tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46644088154277068582012-02-29T13:16:38.290-06:00Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.comBlogger251100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-87594840514494042002012-02-28T16:15:00.006-06:002012-02-28T16:20:02.393-06:00It’s National Eating Disorders Awareness Week (which I will post more about later this week). I thought I’d do something to truly commemorate it. And what would that be?<br /><br />I smashed my scale.<br /><br />Not once have I ever stepped on the scale and been okay with the number. It could always be lower. I could always be less and I could always lose more. I have never been satisfied nor felt good about myself, in any sense of the word. So, why do I do it? Good question. It just gives me more reason to beat myself up. The only solution would be to get rid of the scale. Finally, I took that leap. But, this time, instead of simply giving it away (like I’ve done times before), I smashed it. <br /><br />I can’t tell you how good it felt to smash that scale. I’m riding a high right now. It’s gone. It’s out of my life. I don’t have to be a slave to that number. I beat the shit out of it, just like I’ve done to myself. It felt amazing.<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/gwX-XcfskYg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />Oh, and also, another big step for me. Today is 500 days without laxatives, which is pretty amazing in my opinion.<br /><br />Best, <br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-8759484051449404200?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-21229412612769645232012-02-25T13:21:00.003-06:002012-02-25T13:22:44.290-06:00What I have learned this past week: I am not invincible.<br /><br />At the beginning of the week, I noticed my foot was hurting. It wasn’t so awful, but it was definitely uncomfortable to walk. By Wednesday, I was in pain. Walking around campus was almost unbearable. I was limping. I finally called the university’s nurse advice line; she scheduled an appointment with the sports medicine doctor for me for Friday.<br /><br />Mind you, I am not one to admit to pain that easily. I like to ignore injuries, minimize the situation, until it’s so awful I can’t push it under the rug any longer. I’ve done it many times, resulting in physical therapy more than I can count. So, this being the case once more, I danced on both Tuesday and Thursday, convinced I was overreacting about my foot.<br /><br />Friday, I went to the doctor. “Hello again,” he said, as I’d been there in October for another injury. I told him about my foot. He sent me to get an X-ray. I was not happy with the outcome. He determined there was a stress fracture. In fact, my X-ray even showed a healed stress fracture in my left foot, to which I have no idea when that possibly happened. <br /><br />“I’m going to fit you for a boot.”<br /><br />I was floored. I had not anticipated this happening. I was immediately upset with myself for going to the doctor, because I knew what was coming next.<br /><br />“You can swim, I’m okay with that. The exercise bike is fine, too.” He paused. “Now, the big question is what do you do about dance?” I stared, waiting. “You can’t.” My lips pursed. “I’ll give you a note, but I don’t want you putting weight on that foot for two to three weeks, then we’ll reevaluate.” Heart sinking, I smiled knowing it looked forced, and agreed that I’d follow his instructions. <br /><br />I immediately called my parents, holding back tears as I explained the situation to them. Then, my dad said something I hadn’t expected to hear. “You know, Kate,” he began, “I bet this is in part to do with your <span style="font-style:italic;">problems</span>.” I was almost shocked to hear this. “This is what happens to old people who have weak bones. They’re the ones who get stress fractures and aren’t sure how, not people in their twenties.” He was right. “I’m scared for you. I hate to see what else happens to you. I want you to live a long life.” The fear in his voice made me uneasy. “You need to work on this. I mean, I know you are. I know you’re working on this. But, it scares me what damage you’ve done to your body.”<br /><br />What he said had me thinking. I am lucky. I have not been diagnosed with osteoporosis like many of my friends from treatment have. But, in my last hospital, after the bone density scan, they told me while I did not have osteoporosis yet, it was heading that way. I had forgotten about that until the conversation with my dad.<br /><br />I often forget that this disease has repercussions. You can only abuse your body for so long until it loses its resilience. And that’s what mine is doing, losing its resilience. Once it begins to happen, it’s terribly difficult to reverse. <br /><br />My immediate response to my injury was anger. I didn’t understand why or how this had happened. I was upset that dance, my one major motivation, was being taken away. Most days, though I dreaded meals, I saw it as necessary so I would be able to dance to my fullest potential. Dance had kept me going. Now, it was gone. What was the point? Taking care of myself was the last thing I wanted to do. <br /><br />And then, this morning, I met with a friend for coffee. She reminded me of something I needed to hear, helped keep things in perspective for me. “Don’t sabotage yourself,” she said. “If you want it to heal, you need to take care of yourself. If you want to dance again, then you need to eat.” It was true. Starving myself would only prolong this injury. “That’s your eating disorder trying to sabotage you.” She was right. <br /><br />Now, the aftermath, is the hard part. I’m a baby in recovery and I’m just now learning that my actions have consequences. Perhaps irreversible consequences. The only thing I can do is take care of myself and hope for the best. Hope that there isn’t too much damage, and the damage that there is can be mended. <br /><br />This is what I have to say to you: If you are struggling, please get help. Do not wait until your eating disorder has consumed half of your life. Do not wait until your body begins falling apart. Do not wait until you are constantly facing injuries and illness because your body has been weakened from years of abuse. Do not wait, because you may run out of time. You are not invincible, just like I am not.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-2122941261276964523?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-80289172167403536162012-02-16T06:24:00.005-06:002012-02-16T06:32:25.852-06:00I’m reading a new book right now that I’ve found really beneficial. Normally I don’t buy into “self-help” books. I find most of them to be very hokey. This book isn’t the case. I would honestly recommend it to those recovering from an eating disorder. It’s called <i>8 Keys to Recovery from an Eating Disorder</i> by Carolyn Costin and Gwen Schubert Grabb.<br /><br />What I find most helpful with it are the writing assignments. I love to write. It’s one of the easiest ways for me to express myself. I can say on paper what I cannot in person. I am much more articulate with a pen in hand (or a Word document open in front of me).<br /><br />The book gives ten phases of recovery and a writing assignment following it, and I’d like to share both of them with you.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Ten Phases of Eating Disorder Recovery</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; "><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>1. I Don’t Think I Have a Problem.</span><br /><ul><li>It’s my body so leave me alone.</li><li>There are people who are a lot thinner (worse) than I am<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></li></ul><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>2. <span style="font-weight: bold; ">I Might Have a Problem But It’s Not That Bad.</span><br /><div><div><ul><li>I only throw up once in a while.</li><li>My physical didn’t show anything wrong so I am OK.</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>3. I Have a Problem But I Don’t Care.</span><br /><ul><li>I know throwing up isn’t good for me, but it’s working for me so I don’t care.</li><li>I could change if I wanted to, but I don’t.</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>4. I Want To Change But I Don’t Know How and I’m Scared.</span><br /><ul><li>I want to eat normally, but I am afraid I will get fat (gain weight).</li><li>I want to stop bingeing, but I can’t figure out where to start.</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>5. I Tried To Change But I Couldn’t.</span><br /><ul><li>I told myself that I would not (fill in the blank) but I found myself doing it again.</li><li>I don’t feel like I can really ever (change) get well, so why keep trying?</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>6. I Can Stop Some of the Behaviors But Not All of Them.</span><br /><ul><li>I could stop purging, but I will not be able to eat more.</li><li>My eating has gotten better, but my exercise is out of control.</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>7. I Can Stop the Behaviors, But Not My Thoughts.</span><br /><ul><li>I can’t stop thinking about food and bingeing all the time.</li><li>I keep counting calories over and over in my head and still want to lose weight.</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>8. I Am Often Free From Behaviors and Thoughts, But Not All the Time.</span><br /><ul><li>I feel fine all day, but under stress I revert back to my unhealthy behaviors.</li><li>I was fine, but wearing a bathing suit triggered my eating disorder thoughts, and with it some related behaviors.</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>9. I Am Free From Behaviors and Thoughts.</span><br /><ul><li>I feel mostly OK in my body and am able to eat things I want and not feel guilty or anxious afterwards.</li><li>Once I had stopped the behaviors for a period of time, at some point I realized that I was no longer having the thoughts or urges.</li></ul><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>10. I Am Recovered.</span><br /><ul><li>For a long time now, I no longer have thoughts, feelings, or behaviors related to my eating disorder.</li><li>I accept my body’s natural size. My eating disorder is a thing of the past.</li></ul><br />Right now, I feel like I hover at about Stage 6. It’s very day by day, though. Some days, bad days, I’ll hop back to Stage 1. I begin to doubt whether or not I truly have a problem, because much people are much worse than I am. Then, suddenly, I’m back to Stage 4, realizing that I do want recovery but am completely at a loss as to how to go about obtaining it. Often, I get defeated, revert to Stage 5. I think Stage 5 is a scapegoat for me. I decide that I’ve tried to change, but I couldn’t, and that I mine as well use behaviors because that’s what my life will always be. Lately, though, I am at Stage 6. I can stop some of the behaviors, but not all. I obsess over calories constantly and the thoughts are out of control, but even though I’m still a restrictive eater, it’s not as severe as it was previously. I’m still very rigid and have so many rules for myself, but I’m not at a dangerously low intake.<br /><br />I can see how far I’ve come and how much work I’ve done these past few weeks. In January I was stuck in Stage 3. I knew I had a problem, I’d been aware of it for a very long time, but I didn’t care. I was caught in behaviors with no desire to pull myself out of them. A small part of me knew I had the capacity to change if I really worked at it, but I wasn’t willing to put in the effort. It wasn’t so much fear of recovery but rather a lack of motivation. I’d resigned myself to a life of an eating disorder. I had no future prospects for myself. It was very sad, looking back on it.<br /><br />I’m looking forward to the road ahead of me, but I won’t lie, it seems very far fetched at the moment. Imagining <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> having “the thoughts” is almost flabbergasting. They’re so constant and pervasive that I’m not even sure what I would truly think about if they weren’t there. Right now, it’s almost a fear of the emptiness. It’s not that I enjoy the persistent thoughts of food and weight, it’s that I can’t remember thinking of anything else for over half of my life.