It's time to get real

Blogging has been a great avenue for me to get out my thoughts and feelings  and be an example of what it's like to deal with mental illness.  The Robin Williams suicide still weighs heavy on my mind.  Even though he struggled I like to think that he'd encourage us to keep our heads up and keep moving forward, to get the help and support we need.  I've been feeling a mix of emotions - determined to be 100% in recovery and exhausted from trying to fight.  And then I feel stuck and confused because I know what life was like before recovery and I can't go back there.  It makes me think of the most recent show I was in.  Our director loved building on layers and after we reached a certain level of energy she'd say, "now we've reached this next level, we can't go backwards."

I can't go backwards.  If I'm honest with myself I already have gone backwards a bit, that's what lapses are: shifting your car in reverse because things just got real.  I remember telling one of my friends the reason I was scared to seek help was because it would make it real.  It already is real, was his response.  And he was right.  I don't want any of this to be real, but it is.  This whole time I thought I was accepting the fact that I had a problem, but was I really?  I'm not trying to denounce the strides I have made or the awareness I have brought out, but I'm half assing recovery.  Things got hard so what did I do?  I went back to what made me feel safe, something I knew.  It may make me feel miserable, but I know what to expect.

I need to step out of my comfort zone even more than I have.  I need to feel uncomfortable and yucky and scared and unpleasant to prove that I won't die from it.  I've been standing in my way my whole life.  Why?  Because I'm scared to mess up, to be imperfect, to be a disappointment, to be successful, to actually like who I am, to do something wonderful.  I'm scared to move and to live.

I want to be creative and write and sing and dance and act, but I'm terrified to do any of it.  Excuses always pop up.  It's safer not to fail.  Well fuck that.  

I'm blessed with so many friends who possess wisdom.  Last night a different friend said: You're not writing to impress anyone, even if you think you are.  You're doing it because Emily needs to do it.

So true.  I've been yearning to express myself for so long, but then my fearful self stands in the way and talks me out of it.

I can't do that anymore.  It's time I get real with myself and work harder than I ever have before because I need to.

Mental illness and relationships

This week my husband and I celebrated our five year anniversary.  We've known each other for over ten years.  John is actually the first person I told I had an eating disorder.  I was nineteen and he made me feel safe.  I couldn't hold on to my secret anymore.  So one evening when we were chatting online as usual I told him I had a problem.  It was the scariest thing I could have done at the time, but the closer I became with John, the safer I felt.  I could and still can tell him anything.  

Actually opening up about anything in the beginning was very difficult.  There were times we'd talk on the phone and I wouldn't be able to say certain words or phrases because I was ashamed.  I used to tell him to guess.  I'd be able to only say so much and then the guessing games began.  It always amazed me that he didn't go running in the opposite direction and that he cared enough to wait until I could finally say what was on my mind.

There are many days I feel guilty for having mental health issues because I know it affects him.  I'm not an easy person to live with.  Behind closed doors I am a different person.  There are moments I just want to lie in bed or I'm super emotional and sobbing or I'm anxious and I lose my patience.

Last year when my suicidal thoughts were at their worst I truly believed that if I died he'd be set free from the misery I was causing.  I feel like I cause so much trouble and I find myself apologizing over and over again.  On our anniversary while we were eating breakfast I just blurted out I'm sorry.  I don't  always have the greatest filter and my mind went off on a very unhelpful trail.  I was thinking of everything that I had done wrong.  John is somewhat used to my blurtings out, but he cocked his head and asked, "where is this coming from?"  I didn't really know how to respond because here I was again  feeling bad on a day I'm supposed to be feeling good.  On days that we want to have fun sometimes we have to actively say we are going to have a good day and we aren't going to let things bring us down.  It's more for my sake, to remind myself I'm allowed to enjoy myself and I don't have to be bombarded with negative self talk.  It's easier said than done.

Having a relationship (romantic or not) with someone who is struggling with a mental illness is very difficult.  I almost said "can be difficult", but there's no reason to sugar coat it.  It's difficult, period.  Your spouse, partner, friend, family member, colleague, whoever it is wants to understand, but if they haven't gone through it they can only understand so much.  And as the person with the problem, you can't even control it, even though you try so hard to be a good person.  I remember a specific time last year John became frustrated when I wasn't really engaging in conversation.  He was just trying to get something out of me, but I was so deep in my depression it wouldn't have mattered what he said, I wasn't going to respond to anything, especially if it seemed trivial.  He asked why I wasn't talking and I just lost it.  I screamed at him that I didn't care about the fucking lights in the living room.  

I don't understand where the anger and rage come from.  My therapist says it has to do with my anxiety, that it builds up and has nowhere to go and then BAM, I've exploded all over whoever is in my path.  I feel so out of control when it happens.  It's like I can see and hear myself doing and saying all these terrible things and I can't stop it, I just watch the train wreck happen.  Then a lot of sobbing happens and later apologizing.

