Reflection

One of my good friends is going to a treatment center for her eating disorder.
She is actually going to the same one that I went to.
This brings back so many different thoughts and emotions.
I remember calling my parents and telling them that I was throwing up everything I ate and couldn't stop.
I remember going to see a doctor, and having her tell my parents that I needed to see a specialist.
I remember going to the specialist and having him run all these different tests. I remember him telling my parents that I was going to die if I continued my behavior.
The feelings I felt during all of this were all so subdued. I was so numb to everything. When I left I was convinced that I'd be back in thirty days.
The first meal I ate at my treatment center went down fine. But that night I lay awake, unable to sleep because the desire to purge was so strong. I remember asking myself how I could throw up without my roommate hearing, or where I could hide it.
I was so sick and I was completely unaware of it. Even after meeting with doctors and therapists, I still thought I was fine. My disorder had convinced me that not eating anything, or throwing up everything, was normal behavior.
The first month of treatment was pure hell. Talking about trauma while being forced to eat/not throw up was the worst kind of pain.
And then things got easier, and I was able to step down to a less severe treatment called partial (short for partial hospitalization). And then I relapsed.

The relapse started almost as soon as I stepped down to partial. The disordered thoughts immediately came back but I was too afraid (or too in my disorder) to say anything. I just wanted to go home. I didn't want to have to go back to residential treatment with 24 hour nurse care.

When I went to partial my disorder started screaming...
"Go home! You're better. You should go home!
You're missing out on your life right now. You need to go back and finish college. You're wasting time."
And as he screamed those things, I pretended everything was fine.

I got a text message one day that a pal I'd made at a camp died in a car accident. I absolutely lost it. And they sent me back to residential treatment.

For days I asked when I would get to go back to partial. For days I refused to talk to staff members about anything else. I cried and begged to be allowed to go back to partial.

And then I was told that I needed to do some more work.
It was only then that I actually started to get better.
Slowly and painfully, I started recovering.

There came a point where I was willing to do anything to recover.
And that is the point that I think is necessary for recovery.
You have to be willing to give up people, things, and activities. You have to be willing to put your recovery first.

So as this good friend prepares to start her journey, I reflect back on mine... and just pray that she continues to be as strong and positive as she was today.