<br /><br />This will take time though, I keep reminding myself of this. It will feel easier eventually. It will become second nature to take care of the self I’ve tried to destroy for so long. I wish it were sooner than later, but I am prepared to wait. It will be uncomfortable. But, my relapses get shorter every time and I learn something from each one.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate</div></div><br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-8028917216740353616?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-83066819355050113452012-02-08T01:37:00.002-06:002012-02-08T01:39:20.513-06:00Tonight was a rough night. I struggled through my dinner at meal group. I finished, but the amount of guilt afterwards was unbearable. I stayed to talk to a staff member, which calmed me down enough to get me home. Then, once at my apartment, cried to my roommate for a good hour. It was just one of those nights, I suppose. <br /><br />I’ve stuck with my meal plan, but I feel like it’s getting harder. It’s been two weeks. I keep trying to remind myself that it’s <span style="font-style:italic;">only</span> been two weeks and that I need to give it time. Recovery will get better, it’s just not going to happen overnight—after a decade of an eating disorder, I can’t expect it to be easy. Keeping that in perspective is difficult, though. <br /><br />So, I try to remember the positives. I can’t say I feel much better on a meal plan yet, but I know that will come with time. My body has been under a tremendous amount of stress for years and that will take awhile to reverse. One thing I have noticed these past two weeks: I am a much stronger dancer when I’m eating. <br /><br />It seems simple, I know. You must eat to be strong and to fuel activity. That never clicked with me until recently. This morning, ballet was fantastic. I felt stronger than I truly ever have. I wasn’t out of breath and dizzy. I wasn’t frustrated from being weak. I was focused but calm. I felt graceful. Dancing, this morning, just brought me such joy. It was challenging in a way that made me feel capable, not defeated. I wish that all of my dance classes could have felt like this—I wish I hadn’t put such strain on my health, both mental and physical, for so many years. But, now I know. Now I’m learning. If anything, that’s what I’m trying to carry with me as I push forward with this meal plan.<br /><br />The benefits of recovery are great, I’ve been told this, but sometimes it’s hard to have blind faith. What I do know is that there are many negatives to my eating disorder. Whenever I feel like I’m done fighting, like there’s no point to taking care of myself, that I’d rather engage in eating disorder behaviors than experience life, I remember everything my eating disorder has taken away from me. I haven’t regularly attended school since middle school. I’ve never been able to dance to my fullest potential. I’ve damaged relationships and lost friends. I’ve kept myself isolated for years. A life in an eating disorder is lonely and incomplete. <br /><br />And now, I continue to fight. I follow this meal plan even though everything inside of me finds it wrong and unnatural. I follow this meal plan despite my urges to give up. I take back my life bit by bit along the way.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-8306681935505011345?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-65137670223357094742012-01-30T02:56:00.001-06:002012-01-30T02:58:48.456-06:00I’m sorry I haven’t posted since the beginning of the year. I honestly have had no idea what to write about. I wasn’t doing well at all. <br /><br />January has been a month of old habits and patterns. Gradually, my intake has been less and less. My thoughts of food have been more pervasive. My trips to the gym bathroom to weigh myself have been constant and agonizing, because the number is never low enough. I saw myself slipping and felt hopeless and unable to do anything. Maybe more so unwilling to do anything. <br /><br />This past week, there has been a sudden shift in my attitude. I’m taking a nutrition class at the moment, it was a source of concern at first. Would it make my obsession about food stronger? Luckily, it hasn’t. In fact, it’s been quite helpful. It’s helped me finally, after years and years of seeing a dietitian, make the connection that food is there to help the body function and to sustain life, and not just life, but a fulfilling one.<br /><br />So, my next step was to get back on a meal plan. I’d known for awhile what I should be eating. It was something I’d acknowledged but didn’t apply. I felt that somehow I was <span style="font-style:italic;">different</span>. I couldn’t follow a meal plan. Not me. My body was <span style="font-style:italic;">special</span> and would do <span style="font-style:italic;">just fine</span> without one. <br /><br />Wrong. All wrong. <br /><br />It’s been a solid week of following a meal plan. And I will tell you one thing: my anxiety is through the roof. But I’m doing it again. Despite my fears, I’m eating three meals and three snacks a day. Most days I can feel the food in my throat, the anxiety in my stomach, the fear in my mind, the tears in my eyes. It doesn’t feel good. I just have to keep reminding myself that it will feel better eventually. I cling onto that hope. <br /><br />I’m so thankful that I’m not doing this alone. I don’t think I’d be able to. I have the support of my treatment team and am thankful that they’re more than willing to receive my frantic texts and phone calls. My family is there to listen when I’m open with them, which is more frequent, but still a challenge. I have friends who are patient with me and want to help. I am so grateful for all of it. If there’s anything I can tell you it is that a support system has been key in getting me back on track. I cannot stress enough the importance of one.<br /><br />It’s not easy and the thoughts have not subsided. I spent a good thirty minutes last night, in my car, crying, realizing once more that I’m giving up what has been a part of me for so long. I don’t want you to think that once you begin to start eating consistently, all is healed. It doesn’t work that way, though I wish it did. I wish I could tie this up neatly with a bow and tell you I’m all better now. I’m not. I will not be for awhile. <br /><br />But, I’m pushing forward. The motivation is fading, as I’ve been told it would and I knew it would, but I have people to turn to. I have all of you to read what I have to say. I can’t tell you how much that in itself means to me. Writing is an incredible outlet for me and all of you listening is truly touching.<br /><br />I just keep reminding myself that it’s small steps. I’m taking small steps and they count every bit. It’s hard and it’ll continue being hard, but I’m ready to fight again. <br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-6513767022335709474?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-5264640246449147902012-01-05T05:40:00.003-06:002012-01-05T05:43:05.377-06:00<strong>Isolation</strong><br /><br />I’ve been pulling back from my relationships recently. I can feel myself turn inward and shut out the world. It’s never a good sign. It’s generally an indicator that I am dysregulated in some form or fashion. Bottom line: I’m isolating myself, not always intentionally (which is also unnerving), but I am.<br /><br />The hardest part is that I get stuck in my head, constantly exhausted by the thought of being around others. I want to be social. I want to be with my friends. Yet, something is holding me back and I can’t figure out what.<br /><br />My fear is that people take my isolation personally. I want each and every one of you to know that when someone begins to isolate themselves, it generally has a deeper meaning. There is, more often than not, an explanation for the struggle and should not be viewed as anything done on your part. You couldn’t have prevented it, just like you can’t fix it. It’s up to the withdrawn person to make the change and once more engage in life and relationships.<br /><br />As I’ve done many times before, and I can do again, I need to reinvest myself in truly participating in life. I need to allow myself to open up and trust those who have made themselves available to me. I need to reach out, which has always been a challenge for me. I get anxious in social situations. I find myself not to be a very articulate person. I can express myself in my writing, but face to face I lose touch with who I am and what I have to say. It’s a skill I need to acquire. And, really, I think I just need to get out of my head, stop over analyzing, and experience relationships as they’re meant to be. <br /><br />It’ll take time and practice, but I believe I’m capable.<br /><br /><strong>The New Year</strong><br /><br />I rang in the New Year with my brother and a few close friends. It was a nice night. I wore a fabulous red dress, was able to enjoy the company of my friends (despite my recent temptations to completely pull away), and found great joy in our low-key evening. It was a lovely way to begin 2012.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xekQgyeTvkA/TwWMYXot88I/AAAAAAAAADg/Kkqr6xNh5jU/s1600/newyearseve2011.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 273px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xekQgyeTvkA/TwWMYXot88I/AAAAAAAAADg/Kkqr6xNh5jU/s320/newyearseve2011.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694111654169408450" /></a><br /><br />Then comes the question: <em>What are your New Year’s resolutions?</em> <br /><br />To be honest, I didn’t make any. I don’t find them helpful. Mine are always so grandiose, so unattainable, so self destructive. I become frustrated and upset with myself at the first sign of error. The moment I slip up is the moment I give up, infuriated and disappointed for the year to come.<br /><br />Like I said, not helpful.<br /><br />My goal is to focus on small, daily, achievable goals. I want to work on accepting my mistakes and moving forward to the next day rather than throwing in the towel. I will not lie, part of me is itching to make my resolution to LOSE WEIGHT! and GET FIT! and BE BETTER! It’s not worth it, when I think about it objectively. The torment I put myself through only to be let down is not worth it.<br /><br />So, here I am. I do not see 2012 as a clean slate. I see it as another year in my journey toward recovery. Another part of my story. Though the number has changed from eleven to twelve, it does not invalidate my experiences in the previous year. I fought many battles and lost some but also won some. The year may be different, but I am still the same person. It doesn’t magically change overnight. I have to take the small steps to change and that is what I’m working on.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-526464024644914790?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-62943274631024693072011-12-28T06:37:00.002-06:002011-12-28T06:38:48.044-06:00Christmas is my favorite holiday. There is something so magical about this time of year. But, I have a notoriously difficult time with winter. I wish it weren’t so, that my favorite time of year is also my most challenging time of year, but that’s how it’s played itself out since I was 15. My hope is that some day it will change, and I’m working toward it, but right now it’s not the case.<br /><br />I wanted this holiday to be so different from others. I didn’t want its main focus to be food. I wanted to really enjoy myself, free of rules and restrictions. It didn’t happen. It was like I was experiencing two different holidays. On one hand, I enjoyed the company of my family; I enjoyed spending time with everyone. On the other hand, I was constantly telling myself what I could and couldn’t eat, not allowing myself the treats I wanted, self conscious to the extreme.