Obviously John and I aren't in a constant fight.  I cherish the moments we laugh and do silly things that no one would understand but us.  I cherish the long hugs and sweet kisses.  I cherish date nights and his good cooking.  I cherish going for our walks and stopping by the swingset in the park because I just have to swing.

I want to thank my family and friends for being so supportive and putting up with my good and bad days.  We don't always see eye to eye and we don't always spend lots of time together, but in the end you're there when it matters. I'm here for anyone who needs a helping hand or a good listener.  As I've said before, we don't have to do this on our own.

Suicide

I'm sitting here in shock of the news of Robin Williams' death, his apparent suicide.  I've wanted to blog about suicide for awhile, but it's such a difficult and morbid topic.

Late last year I remember how dark my thoughts became.  How I was going to kill myself and that act was supposed to make everything better.  How I researched online different methods.  I didn't know what I was really searching for: the quickest way, the most painful, the least painful, the potentially irreversible in case I didn't really mean it.  I've come from a long way from those dark thoughts although I still experience them from time to time, but there are people in our lives who struggle with this every day on a constant basis.  Most I'm sure are suffering in silence.

The pain and thoughts become too much that death just seems like the next best thing, the ultimate escape.  I really believed no one would care, life would go on, no one would miss me.  Why would they?  It's just me.

People are going to say that Robin seemed happy, he was a comedian, was so successful, was so funny, made us smile and laugh...how could he take his own life?  It's rather simple, unfortunately.

For so long I put on an act of being happy and put together.  Everything is "fine", "no worries", I'm "just tired"...when really I wished I could scream for somebody to realize something is wrong.  But I always managed a smile, a laugh, a joke.  Just like you can't judge someone on the outside in regards to eating disorders, you can't judge someone on the outside if they are suicidal, anxious, depressed, or plagued by some other form of mental illness.

We are afraid to be viewed as weak if we acknowledge the fact that we struggle, but really we are strong.  What I've learned from this blog and being open and honest is that people do care and they want the best for you.  They are in your corner rooting for you.

Suicidal ideation is no joke.  If you ever start having those thoughts you must tell someone.  I learned that speaking my thoughts out loud actually took away some of their power.  I know it's so difficult to start the conversation, but if I hadn't started it I might not be here.  That conversation was a catalyst for me getting help.  It's an ongoing process, it takes time and effort, it takes journaling and crying and yelling and coloring and talking and hanging out with friends and watching movies and sitting through the yucky feelings until they subside (they eventually subside, patience isn't always my virtue though).

And even if we fight with all our might some of us don't make it.  I can't explain that.  I wish I could.

Rest in peace, Robin.  I pray your family, friends, and fans also find peace in your absence and will keep your memory alive.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can break my spirit

It's hard to explain why I have irrational thoughts, why I want to take a razor to my skin, why I want to starve and purge, why I believe I am worthless.  My mom was asking recently how therapy is going and if I'm figuring out the underlying causes of my eating disorder.  Unfortunately I don't think I will ever find the full answer.  This is not out of lack of trying by working through my emotions and talking about my past and connecting dots.  Eating disorders are so complex.  I have some answers, but there is so much more I haven't uncovered.

Words are very powerful.  They can build you up or tear you down.  People can be cruel and out of malice say hurtful things.  Some might say it's your choice if you take it to heart, but I don't quite agree.  It's like telling someone who is depressed to just think of something happy.  It's not that easy.  Our brains are powerful and yet they are not light switches.  

When the hurtful words are coming from my own mind then I feel out of control and crazy.  I can play a negative tape in my head for hours and feel physical pain from it and I can't stop.  I need help to stop it.  That's where my support comes into play.  Recently I was viewing pictures of myself and had to ask a friend if I looked big.  There's a part of me that knows the answer is no, but my eyes see something different.  I needed to hear it from someone else since I'm not a trustworthy source.

Silence can also be hurtful.  Even if there's a valid reason for not receiving a response from a friend, my mind can twist it and make it so that they must hate me, that I've done something wrong.  I have to talk myself down a lot.  I have two sides at war: one that is screaming at me how terrible I am and the other trying to calm my mind and think rationally.  This is very tiring.  

Fighting ED is tiring.  I'm in limbo trying to figure out if recovery is possible.  Why do some recover and others die trying?  What is so different about us all?  Do some believe in God and pray and believe He helps them?  Do some just give up because they have no fight left?  Or does it come down to support systems and how good your insurance coverage is?  

What is the lesson I'm supposed to be learning from all of this?  I believe things happen for a reason.  But what is the reason for my eating disorder or why I'm still alive while others have died?

