must have been the 14th or 15th time of the day. Blood was running out of my nose. I didn’t want to die this way. I had to get help. I had kicked cocaine, I could kick this, too.

My fiancé offered to pay for treatment, so I started therapy shortly thereafter. Six months into it, I decided I was healed and quit. We got married, and I continued to purge, but on a less regular basis. When he upset me, or was out of town on business, I would load up on beer and binge food and go until I was literally sick. The wedge it drove into our relationship was devastating, but like any addiction, I kept up the front so I could hang on to my ‘friend’.

Finally, while in CA, we found ourselves at a church that revolutionized our lives, our marriage, our everything. I no longer wanted the roadblock of bulimia eating away at the core of my marriage. And I quit. FOR GOOD. FOR ME.

Fast forward 4-1/2 years. We moved to AZ, to be closer to family and to buy a home. I had been working in the loan business in CA, and started up again in AZ. I landed a lucrative job in the downtown financial district, making more money than I ever had before. But I hated it.

I felt out of place, I went home everyday feeling horrible, as though I had messed up every deal and caused everyone else 10 times as much work. I cried many a time on the way home. But I persevered, because I wanted to grow, I wanted to become better.

In August of 2007, everything changed. I was diagnosed with bacterial pneumonia after experiencing stabbing sharp pains under my left rib cage, rales, and increased breathlessness. Off work for a week, then I went back like nothing had happened.

Then boom. On my way to work Thursday morning, I was overcome with drowsiness, feeling as though I was going to pass out. I drove back home, and called my Dr. They saw me immediately and drew blood for different tests. Valley Fever (Coccidioidomycosis) had already been ruled out, as I tested negative for that weeks ago. I went home and fell into a stupor for the next few days. I could not eat, talk, or barely open my eyes.

Monday the Dr. called. I had both Legionnaire’s Disease and Valley Fever. The following day I was so sick I became clinically dehydrated and ad to go to the ER for tachycardia and re-hydration. Months of anti-fungal medicine followed, along with painkillers. The weight fell off by accident, as the diflucan (’DIE-flucan’ is what I called it) made me extremely nauseous.

No matter how many pain killers I took, heating pads on my side, the pain upon breathing was horrendous. When I ate, it pushed my full stomach against the left lung and pleura, causing more pain. So I ate less, and less. I didn’t mean to relapse, but I soon found it soothing and it took my mind off of my unforgiving pain under my ribs.

A short stint with a nerve blocking medication in an attempt to get me of opiates caused me to have suicidal thoughts. My therapist, who I had started seeing again in February 08, promptly took me off of it. For not only had the drug caused me to become severely depressed, but it brought back the bulimia in full force, several times a day, and I was feeling completely out of control. Once off the drugs – no more purging.

Now I’m on a non-narcotic for the pain, although it’s still there and I still have pleural friction rubs weekly. The anorexia that became a welcomed visitor to me to help get me through the lonely days of lying in bed has now become a hated enemy. I love her, but I hate her. Just like the bulimia put a wedge in my marriage, so does the ana. It’s easy to lie about eating. But when you value the other half of your soul, each lie tears you further apart.

I’m considering Inpatient now, and it’s a very difficult decision. I don’t want to have someone sit outside the bathroom door while I do my business. It’s hard enough to do it at home! But the allure of everything that ana promises still whispers in my ear, even though I try hard to pretend I don’t hear it. Each day I set out to accomplish something small, something forward.

I’m on an anti-depressant, and anti-anxiety meds, which I usually have to take daily. Just today I was walking our dog around the block, and out of nowhere, nowhere, I was a mess. In the midst of a panic attack.

I’ve got a long way to go, perhaps a lifetime. But I will make it, because my faith in God is greater than my belief that ana will ever satisfy my soul. It’s a continual battle, with myself, for the anorexia wants me dead. It wants all of her captives dead. And I refuse to be a victim. I am courageous, and I am strong.

Never underestimate the power of your actions – after all, small victories count too.