<br /><br />At Christmas brunch, I ate my own food. After the movie on Christmas day, having dinner at the Jewish deli we eat at every year, I denied myself everything I truly wanted, stuck to what was “safe.” The previous night, at Christmas Eve, I barely ate because I was too anxious I’d eat something “off-limits.” It’s not a life to live.<br /><br />I’m frustrated with myself. I thought I’d be further along in recovery. I thought I’d be stable. Somewhere down the road I chose my eating disorder and kept choosing it, recovery becoming further and further in the distance. It’s not what I want for myself, though. <br /><br />I do want to recover. This holiday (and speaking with one of my closest friends this morning) made me realize it more than anything. Next year, next Christmas, I want it to be different. I don’t want to be so bound by these rules and restrictions I’ve placed on myself. It’s going to be difficult, but I know I want a change. I haven’t felt this sure of it in the past few months as I do now. <br /><br />What I’m more aware of now, though, is that it’s going to be hard. It’s going to be a huge challenge but I’m ready to face it. I’m ready to do what I need to do to get better. I’ve been going back and forth, playing cat and mouse, for the past three months or so, but this is the first step forward I feel like I’ve truly made in awhile. <br /><br />Now it’s just putting words into actions. I think I can do it, though. I’m lucky. I have so much support. I have family, friends, and my treatment team. The job is just to use them now, when I’m truly going to need them.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-6294327463102469307?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-9470058997177742882011-12-22T00:47:00.002-06:002011-12-22T00:49:34.148-06:00Normally, I wouldn’t post what I’m about to post. I’m not sure how helpful specifics are, and I don’t want this to be misconstrued as me going for “shock factor.” That’s not the case at all. Eating disorders are ugly illnesses. They’re life threatening, and I can’t portray that by tiptoeing around what happened Sunday night, I can’t tie it up neatly. Before you begin reading this post, please be warned that I’m going to use details.<br /><br />At the age of fifteen, I was diagnosed with anorexia. I’d had an eating disorder for many years before that, but it wasn’t until then that it was finally recognized by someone other than me. Anorexia is an often misunderstood illness, eating disorders in general are. What a lot of people don’t understand is that, though anorexics do restrict their food, there are anorexics that purge (self-induce vomiting), too. I am one of those.<br /><br />I have a long history with purging, one that I won’t detail because, in all honesty, it’s boring and unnecessary. It is not something I take pride in, it is something that I prefer to keep quiet and try to hide. It’s a very hateful behavior of mine. There is self-loathing before, during, and after. It temporarily alleviates anxiety but comes with a bucketful of shame.<br /><br />That being said, I’ve been in a shaky place. I’ve gotten off track and I’m trying to steer myself in the right direction once more. It’s, unfortunately, been a one-step-forward-two-steps-back type of process. I move toward health, become terrified by the change, shut my eyes, and go running toward sickness. It’s long and exhausting and seems endless. After almost a week of eating consistently, a weekend of foods I am not particularly comfortable with, and my body’s slow adjustments (or lack thereof) to this new behavior, my anxiety shot sky high Sunday night.<br /><br />Returning after a weekend away from my apartment, I had decided I would eat a food that I knew I was not comfortable with, that I knew I would want to purge. I was not far enough along to try and conquer this “fear food” of mine, at least not alone. I could see the trap. While I had gone two weeks without purging at this point, my anxiety was high from these changes I was trying to make and these obstacles I was working to overcome. I had set myself up for failure. My mind had predetermined that I would throw up this particular food, that it was inevitable. I think, looking back, that I saw it as an excuse to purge and temporarily help my anxiety subside. So, I ate the food.<br /><br />At the beginning of my meal, I had decided that I wouldn’t purge. <em>There is no point in purging</em>, I told myself. The more I ate the less real it felt. I continued to eat, trying to convince myself that there is no benefit to throwing up. Toward the last few bites, I gave in. Leaving just a bit, I threw down my fork and moved toward the bathroom. I berated myself. <em>You fat, stupid girl. You have no control.</em> There was that angry voice, hissing away at me. I knew it all too well. Bending over, the cycle began itself. And then, something happened that hadn’t before. There was no food coming back up, only blood. I stopped immediately, terrified.<br /><br />This wasn’t the first time I’d seen blood. I could always brush it off, saying that I scratched my throat with my fingernail. It was never a lot. This time was different. I hadn’t even stuck my finger down my throat. There was absolutely no way I could’ve scratched my throat this time around.<br /><br />In a panic, I called my dietician who advised me to call my university’s twenty-four hour nurse advice line. I was dizzy and having chest pains and spoke frantically on the phone with the nurse who then told me to go to the emergency room.<br /><br />I drove myself to the only hospital I knew near me, which so happened to be the children’s hospital. I walked into the ER and toward the front desk, shaking and crying and unsure if they could treat me. They did. I spent about four or five hours, having tests done, explaining my disorder over and over, having blood drawn and IVs placed. It was all very stressful. They concluded that I had, in all likelihood, a tear in my stomach lining and I should follow up with GI doctor the next day.<br /><br />Since then, I’ve met with the GI doctor and my regular physician. Everyone has come to the same conclusion that I have a tear in my stomach lining and an irritated esophagus from years of purging and acid reflux (which I acquired after years of an eating disorder).<br /><br />All in all, it was a wake-up call.<br /><br />I forget the damaging effects of an eating disorder at times. I too often think the health risks associated with this illness are not applicable to me. I am wrong. I am very wrong. I am facing health complications from purging that will only continue to get worse if I don’t stop. I am not invincible and my body is slowly wearing down. It’s a scary thing to realize.<br /><br />It’s not the way I wanted to realize this, but thank god something made me.<br /><br />So now is where I must work. Right now, fear of what might happen is keeping me from purging. The fear will eventually fade. It has before. But, I know I am capable of kicking this. I have proof that I am capable. I have been abstinent from laxatives for over four hundred days. If I can do that, I can stop purging. It’s going to be hard as hell and I’m going to want to, but I just finished up day three of no purging and I’m going for day four.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-947005899717774288?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-57941838928025432682011-12-09T04:14:00.003-06:002011-12-09T04:20:47.147-06:00I’m going to be blunt. I haven’t truly been trying lately. I’ve been slowly spiraling downward, letting my eating disorder win battle after battle. I haven’t been fighting. I watch myself from afar and think “that’s not good,” but that’s pretty much the extent of it. I’m at a standstill, not accomplishing much, not moving forward.<br /><br />Within the past week, the idea of getting back on track has crept its way back into my mind. I toy with the idea, take it into consideration, and set it on the side, decide I’ll come back to it later. But, certain behaviors have taken the reins and I’m not quite willing to let them get out of control again, so I went to my dietician appointment on Tuesday and told her I was willing to eat consistently if it meant I wouldn’t feel so awful all of the time.<br /><br />Now, the problem is, I’ve said this before. I’ve made commitments I haven’t lived up to, because I wasn’t quite sure I really wanted a part of it, I just said it to appease others. This week has felt different in a way. While I’m not completely thrilled about trying to stick to a meal plan of sorts, I’m willing to try. That’s more than I can say for the past month or two. I’m still not fully convinced that this is what I want, which is difficult for me to admit, but I’m getting there. I’m taking steps forward, even if they don’t always feel so great, even if they’re small and other people have to point them out to me. I know, logically, that it’s my eating disorder giving me the mixed signals about recovery, but that’s hard to keep in perspective. I know right now I need to rely on others to tell me when it’s my eating disorder and not <em>me</em>, as it’s a challenge for me to see it.<br /><br />Something that has been helpful for me lately is reminding myself of everything in life I want to accomplish and hold on to. I want to continue with my education (actually, I’m about to finish up my first semester in my entire college career where I haven’t had to drop a class due to anxiety/my eating disorder, which is a huge step for me). I want to live in my apartment, with my roommate and cat, and not have to move back home. I want to dance. Next semester, I’m taking ballet again. I’m incredibly excited; I’ve missed it so much. But, I know I need to be healthy. Freshman year I had to drop out of the dance program, as I was originally a dance major at my university, because I wasn’t healthy. I don’t want spring semester to be a repeat of that. I know I need to keep my body strong and healthy to dance, and I look at this break as a chance to get my body back to that place.<br /><br />Most importantly, though, I need to take that leap of faith once more. I did it a few months back, but I vaguely remember. Now it just seems daunting and near impossible. Like I said a few posts back, you begin to forget. I have near forgotten. I want to be able to take that leap again, I really, really do. I’m terrified, bottom line. This fear is paralyzing. I want to put my trust in others, let them help me, believe them when they say I can be happier and live a fuller life. I truly want to believe that.<br /><br />So, what am I to do? Right now, I’m committing myself to this meal plan, trying to get myself eating again, trying to stop the behaviors before they go too far. I’m wary of it, but slowly I’m trusting my treatment team again, letting them help me. I haven’t taken the jump yet, but I think I’m close. I know there will never be a <em>right</em> moment, that I just need to do it, but something is holding me back. I need to let go. Easier said than done, yes, but I have to do it eventually.<br /><br />I leave you with this quote by Shel Silverstein that I absolutely love:<br /><blockquote>"Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me... Anything can happen, child. Anything can be."</blockquote><br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-5794183892802543268?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-90811457510279860822011-11-30T04:39:00.003-06:002011-11-30T04:42:12.728-06:00I’ve gotten into the habit of posting late at night (or early in the morning, depending on which way you look at it). It’s when my mind runs wild and I think of everything I want to say and need to do. If I don’t get it out, I know for a fact it will be a restless night. I keep a composition book next to my bed so I can make lists if need be. I open Word documents and write if that is the case. I just know I have to do <em>something</em>, and tonight that something is blogging. <br /><br />There are certain people that put my mind at ease when I talk to them. I am so incredibly fortunate to have people like that in my life. I truly hope that everyone has somebody like that, a person that they can turn to when they just need to talk. I am lucky to have people that have unconditionally supported me throughout my recovery.