Although I'm tired and feel defeated, I'm not a quitter.  This is good and bad because I'm still fighting for my life...and I'm still fighting to destroy it.  I'm not ready to let go of ED completely, although I've been able to keep some distance and I have to remind myself I'm in a better place compared to last year.

Choose your words wisely, not only to people around you, but especially to yourself.  If you have trouble with that like me, write down five things you are grateful for.  It can be anything.  I might say I'm grateful for my parents' dogs and a little smile creeps on my face as I remember how silly they can be.  That's important because for that moment I wasn't thinking anything destructive.  Or let yourself be vulnerable and find a trustworthy person to talk to.  I'm sure they have wonderful words for you and one day soon you will believe them.

Death to the invader!

Sometimes I wonder if there really is something called recovery.  This lapse has been drawing out for what seems like forever.  Even though I'm in a lapse it doesn't mean I'm back to where I was before treatment.  I'm still in a better place, but I've experienced something even better than this.

When I think I'm finally climbing my way out of the rabbit hole, something in life goes wrong and I slip down the hole again, the loose earth falls around me and scrapes my skin.  It gets tiring to climb and at times I just want to give up.  Then I think of my family and friends and know they want me to keep going, but I can't do it for them.  I have to do it for me.

I'm currently in a Gilbert and Sullivan show called Princess Ida.  One of my favorite parts in the show is a song called Death to the Invader.  Basically at this point in the story a women's university is under attack and the women decide it's time to fight and protect their castle.  We have to be angry and fierce, we have to be warriors.  Now there are already warriors as characters in this operetta and they do get to fight, live on stage (exciting!), but as we women are singing about deadly blows and tearing ranks asunder we get to feel what it's like to be warriors.  Our characters are holding battle axes as we march and prepare for a war.

In treatment I was given a battle axe.  At the time I didn't know really how to use it, although the treatment team did their best at training me.  It actually made me a bit squeamish in the beginning.  Me?  Fight him?  I hadn't found my confidence yet.  I could occasionally strike at ED and make him bleed, but later he would slink back in and thrust his lance into my back.  Then I fall to my knees and feel defeat.  I attend my wounds, practice my skills and try again.

I'm a visual person and all this time I wasn't using my imagination to its full potential.  

When I'm holding my axe and about to battle ED again, I'm an actual warrior.  I can imagine my armor, the weight of the axe, my heart beating fast, my thoughts as I calculate where I should strike first.  I can also hear ED's cackle and see his leer, but I've heard and seen it all before.  I'm ready for it this time.  And then...we fight.  We are going to have an epic battle, one that would liken the battles on Middle Earth.  I have my army and they are ready to fight with me.  They hold their weapons tightly, they know what they have signed up for.  This is truly a matter of life or death.  My life.

ED has his army; they're quite ugly and scary, but that is because there is nothing pure or honest about them and the evil has twisted them to look like the very darkness of their souls.

ED, you can't kill me while I stand here.  You can injure me many times over, but the one thing you weren't counting on was my perserverance.  I may grow tired, but I always have that small voice saying don't give in.

One of these days the epic battle will commence and I will end it by cutting your head off.

More than a lapse in judgment

I have been struggling and feeling low.  Reading my last post you'd think I'm floating on cloud nine still, but I'm not.  I almost didn't want to write this post, but this is about my recovery and yes, I've had some great days, but most recently I've had some bad days.  

It started last week.  My ankle is sprained and my foot started giving me problems so I sent a message electronically to my doctor through MyChart.  I kept checking back to see if my doctor responded and one of the times I decided to venture around the site since I don't ever really use it.  While poking around I found something I shouldn't have seen: my last recorded weight, which was in April.  I've never weighed this much before, ever.

Houston, we have a problem.

I thought I believed it's okay to be at any weight as long as you're treating your body right, that there is more than one way to be and look healthy, but this number on the scale broke that belief immediately for myself.  I saw this shameful number some time after lunch and the only thing on my mind was what I had eaten.  So I got up from my desk and walked into the bathroom.

There are a number of stalls in this bathroom and none of them were occupied.  My plan was going to work.  It was as if the universe said, this is what you're supposed to do and giving me permission to boot.  I went into the farthest stall, bent over the toilet and released the contents of my lunch from my stomach.

Does the logical part of me know that purging actually doesn't stop my body from absorbing calories?  Yes, but that logical part wasn't around.  ED had taken over.

I told you you'd gain weight if you eat.  You can't eat like everyone else.  You're disgusting.

After work I had a therapy appointment and it was good to talk out what was bothering me and how to get back on track.  I went home and told John what had happened.  He even asked if I was back on track.  Yes, I thought I was back on track.  It's just a number, right?

The following day I was able to see my doctor about my foot and was reassured everything was healing.  When the nurse asked to get my weight I said I wanted to be weighed blindly.  I was actually proud of myself because this was the first time I successfully said that out loud in a doctor's office.