<br /><br />Last week I had a rough therapy session. I left feeling very confused and discouraged. Briefly summarizing, my therapist had said she was at a place where she didn’t know how to help me anymore. In her words, she was reaching a point where she just wanted to say “Fuck It” and let my relapse happen. She said she wasn’t feeling this way at the moment, but could feel it creeping toward that, and it made her nervous. Told me she was already thinking of where to send me again (treatment wise). Initially I was very upset, but I can understand where she’s coming from. She wants me to fight harder and I’m not sure if I’m willing to. There’s only so much one person can do and she was reaching the end of her rope.<br /><br />Overwhelmed by what was said, I knew I needed another perspective. At that moment, I wasn’t hearing what was said correctly, but rather viewed it as her giving up on me. This in turn caused a very strong urge to give up on myself. So, I sent a text to the one person I had always turned to, someone who had been there for me since my diagnosis back in my freshman year of high school: my ballet teacher.<br /><br />My ballet teacher has always made herself available to me. She has stood by me through the good and the bad, through all of the treatment centers and hospitals, through all of my struggles and relapses. She has always listened to what I have to say. But, not only did she listen, she provided a perspective outside of my own. Unlike others, she didn’t walk on eggshells around me and gave me reality checks when I needed them. I looked to her not only as a role model but as a friend. I don’t use this word often, but I feel truly blessed to have her as such an integral part of my life.<br /><br />We were finally able to speak on Saturday. I detailed my session and she was able to tell me what she thought my therapist was trying to say and trying to get across, which was helpful to me. Though my therapist had explained herself to me after the session when I expressed my confusion, I still couldn’t fully grasp what she was saying. Hearing it from my ballet teacher made the puzzle pieces connect. I truly trust what she has to say to me and value her opinion greatly.<br /><br />This led into a conversation about my relapse. I was nervous to talk about this with her, in all honesty. I felt like since she had seen me relapse so many times and has only known me with an eating disorder that regressing in my recovery would be disappointing. I can separate myself from these thoughts and see it as my own insecurities and my own disappointment in myself, knowing this is not the case for her, that she is simply concerned. I told her I wasn’t sure I could pull myself out of this, that my behaviors were snowballing and it had gotten out of hand so quickly. Then, she told me something I very much needed to hear. <br /><br />“I believe you have the strength to pull yourself out of this.”<br /><br />It had meaning to me when she said it. It was because she’s seen me at my worst that what she said really had a certain weight to it. She doesn’t beat around the bush, so I knew if she didn’t think it was true she wouldn’t have said it. Her telling me that she sees improvement in me, despite my current struggles, is in a way empowering. It reminds me of where I have come from because I often forget I’ve made any progress at all.<br /><br />Our conversation left me feeling a bit more confident in myself. I wanted to believe, like she did, that I could do this, I could really recover, that these steps backward don’t mean I can’t move forward. I’m trying to keep that thought in the front of my mind, constantly reminding myself that people <em>do</em> believe in me, I just need to believe in myself.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-9081145751027986082?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-50675080564955356582011-11-28T04:43:00.001-06:002011-11-28T04:44:51.041-06:00This is a tough entry for me to write. I can’t sleep and this has been on my mind. I want to be honest and that includes writing about the hard times. Lately, the hard times have been more prevalent. I wish I had something more positive to share about Thanksgiving, but it was a rough one for me.<br /><br />The winter is a difficult time for me. It was the first time I got truly, very sick and since then it’s been engrained in me to relapse this time of year. I notice the behaviors come creeping back but don’t really recognize it until I’m in crisis mode. Every year, though, I do begin to see the patterns sooner and sooner. Hopefully that means I’m one step closer to breaking the cycle.<br /><br />Thanksgiving is a notoriously difficult holiday for me, as I assume it is for those with eating disorders in general. I am constantly thinking about food and to have such a focus on it is overwhelming. Do not get me wrong, there are aspects of the holiday I enjoy greatly. I love spending time with my family and close friends. It’s so nice to have everyone together this time of year. I love that it means I can start listening to Christmas music in public, no longer with headphones on my iPod. I love that it means we’ll get our Christmas tree the next day and decorate it. But, it’s a very anxiety provoking holiday and it tends to get overshadowed by my eating disorder.<br /><br />It was not a behavior free Thanksgiving for me. That is embarrassing and shameful for me to write. I want to be able to say that I made it through without acting on urges, but I didn’t. The stress was too much and I was too consumed by my anxiety to find a healthy way to manage it. But, I need to accept it and move forward. No point in dwelling on that past. I cannot change it but I can better myself from this and learn from my actions. <br /><br />I feel like I’m letting everyone around me down, to be honest. It’s hard for me, with this blog, because I feel like I have to be a role model for recovery. I wish I was doing better for the sake of everyone else, but I’m having a hard time wanting it for myself. That’s hard for me to publicize, it feels like such a taboo thing to say. I’m falling and I’m not really sure how to pick myself up. I have a team of people trying to help me and letting them, listening to them, has been challenging lately. I hear what they’re saying but applying it is an entirely different matter. I have supportive friends and family around me, but find myself isolating and not allowing others in, lying to appease them. I put on a happy face because I’m afraid to let people see how I’m doing, afraid it’s not acceptable to be struggling. Making this public, something I try to keep so private, something that is so secretive is a hard thing to do. I need you to know this though, because I need you to know recovery is messy and relapses happen. It is not perfect and my journey is most certainly not perfect.<br /><br />My post comes to an end and all I can say is that I hope I am able to turn things around and soon. In the meantime, I must listen to those telling me they believe I have the strength to recover, because right now I do not believe it for myself. I want to desperately, but my mind is clouded by anxiety and fear. I would love to be able to celebrate this holiday season without my eating disorder constantly looming. I know that will take hard work and patience, though. Most importantly, I need to start believing in myself.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-5067508056495535658?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-22896951240324380342011-11-23T12:29:00.007-06:002011-11-23T12:37:18.209-06:00Saturday I had the pleasure of attending Austin’s 2nd Annual NEDA (National Eating Disorders Association) Walk. My team, Perfectly Imperfect, raised $2,385 which is incredibly exciting. The Austin NEDA Walk itself raised $19,880, surpassing its goal by nearly $10,000 making it the highest fundraising walk ever. The support of the community is absolutely amazing. Over 200 people registered. Step by step, awareness is being brought to this illness.<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678260275137621474" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GZKsbxykWkQ/Ts07orHKLeI/AAAAAAAAAC8/8rj7YV0qvdg/s320/2011NEDAWalk009.jpg" /><br /><br /><p align="center">(My parents and me at the walk.)</p><br /><br />I am truly grateful for my team. I walked alongside my parents, which was so special to me, as they have supported me every step of the way in my recovery and have made huge sacrifices, which I will never be able to thank them enough for. My aunt and godparents attended and their support means the world to me. I was equally as lucky to have some very supportive friends stand by my side and I can’t express my gratitude enough.<br /><br /><p></p><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QBqb5urFn0g/Ts07zWDF4WI/AAAAAAAAADI/JFvt6Zrhn3s/s1600/2011NEDAWalk002.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678260458461978978" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QBqb5urFn0g/Ts07zWDF4WI/AAAAAAAAADI/JFvt6Zrhn3s/s320/2011NEDAWalk002.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><p align="center">(My team, Pefectly Imperfect, holding the banner before the walk.)</p><br /><br />We had the privilege of holding the banner and leading the walk. It was so great to have so many people walking for this cause. I am truly amazed by the involvement of the people of Austin. The severity of eating disorders has to be brought to attention and that’s exactly what this event accomplished. I look forward to next year’s and hope that even more people will join in the cause.<br /><br />On another, completely unrelated, note, I celebrated my 21st birthday yesterday.<br /><br />It’s odd to me, as a teenager I’d resigned myself to a very short life. I didn’t think I’d make it past twenty years old. I had decided that this disease would very well take me by that point. It makes me so sad to think about. That girl had so little hope and very little aspirations for her life.<br /><br />It is safe to say that I am no longer that girl.<br /><br />There are things I want to do with my life now. I cannot afford to let it slip away. This illness can no longer define who I am and what I do, as it has for the past eleven years of my life. This is the first birthday where I can say that I am moving forward with my life, or trying to for that matter.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bh8YXE_6LYA/Ts08_PjpZTI/AAAAAAAAADU/nxpb4gr1Ui0/s1600/birthdaydress2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bh8YXE_6LYA/Ts08_PjpZTI/AAAAAAAAADU/nxpb4gr1Ui0/s320/birthdaydress2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678261762389534002" /></a><br /><p align= "center">(Before going out to dinner for my birthday.)</p><br /><br />It was a wonderful birthday. I had the joy of spending it with close friends and family. I even had a slice of birthday cake. My first slice on my birthday in years. I debated the issue for weeks before the big day. Do I have a piece of cake? Do I allow myself? And, I did. It didn’t kill me. My friends sang happy birthday and I blew out the candles and we all had a slice of pumpkin spice bundt cake. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-2289695124032438034?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-51824926056953498362011-11-14T05:16:00.005-06:002011-11-14T05:30:10.167-06:00Lately, I’ve been struggling with the motivation to get back on track. I find myself questioning The Point Of It All. Constantly I doubt whether the long, challenging journey that is recovery is worth it. I can’t see the light because I’ve submerged myself in the dark, perhaps too far.<br /><br />My therapist reminded me that I was doing it this summer, I was moving toward recovery. She reminded me how happy I was. How, instead of talking about food and weight, we spoke about my writing, my childhood, my relationships. I can’t remember. But, that’s the thing with starvation: you don’t remember that you were once happy. There is a quote from <em>Wasted</em> by Marya Hornbacher that describes it perfectly. <br /><br /><blockquote>“You begin to forget what it means to live. You forget things. You forget that you used to feel all right. You forget what it means to feel all right because you feel like shit all the time, and you can't remember what it was like before.”</blockquote><br />And with starvation comes the voice in my head, growing louder once more, telling me again that the weight loss will give me control and satisfaction, that I will feel accomplished, that I will finally be at peace with my body.<br /><br />It’s all bullshit.<br /><br />Logically, I know this. The rational part of my brain can see that I’ve tried it before and it hasn’t ended that way. It, in fact, goes veering off in the opposite direction and everything turns to chaos. But, I cannot remember, not fully.<br /><br />This makes recovery very daunting. How am I supposed to trust something I have such little faith in? How do I trust a process that everyone says will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, despite their encouragement that it’s all going to be worth it? Why would I turn away from my disorder that is offering me security and look toward a life that is unpredictable?<br /><br />Oh, that’s right. Now I remember. It ends in death—perhaps not immediately, but eventually. And, honestly, I don’t want to die. I have too much to do with my life. I have books to read and ballet classes to take and novels to write. I have a responsibility to others to stick around. I, though I don’t always believe, am a life worth living.<br /><br />I’m trying to keep in mind the positives of recovery and that it does get better and that it has gotten better for others. And, when in doubt, that’s when I need to turn to my support system. <br /><br />I once asked a person I truly look up to, a person who has recovered from their eating disorder, if it gets better. I’d like to share her response.<br /><br /><blockquote>“It absolutely gets better. It gets better, and easier, and gladder, the longer you stick with recovery. Eventually (I know this sounds crazy) it's just second nature to take care of yourself, to respect your body, to keep your focus on the life you're living and not the self you're trying to destroy. I'm a long time into recovery, but I remember being exactly where you are, and it's a turning point. Keep going, my dear--the motivation will come and go, but you are in charge of the actions either way.”</blockquote><br />Her email stuck with me, and one part in particular: despite my wavering motivation, I am in control of my actions. This I must keep in mind, and I hope you will too, no matter if you are recovering from an eating disorder or not. In life, your motivation will come and go, but you are responsible for your actions.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-5182492605695349836?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-56353494462233225052011-11-08T21:09:00.001-06:002011-11-08T21:10:42.909-06:00I’ve been quite hesitant to update my blog these days. I come to my computer, sit down in front of a blank Word document, and freeze. I am afraid to say how I am doing. In all honesty, I’m afraid of letting others down.<br /><br />Throughout these past few weeks, I’ve had a significantly difficult time. I felt the shift when I was in Dallas, the rough weekend I had previously posted about. My behaviors have since escalated. The familiarity of my eating disorder is, in some ways, comforting. I know, though, that it’s not what I should be welcoming back into my life.<br /><br />Recovery is not a linear path. I’ve been told this time and time again. In fact, I’ve been the one to reassure others that it’s not a linear path. But now, I’m faced with the difficult task of accepting it for myself. My perfectionism begs for a straight shot to a recovered life, unable to deal with the possibility that it will not be a clean break from my anorexia. I suppose that is one of the things I’m learning: acceptance of the situation, whether I like it or not.<br /><br />I’m not going to lie, there is a part of me that says (closer to screams) to go back to my eating disorder. But, there are things I want to do with my life. I want to stay in school. I want to stay in my apartment. I want to dance. Although my mind likes to tell me that I will be able to do that in my sickness, I know from experience that this isn’t true.<br /><br />The challenge is remembering this.<br /><br />While I would like to stand idly by and hope that this passes, I know that’s not the course of action to take (again, from experience). My treatment has been increased in order to get the extra support I currently need. Relapses happen, but it’s how we deal with them that makes the difference. <br /><br />What’s important, throughout all of this, is that I’m (finally) talking about it. I’m keeping in contact with my treatment team, telling them what is going on even though that voice inside my head screams at me to lie. But, I’m talking. I’m ignoring that dying urge to stay quiet and sink further into my illness. I’m trying. <br /><br />And that’s all we can do. Try.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-5635349446223322505?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-88918714970587225412011-10-20T20:35:00.002-05:002011-10-20T20:38:23.962-05:00I thought it’d be interesting to get an outside perspective on an eating disorder, by someone who hasn’t themselves had one but has a loved one struggling with one. This next post is by one of my best friends, Kara. It’s her view of my eating disorder and she also gives advice to those who may also have a loved one that’s struggling. It’s worth the read.<br /><br />---<br /><br />January, 2006<br /><br />I sat on a bar stool enjoying the essentials of any good movie night: Twizzlers and Diet Coke. My warm cotton pajamas hugged me close, the faint shouts of Lindsay Lohan and Rachel McAdams on Mean Girls floated in the background, and my new best friends sat around me. What a sweet place. <br /><br />I looked over at Kate as she told one of her dry yet hilarious stories. As I looked straight at her, I saw her tiny wrist and seemingly translucent hands reach for her pizza and throw it at her dog Dixie. Had she eaten any of it? I wondered. I noticed the bones protruding out of her ivory chest and her cheeks, that were once glowing and rosy, now concaved into her sunken face. <br /><br />At first, I tried to ignore the evident change, simply blaming it on a recent jaw surgery. Having to only eat liquids for six weeks would make anyone lose weight, right? This was only temporary, and she would be back to normal in no time. <br /><br />February, 2006<br /><br />Two girls with their over glossed lips and Abercrombie shirts came over and sat next to me at the lunch table. They leaned in, lowering their voices to a whisper, asking “Is Kate okay?” After answering that she was fine, they told me that she had lost a lot of weight and they were beginning to wonder if she was anorexic. Frustrated that people were making accusations about one of my best friends, I reported that she had lost weight from her surgery because she wasn’t able to eat solid foods, but assured them that no eating disorder was involved. <br /><br />March, 2006<br />I lugged on my backpack as I stood up to walk to first block science. I waved good-bye to the bustling other freshman around me as Kate handed me a note right before I turned on my feet to head to class. My heart immediately sank. Somehow I knew this wasn’t gong to be one of those fun notes with colors and little games with the newest gossip. I opened the note as I got to class and skimmed the note. My eyes stopped on the words near the bottom of the page, “eating disorder.” Wait, what? All this time I tried to convince myself and others that Kate’s newly emaciated face was nothing to cause alarm. However, in the back of my mind I knew that things weren’t right. And now, my beautiful, funny, witty, intelligent, athletic, and kind friend Kate had anorexia and was leaving school to head to Dallas, TX for treatment. I wasn’t struck by surprise or overcome with frustration though. Simply put, I was sad. My heart broke for Kate that she had to go through this, and selfishly my heart broke for myself that I would be without her for a month. How had things spiraled this much out of control and why had I not done anything to help?<br /><br />I was familiar with the term “anorexia” only because a friend in middle school’s little sister struggled with the disease. My knowledge only extended to the brief and rough description, “a person who starves themselves to lose weight because they feel like they look too big.” Now, the eight-letter word held a whole new weight (no pun intended). <br /><br />October, 2011<br /><br />As I write this post, I am looking back at the years of my friendship with Kate Peoples. As a new kid to the district, I was graced with a perfect coincidence and ended up meeting who would become my best friends at the end of the summer before high school. I was so happy just to see Kate’s familiar face at lunch and in my English class during those first few days of school. I still will say this even though Kate admitted to me much later that she didn’t remember my name during the whole first week of school. <br /><br />Despite forgetting my name, Kate quickly became one of my closest friends and still to this day I get to call her a best friend. I consider myself truly blessed to say she has been one of my dearest friends for six and a half years now, and counting. <br /><br />I’ve never really known Kate without her eating disorder. She was diagnosed a mere 5 months into our friendship. For a while, the topic was somewhat taboo between us. I wasn’t sure she knew how much I noticed and she wasn’t sure how much I noticed her tendencies. As much as she tried to make things sound trivial, I could tell when things were going down hill. I just never realized what a daily battle the disease was and to what extent it tormented her. <br /><br />I noticed The Cycle. I noticed that she seemed both excited and scared when she’d come back home after treatment. I noticed the anxiety that would hit her as she tried to catch up on school. I noticed that the stress would cause her to go into isolation and she wouldn’t hang out with people much. I noticed her falling asleep in class because she couldn’t fall asleep at night. I noticed the anxiety that would make her slip backwards, writing out diet plans and only drinking a diet coke for lunch. I noticed when I wouldn’t hear from her for a couple of days and then I would find out from her parents or from Facebook that she had gone to the hospital. I noticed as her legs would begin to shrink again and her skin would become increasingly translucent. I noticed that then it was only a matter of time before I would have to say good-bye again while she went back to treatment. <br /><br />I didn’t want this to be the reality. I didn’t want to accept it, to resign myself to thinking that this was just the way things were with Kate. It always created such a whirlwind of emotions. I wanted to do something, to say something, to be a better friend, so that I could make her get better. I wanted our friendship to be enough to make her better. <br /><br />I had to realize that I was making this about myself. I was being self-centered in how I thought about this friendship, thinking that I was strong enough to heal her. Alas, I recognized that I did not have the power to make her better.