The weekend had arrived and I was excited about auditioning for a couple shows and going to rehearsal for the show I'm currently in - I'm a featured dancer and we were going to learn choreography.  But while I wasn't doing the things I enjoyed I was torturing myself by looking at destructive things on the internet.

I had my new plan: eat as little as possible and only eat "healthy" foods.

I went to Sunday night's rehearsal without eating dinner.  I told myself I had eaten enough for breakfast and lunch, I didn't need dinner.  Besides I was going to be learning a dance, great way to burn some calories, to start losing weight, to get back down to a number that makes me feel better, feel worthy, feel special.  I need to look beautiful on stage, the production staff is trusting me to make this look good.

That was the dumbest thing I have done in a long time.  I was so exhausted and hungry during the whole rehearsal.  I had packed some carrots in case I got hungry and man, those carrots didn't do a fucking thing for me.  I'm actually surprised I didn't pass out.

I feel disgusting and ugly and I'm going to feel that way for awhile.  Let me make this clear, I'm not choosing to feel this way.  I'm trying very hard to stay on the path of recovery.  I even talked to my dietician today and cried on the phone.  She understands why I'm upset, but she also understands that this is a critical time for me to not slip into a relapse.

I feel stuck.  I know I can't relapse.  I've work so hard, but at the same time I feel betrayed by my outpatient team, my support system and my own body.  I don't trust recovery right now.  From the beginning I have been on weight maintenance and watching that number go up is upsetting.

Upsetting - that doesn't even cover how I feel.  It's as if I'm talking about something trivial and after a few hours I can get over it.  I can't just get over this.  I see myself lapsing a bit here and there already.  

I don't need that much.  I'm not that hungry.  I don't need to finish the whole thing.  I don't need to tell John everything.

These next few days, weeks, months, who knows how long, are going to suck and I'm going to have to sit with the sucky feelings when they hit me.  But I was reminded by so many people on my support team that I felt good about myself before I knew about that number on the scale and they are right.  Things were feeling great, I was feeling great.

So I have a new plan: to get back to great.

The Body Project

Yesterday I got to be a part of something unique.  It's called The Body Project (http://lovebodyproject.wordpress.com/).  Women come together for a photo shoot and share their stories and enjoy each other's company.  My social phobic side was definitely nervous because we were going to have a big group.  I woke up with a headache and I thought, "Aha!  I don't feel well, maybe I shouldn't go..."  But this other part of me said, "You have to go, you've been planning this for months." 

And I had been planning this for months.  I found out about The Body Project through two different friends after I came out with my eating disorder.  It sounded like a great project; empowering women to love their bodies.  I had looked at some of the pictures (all very beautiful) and was surprised how many decided to just wear a bra and panties or even go topless and how much they were willing to share about their lives.  I hardly like my husband seeing my body, how was it these women were so brave?

I figured out yesterday why all the women that have been a part of this project are brave.  Because we are doing this together and we have a common goal: to show the world that all bodies are beautiful and that all of our stories matter.  Going around the room and listening to everyone share something personal about themself was moving.  My introduction was very short because I started getting emotional, no one else had been emotional and I didn't want to be the only person who cried, but a few intros later a woman did shed tears.  I just wanted to give her a hug.

We all had to choose an affirmation to put on our body.  For me, I decided to write "MINE" on my stomach.  The reasoning behind this: I have my one and only body and it's time I'm proud of it and claim it.  I wore a bikini that I only had worn maybe two times before this (a common theme among us was lack of bikini wearing or even owning).  I felt exposed when I took my tank top and shorts off.  But once Katy, the photographer, was figuring out the logistics of my pose I didn't feel as vulnerable.  The other ladies were chatting with each other and I'm sure some watched while I had my picture taken (I had attentively watched everyone else), but it was my time so I let myself be selfish and focus just on Katy and me.  I wanted my photo to be comparable to Sports Illustrated models.

Why?

Because I know I don't look like them.  Because it's my turn to be proud of my body and feel sexy.  Because maybe someone will look at the photo and realize they can wear a bikini too.  Because ED can shove it.  Because I decided I was worth it.  I was worthy of being a Sports Illustrated model for those few minutes.

Katy showed me the final shot and I was in awe.  I looked...good.  I liked what I saw.  That was me in that picture and...wow.  I could see all my months of hard work have paid off because I could actually look at this photo and be pleased with it.  The ironic thing is, I didn't physically change since being in treatment, but I can see something, or really someone, different now.  It's amazing how powerful our minds are.  Six months ago I hated my reflection in the mirror and today I can tolerate it and sometimes even like it.

I'm so grateful to all the women who were at the photo shoot yesterday!  You all are wonderful people and I can't wait to see how the book turns out.  Thank you to Katy for bringing all of us together.  Together we are taking back beauty.

Edit: here's the picture!