<br /><br />After this understanding, I caught my emotions evolving into frustration. The Cycle was happening so often. The only explanation that I could find was that she didn’t want to put in the effort to get better. I began to think that if she just tried hard enough, worked hard enough, and wanted to recover, then she would finally heal. She just needed to stop getting so stressed out and needed to stop using her eating disorder as a crutch for life. It’s not as much that I was mad at Kate, but rather I was frustrated the she was selling herself short. I wanted something more for her than the life she had succumb herself to living. She deserved better, but wasn’t letting herself have better. Why couldn’t she just eat? Eating. It’s such a simple thing. It’s intuitive. It’s how you survive. Her problems seemed like they had such a simple solution: just put food in your mouth. <br /><br />However, this mindset quickly transgressed to a resigned state of confusion when I began to understand that my previous perception of the disease wasn’t correct. Simple was a far cry from being an accurate description of the disease and the solution. I wasn’t sure how much of this disease was by choice or if it was a sickness that controlled her. Was it somewhere in the middle? Or was it one or the other? A disease like asthma makes so much more sense. Physically, there is a problem with your lungs that makes it hard to breathe. You take medicine, eat well, exercise, and most of the time you’re fine. But anorexia? It didn’t seem as clear-cut to me. If Kate wanted to get better, couldn’t she just decide to eat and get better? Or was there something chemically and physically wrong? I couldn’t figure it out. <br /><br />Now I’ve finally realized that anorexia is not just a state of mind, it’s a disease. It’s a perpetrator that takes your brain hostage and refuses to offer any mercy. There’s no easy fix. I can’t fix Kate and neither can Kate easily make herself better, a both humbling and sobering realization. The disease is similar to an injury that requires intensive physical rehabilitation. Anorexia necessitates careful therapy, a drive to heal, and a community of people who love you unconditionally for recovery. <br /><br />Kate’s story has become part of my story. Through our friendship, I have learned so much about myself, relationships, struggles, and life. As a friend of someone who struggles with body image, you must relinquish control. You can’t take anything personally. You can’t take your friend’s tendency toward isolation, low moments, or struggles as a reflection of yourself or your relationship with them. <br />You can’t heal them. <br /><br />But you can love them. <br />Love them with all you have and let go of anything hindering you. Don’t think their disease is about you, because it’s not. Don’t think their disease is a choice, because it’s not. Don’t beat around the topic like it’s taboo, because it’s not. Talking about the issue gives sincerity to your friendship instead of pretending like the disease doesn’t exist. All I can really say is love your friend. Let them know you love them and that you aren’t going anywhere. <br /><br />I still continually pray for Kate’s recovery. I’ve seen what the disease has done to her life, and I know there’s still much that I don’t know. I’ve seen her grow increasingly weary of close relationships and the fluctuation of her weight. I’ve heard about the screaming fights with family and the stress that school causes her. I’ve witnessed the ripple effect that this disease has had, permeating nearly all aspects of her life. However, lately I’ve also noticed a new determination that I haven’t sensed before. She no longer seems resigned to fall back into the comfort zone of her eating disorder and instead has a new desire for recovery. I can’t even imagine what a hard road it has been and is daily. I am exceptionally grateful that she wants to heal and is working harder than ever before to reach the once thought to be impossible goal of recovery. <br />I know in my heart of hearts that she will reach that goal. <br /><br />I love you Kate. To the moon and back, forever and always.<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-8891871497058722541?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-3472184592246861302011-10-18T15:54:00.001-05:002011-10-18T15:55:43.655-05:00This past week I’ve had two one-year anniversaries.<br /><br />Sunday was one year since I stopped using laxatives. This topic is a difficult one for me to bring up. Laxative use is a very shameful behavior for me, but it’s one I struggled with for nearly five years. Those little blue pills that caused my stomach to churn in regret, I became a slave to them. Once a week, speeding to the local pharmacy in a panic, walking down the isles and slipping them into my purse, buying a Diet Coke, and swallowing them in my car. There was a sense of calm only to be destroyed by an agonizing pain. I cannot say the urges are not still there, they come in times of chaos, but I can tell you that I have no desire to go back. I still suffer from the medical consequences of taking them, how could I not after five years? The body loses its resilience after awhile, as mine has. Slowly, though, I’m healing—mentally and physically—from the abuse I inflicted on my body for years and years. I never thought I’d be able to say I gave them up. But here I am, one year later, telling you that I have given them up. There is a sense of pride that comes with that.<br /><br />This brings me to today. Exactly one year ago, I was walking onto Jackson 5, Dallas Presbyterian Hospital’s psychiatric floor, heading into what would be my third eating disorder treatment center and overall sixth hospitalization. I couldn’t believe it. <em>How had I ended up in this position again?</em> I asked myself that but knew it was inevitable, keeping up my behaviors as long as I had, unable to change them in an outpatient setting. I’d been doing it for too long. Anorexia had reared its ugly head and I was having a difficult time breaking free.<br /><br />My time in treatment was spent omitting information. I kept up a guard. The stay was a difficult one. I was stuck between wanting to be the perfect patient and wanting to let myself struggle, like treatment is supposed to entail. The treatment team there was not hopeful upon my departure. I did leave with a pull to get better, though. I’d never had that before.<br /><br />One year later, and I’m a different person. My motivation may waiver from day to day, week to week, but I have come far enough to know that my eating disorder brings me nothing but misery and I want no part of that.<br /><br />Anniversaries used to be sources of pain and sadness. I used to look upon my sickness and long for it. Sometimes I still do. But this week, these are the first anniversaries I can look upon and see how far I’ve come. I can see my accomplishments. I have a life. I have relationships. I am making strides. I still struggle but I can overcome it.<br /><br />I am living, not existing. I could not say that one year ago. But here I am, doing better than anyone had anticipated. It feels good. I feel proud.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-347218459224686130?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-26617532492436863702011-10-14T02:05:00.004-05:002011-10-14T02:08:25.514-05:00Today, I weighed myself. I shouldn’t have done it. The thought worked its way into my mind during therapy this morning and I just couldn’t shake it. Rather than talking about it, I kept it to myself, sure that I couldn’t be convinced otherwise. I <em>had</em> to know the number.<br /><br />Stepping onto the scale, I held my breath. I guessed the number in my head, swore if it was above X amount of pounds that I’d lose weight, just as I did every other time I weighed myself. It was an old reassurance, even if I didn’t follow up on it, the thought soothed me. The numbers flashed and I thought I’d misread it, because it couldn’t be <em>that</em> number. I hadn’t seen <em>that</em> number in nearly a year, not since before my last hospitalization.<br /><br />The rest of the day was an anxious mess. I didn’t understand how this could’ve happened. Yes, food had been a bit off lately—maybe even more so than a bit off. It was midterm season and the last few weeks had been a whirlwind of sleepless nights, round the clock anxiety, and stress I managed to get through but couldn’t quite cope with. I already have a difficult time with hunger cues and this had nearly severed them.<br /><br />Somewhere along the line it became okay to cut back a snack or two, maybe miss a meal. I was going, going, going. No time to play and especially no time to eat. I would walk out the door, only to get halfway to my 9am class and realize I hadn’t had breakfast. I would forget to pack my Luna Bars and snacks, leaving myself stranded, unable to push myself to buy a food outside of my comfort zone to compensate. I didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t waking up in the morning with the intention to restrict and lose weight; therefore, it didn’t seem like a cause for concern. Fast forward to today, stepping on the scale and feeling nothing but shock. Of course, then comes that next thought, the one that always follows.<br /><br />“Just lose those last pounds, it’s easy. You can do it quickly, in no time.”<br /><br />The entire day, watching what I ate, wondering, “Will this amount of food make me gain weight?” Looking into every mirror, every reflective surface, deciding if I looked thinner, <em>could I possibly be thinner?</em> That number, replaying itself in my mind, flashing before my eyes, so close. Every thought was directed to those specific pounds; somehow I kept finding myself coming back to that number.<br /><br />I attended meal group, where I told my nutritionist my shock. She looked at me and said, once more, that I wasn’t eating enough. I didn’t want to hear it. I was eating what the hospital had told me to (on most days) and why wasn’t that enough? Reassuring me of my progress, she informed me again that my calories were not meeting my body’s needs. It didn’t seem fair. The amount I was eating was comfortable and still challenging most days. But, recovery isn’t about comfort. If we were doing what was comfortable, no one would ever leave their eating disorder.<br /><br />Leaving meal group, I had every intention to go home and exercise. Once back at the apartment, I went to the computer, talked to one of my best friends halfway across the world, and calmed down. Then, I realized: I do not like my life revolving around a number.<br /><br />This entire day had been spent obsessing over one number. What good came from it? What did I accomplish by putting all of my focus into those few digits? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.<br /><br />All day I’d spent focusing on the pros of losing this weight. I never once considered the negatives of it. I wouldn’t be able to attend school. I wouldn’t be able to live away from home. I would be in more treatment which means less time and more money. And really, throughout all of this, I become a much less interesting person. I push people away. People don’t want to be around someone so invested in self destruction. It’s difficult to keep relationships when you’re sick.<br /><br />There is so much more to me than that damn number on the scale. I am a writer. I am a student. I am a dancer. I am a friend, a daughter, a sister. I will not measure my worth by an amount of pounds that has no relevance to my character.<br /><br />So, here’s where it gets tricky. I realize now that I can’t trust myself as much as I thought, that my mind has been warped by an eating disorder for many years, and that it will take a good deal of time to undo that. I must continue to rely on my treatment team and those around me to offer me guidance and look to them for support. Most importantly, I must continue to fight.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-2661753249243686370?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-71919289227020111742011-10-10T21:33:00.002-05:002011-10-10T21:35:34.124-05:00Last night, panic hit—severe panic that I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. Everything became extremely overwhelming. It all was too much to handle, I was sure of this. I went to bed, unable to shut out the thoughts, hoping that sleep would bring me some sort of peace of mind.<br /><br />This morning, I awoke (late, due to medication) in a severely depressed state. I was ready to throw in the towel. Recovery was hard and it ruffled my feathers and I didn’t like it. I wasn’t happy. I wallowed in my depression, woke up many times only to go back to sleep, subsequently missing all of my classes for the day. I felt like a failure, in every aspect of my life.<br /><br />Most importantly, though, through all of this, I still reached out for support.<br /><br />I sent a text message to my therapist. I left a voicemail for my nutritionist. I spoke to a few friends, and after some encouragement, pulled myself out of bed, put on clothes (not pajamas), and left my apartment.<br /><br />What has truly helped me today was advice I received from others, advice that I wouldn’t have received if I hadn’t reached out. After this long introduction, I’m brought to the topic of my post: pretending everything is okay when it really isn’t.<br /><br />I am the queen of trying to make things appear as if they’re all right. I want everyone to think I’m fine and happy and dandy. I’m terrified that the thoughts in my head will translate to the surface. So, I smile. I keep what I’m feeling inside, gnawing away at me.<br /><br />This does not do any good, not for me, not for anyone else. It never ends well. In the past, it has ended with a nervous breakdown of sorts and everyone being sideswiped by it. No one saw it coming because I appeared to be fine. I never said otherwise. How were they to know? Unfortunately, I’ve had far too much experience with this. I wait too long to reach out to others and continue to pretend that everything is just <em>fine</em>, when the reality is far from it.<br /><br />And, where does this get me recovery wise? Nowhere.<br /><br />My biggest fear, with admitting that I’m not okay, is that I appear weak. This is not the case in the least bit. A friend said to me, “Strength is admitting that stuff is hard and showing that you're okay with that and you want to move forward.” She’s right. I show my strength when admitting to others that I am not doing well as long as I show my determination to move past it. There is a difference between wallowing in your depression and telling others you’re struggling. When you wallow, you are unreceptive to what others have to say. But remember, by telling others you’re struggling, you must be open to making a change.<br /><br />Tonight, I went out on a limb. I’ve been struggling in school. I’ve been talking to my professors about it and they’ve been helpful, but I’ve been incredibly vague, keeping them at an arm’s distance. After speaking with others, I realized that it’s to my benefit to keep them fully informed. So, I told one of my professors exactly what was going on. I don’t regret it one bit.<br /><br />She said she had expected something greater was happening, which leads me to believe I’m not as great as acting “okay” as I think I am. She then commended me for my strength and offered to help me. I was in shock. I told her that I was struggling, that things weren’t okay, and the outcome was a positive one. This is not what had played out in my mind. I was relieved.<br /><br />Basically, what I’m trying to say is (in this very unorganized blog post), pretending to be okay will not get you where you want to be. In fact, by admitting you’re not, even though it puts you in a vulnerable position, you’re allowing real relationships to form and giving the chance to have others help you.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-7191928922702011174?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-60258226730013410022011-10-08T23:06:00.003-05:002011-10-08T23:09:50.826-05:00This has been a rough weekend. In a way, I’ve been hesitant about writing about it because I don’t want to be discouraging. But, I think it’s important for you to know both the ups and downs of recovery, because as much as I’d like it to be, recovery isn’t perfect.<br /><br />My family and I traveled to Dallas this weekend for a football game. I thought nothing of it. In fact, I was excited to see some old friends. But this trip has proved to be a challenge.<br /><br />Dallas holds a special place in my heart. I have friends here that I know I’ll keep for the rest of my life, even if we did meet under unusual circumstances. Dallas is where I come when I’m sick. I’ve been in two separate eating disorder programs here and every other time I’ve visited my anorexia has been unmanageable. My last hospitalization was at Presbyterian Hospital about a year ago. I haven’t been back since.<br /><br />I didn’t think coming back would be so difficult for me.<br /><br />The ride here was a long one. Stopping in a small town for dinner was my first challenge of the trip. Being a pescatarian, I’m limited to what I can eat. Also, recovering from anorexia, I’ve already placed many foods off limits. (I’ll eventually work on adding them back, I’ve already added some back, but it’s a process like everything else.) It felt like everything I tried to order was unavailable, eventually I settled for food I knew wasn’t enough. Frustrated to the point of tears, I felt as if my efforts had failed.<br /><br />Once in Dallas, though, the emotions were overwhelming. I’m in a very different place now than when I was here one year ago. I am no longer underweight. I am no longer actively engaging in my eating disorder. I am trying to recover. I won’t say I don’t miss it though. And that’s what hit me, the nostalgia.<br /><br />It wasn’t helpful that the food situation was a mess. After breakfast, we arrived at the state fair around 9:30am. The game was at 11am and by noon I knew I needed lunch. That’s when it hit me how difficult it was. <em>It had never been this hard before.</em> I also wasn’t trying to eat before, either. But now I had to buy a food I would not normally eat, one which, once again, wasn’t a substantial meal. And then as I sat there, eating my pretzel, I cried. I didn’t <em>want</em> to be doing this. It would have been much easier to skip lunch. My eating disorder was comfortable and right now I really, truly missed it.<br /><br />After fighting back tears, and loosing that fight, for nearly an entire quarter of the game, I left early. The day didn’t get much easier, though. It took me nearly an hour to find my way back to the bus. The people in the fair were overwhelming, too many and too close. There were a few times I just stopped and cried. Finally back on the bus, I made my way to Mockingbird Station where I had forced myself to order a true lunch. I sat alone, crying between bites, because <em>I didn’t want to eat</em>. In Dallas, I was sick. That’s who I was in Dallas. The sick girl. But now, I lose that identity. I can’t quite figure out how to deal with that loss yet.<br /><br />Then, later that night at dinner, I sat there ordering nothing, drinking a Diet Coke. In a way, it felt like home. It was normal. It just felt <em>right.</em><br /><br />I hated it.<br /><br />While I missed starving, it made me feel almost dirty. All of this work I had put into recovery would be for nothing if I was willing to throw it away because a city brought back some difficult memories. Back at the hotel, I ordered dinner. I ate it and for the first time in awhile, had the urge to throw up.<br /><br />But, that’s all it was. An urge. I didn’t act on it. Where would purging my dinner have gotten me? Nowhere I wanted to be. Not closer to being recovered, that’s for sure.<br /><br />I guess that’s what recovery is, though. Having the thoughts and not acting on them. Sometimes you end up crying at football games and restaurants, but you continue to push on. You don’t have to like it, but you do it and just hope that it gets better, knowing that other people have made it to the other side and it has gotten better for them.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-6025822673001341002?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-18194757520319726052011-10-06T23:47:00.002-05:002011-10-06T23:52:53.256-05:00In my last session with my dietician, she <em>suggested</em> that I keep some food journals, <em>reminded</em> me that I could always email them to her (since I only see her every other week). I told her I would, because I’d been having a bit of a hard time and it would hold me more accountable.<br /><br />I began to write down my food again, unsure of how many calories I was supposed to be eating. (My meal plan is by calories rather than exchanges/food groups for personal reasons. I’m not saying one way is right or wrong, it’s just what personally works best for me.) But, I was eating meals and snacks consistently. I wasn’t waking up in the morning with the intention to restrict. I wasn’t waking up at night with the urge to binge. Judging by those factors, I assumed I was eating enough, maybe more so wanted to believe I was eating enough. There was that part of me that began to question it, though. I tried to push the thought aside but kept coming back to every time I logged a meal or snack. Finally, when emailing my food logs to my dietician, I asked how many calories I should be eating.<br /><br />I did not like the response I got.<br /><br />As I had suspected, what I was eating was considered to be relatively low. To put it in perspective, at least for myself, people who eat this amount are generally on some sort of weight loss program. Hearing what my dietician said I needed to eat was absolutely shocking to me. I’d been eating a significantly less amount. I was overcome with anxiety. <em>How could I possibly eat what she wants me to?</em> But then, I was angry. <em>This is going to make me gain weight, doesn’t she understand? How does she know? I am eating enough. This is enough for me. I’m different than other people.<br /><br /></em>Sure, sure. I knew I wasn’t eating enough; the rational part of me knew. While I wasn’t restricting, I was aware that what I was eating didn’t fully meet my needs. But my eating disorder did a damn good job trying to convince me otherwise. That’s the thing with eating disorders, they’re very sneaky illnesses.<br /><br />My next step to take was one I did not want to take at all. It was a step I had avoided taking for the past ten years of my life. <strong>I had to put my trust in my treatment team.</strong> Again. There is no way getting around that either. It’s just something that, in order to recover, you <strong>have</strong> to do.<br /><br />As I said, eating disorders are very sneaky illnesses. The thoughts are constant and pervasive and often you’re unaware of which are yours and which are the disorder’s. You begin to have a difficult time separating yourself from your eating disorder, believing that you and it are the same thing when that is not the case. This is why you have to trust your treatment team, most importantly in the beginning of your recovery. You have to trust the fact that your treatment team is made up of trained professionals that know what they’re doing. At that moment, I didn’t fully believe there was a life outside of my eating disorder. I knew I wanted one. I knew other people had recovered. But I wasn’t quite convinced that I had the ability to. My treatment team was. So, I put my faith in them, decided that they knew better than I did. It was scary as hell, moving toward the unknown land of health when I knew sickness so well, but it was more than worth it.<br /><br />And now, here I am again, back at the same crossroad. I could either put my trust in my dietician or I could, essentially, put my trust back in my eating disorder. I could trust the fact that my dietician is knowledgeable in nutrition, has been trained in the field of eating disorders, and has no intention of making me gain weight, or I could trust my anorexia, and continue to live a disordered and restrictive life. Yes, trusting my dietician is much more difficult, but what do I get from trusting my eating disorder? Nothing. In fact, I lose quite a bit.<br /><br />I’m making the decision to follow my meal plan, work up to what I ultimately should be getting nutritionally. As someone with anorexia, I have learned that I am not the best judge as to what I should be eating. I’ve ignored my body’s signals and needs for too long. I must put my trust in someone else for the time being.<br /><br />I make it sound simple. Sometimes, though, there are decisions that need to just be <em>made</em>. No questioning, just blind faith. It’s terrifying, but the pay off is fantastic. In return, you get a life.<br /><br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-1819475752031972605?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-62388989091430178942011-10-04T22:28:00.001-05:002011-10-04T22:30:53.917-05:00I’ve never been one to speak up. Voicing my opinion has always been difficult for me. I hate to ruffle feathers, create tension. So, whenever I had a feeling of any sort, I turned it inward. It manifested itself in my eating disorder. If I didn’t like what someone had to say, I’d skip a meal. This also applied to asking for help. I felt incapable of voicing a concern, telling someone that <em>maybe I couldn’t do this on my own</em>. I’d taught myself to push down the problem, keep it in, which in my opinion, is a behavior in itself.<br /><br />Something I’ve learned within the past year: I <strong>cannot</strong> do this on my own. It is <strong>necessary</strong> to ask for help. Also, people are much more receptive to you when you’re honest. I’ve learned that it’s better to come clean with a problem rather than waiting for it to get to the point where drastic measures need to be taken.<br /><br />The whole taking-drastic-measures thing? It has happened more than I’d like to say. Recently, though, I’ve made some strides in asking for support when I realize I need it. And, you know what? It’s made a huge difference in my anxiety, behaviors, and overall recovery.<br /><br />I’m going to share with you something that I’ve never truly mentioned to anyone outside of my treatment team. But, my hope is that this will help you or you’ll share this with someone you think it may help. At the very least, I hope this teaches the importance of honesty and proves to you that admitting a problem when there is one is so very beneficial to your recovery and life in general.<br /><br />There are many symptoms, other than weight loss, that can tell you a person is starving. The main one, at least in my case, is obsession with food. I always wanted to talk about food; I baked constantly, printed out recipes and watched The Food Network in my spare time. But, there is one more symptom I feel goes unmentioned, due to shame and embarrassment: binge eating. Scientifically speaking, your brain will override your body eventually. You can only restrict your intake for so long, until the malnourishment becomes so severe that you essentially lose control. If you’re interested in learning more, look up the Minnesota Starvation Experiment.<br /><br />This is exactly what happened to me. Last year, I’d been starving myself and losing weight consistently for months. Then, a switch flipped. I began waking up at night and binging. I hadn’t even felt hungry, but there I found myself, grabbing food from the pantry, running back to my room, and eating quickly as if not to be caught.<br /><br />The cycle continued and went unreported for weeks, until I was once again in treatment. In a way, I was relieved. Inpatient, the option to binge was no more. I could breathe again. I didn’t have to go to bed terrified I’d wake up and eat. I did not rest in the hospital, though. I’d begun to get hungry again, since I was no longer starving and my brain could once again send those signals to my body, and woke up at night in cold sweats, hungrier than ever. It was just as shameful as binging.<br /><br />I was only inpatient for a week until insurance cut out and I was moved to the day program. I stayed at my godfather’s house at night and spent my days in the hospital’s eating disorder program. The cycle, that I thought had been broken, started up once more. My body had been starved for too long and I was on a meal plan that my nutritionist later told me was rather restrictive, though it didn’t feel like it at the time. I was eating food that wasn’t even <em>mine</em>. I’d find myself in the grocery store after leaving treatment for the day, buying food to replace what I’d eaten, only to eat again that night. I’d never been more ashamed. It was my dirty little secret.<br /><br />I was so embarrassed that, throughout my entire stay in treatment, I didn’t say a word.<br /><br />Finally home, the cycle continued. I cried and cried and cried. I felt so out of control. It wasn’t making any sense to me. Then, one day in session with my nutritionist, I took a deep breath and told her I had something to say. Hesitant, I came clean, told her I’d been eating at night for weeks. She assured me that it wasn’t uncommon in patients who had starved themselves for so long. I’d never felt more relieved. Though I’d never wish this on another person, it was nice to know I wasn’t alone.<br /><br />We made a plan. My meal plan was increased during the day so I wouldn’t feel the need to eat at night. It didn’t work immediately. We adjusted it as needed. But gradually, the behavior lessened until it was no more. Now, I sleep through the night and when I do wake up, I no longer feel the need to eat. I also know that if I do wake up hungry, it’s okay to eat because that’s what my body needs.<br /><br />That was my first real step in being honest and asking for help. It took me weeks of engaging in a behavior to get there, but once I did everything changed for the better. I had the support I needed. I wasn’t alone. Hiding from my problem wasn’t working. Living in shame and constant embarrassment wasn’t working. I asked for help and the world didn’t end. In fact, it looked a little brighter. I gained confidence in myself in return. I hope you’ll do the same for yourself.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-6238898909143017894?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-31129722463505655132011-10-02T14:10:00.004-05:002011-10-02T18:49:48.560-05:00A few weeks ago in meal group, I restricted my dinner. I knew I was restricting. I knew half a sandwich wasn’t a substantial meal. I knew it. I waited for a staff member to say something to me, but no one spoke up. I watched jealously as they badgered another girl to finish her meal. <em>No one cares</em>, said my eating disorder. <em>You are too fat for anyone to care.</em> I missed being the sick one, the one people worried about constantly. It felt as if people had abandoned me because I was “getting well.”<br /><br />I called my dietician that night, quite upset, and told her that I didn’t think I had had enough for dinner. Then, I admitted that I didn’t like being the recovering one. I professed my desire to dive head first back into my eating disorder because I felt as if that was the only way anyone would care about me. I was embarrassed, mostly, fearing that it was a cry for attention. Really, I just wanted to be back in the comfort of my illness.<br /><br />Then, I realized something for the first time: I have to take responsibility for myself. I can’t depend on other people to tell me to finish my meals. Part of recovery is independence, and I had wanted my independence for so long. But here it was, staring me in the face, and I looked the other way.<br /><br />For so long, I’d been in crisis mode, I <em>was</em> the sick one. The past five and a half years of therapy, the majority of my time had been focused on stabilization. I was so engaged in behaviors and determined to remain sick that nothing could be accomplished. When your treatment team is trying to keep you alive, there isn’t much time for anything else.<br /><br />Last summer, my therapist of four years dropped me as a patient. A therapist can only treat a person who doesn’t want to get well for so long. I cannot tell you her reasons, but I can only imagine it becomes quite discouraging to watch someone so entrenched in their illness for so many years. (As I came to find out months later, she had told my current therapist to prepare herself, because she didn’t think I was going to get better.)<br /><br />I began seeing my current therapist a few weeks after I parted ways with my former therapist. I met her in crisis mode. All I knew was crisis mode. I had become comfortable with it. I began seeing a new dietician and psychiatrist. I saw the doctor on campus that specifically treated eating disorders. I had a treatment team. They worked hard. I did not. Crisis became second nature and I wasn’t ready to leave it behind.<br /><br />Eventually, I went into the hospital once more.<br /><br />And now, it’s been close to a year since my last treatment center. I am no longer in crisis mode and that terrifies me. But here’s the deal: You can’t do any work when you’re in crisis mode. When you’re in that place, unstable and stuck in your eating disorder and determined like hell to stay there, change doesn’t come easily.<br /><br />Getting to the place where you’re once again stable is hard. The refeeding process is agonizing and painful, physically and emotionally. But the real work comes after. The real work begins once you’ve had a chance to restore your health. Cognitive function diminishes when you’re malnourished, making it near impossible to make any strides therapeutically.<br /><br />Now that I am in a stable place, I am visiting topics that I have never before explored. I’m learning new things about myself, realizing that I am a much more interesting person when my life isn’t revolving around staying sick. And, most importantly, I’m learning (slowly, as it’s still a challenge) to take responsibility for myself and my recovery.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><!-- AddThis Button BEGIN --><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><!-- AddThis Button END --><br /><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-3112972246350565513?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-17825198749840302011-09-29T21:00:00.011-05:002011-10-02T18:50:22.805-05:00Today was an unexpected challenge.<br /><br />Every so often, I attend meal group put on by the Intensive Outpatient Program I partook in. It is an hour long; you bring a meal, sit amongst other people, and eat. Simple enough. But it’s a far cry from my normal hole-away-on-my-own-and-eat-while-distracting-myself meal times. I go when I know I’m having a particularly hard day or feeling willful about eating dinner.<br /><br />Tonight was one of those nights.<br /><br />I sent a text to my dietician, who works at the IOP program, and tell her I think I’m going to come to meal group, but warn her that I’m nervous. Her text back then informs me that tonight meal group is at a restaurant. I’m floored. Not once when I was in the IOP program did we go out to eat. My anxiety at this point? Sky high.<br /><br />Here’s the deal with restaurants: I like to know where I’m going beforehand. That way, I can examine the menu (probably too closely) and decide what I want to order. When put on the spot, I feel utterly useless. I am an indecisive person and even more so when it comes to food.<br /><br />It took me about an hour to convince myself that I should join them for meal group. In the end, it came down to a simple text from my dietician saying, “Will you be able to eat if you don’t come?” that made me realize I shouldn’t avoid this situation just because it was stressful.<br /><br />At the restaurant, I ordered my default meal: a veggie burger. My stomach was in knots, anxiety so great that I was nearing nauseous. At the table I forced myself to engage in conversation, tried to push aside my anxiety that could have easily crossed over into the realm of debilitating. Then, the food came. I stared it down, and, after a few minutes, began to eat.<br /><br />It was terrifying. Eating in restaurants terrifies me. I always feel so judged by people I know couldn’t possibly be paying attention to me, but in the moment I am convinced all eyes are on me. Every so often one of the staff would lean over and whisper, “You’re doing great.” Appreciative for their encouragement, I’d force a smile. It still feels wrong to be congratulated for eating. Eating, at most times, still feels wrong.<br /><br />But I made it, ate what I was supposed to, and I survived. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like I accomplished something. I put myself in a situation I knew would be challenging and it didn’t kill me. Surprise, surprise.<br /><br />Do I think eating in restaurants will be a breeze now? Absolutely not. But I know I can. I’ve proved to myself that it is doable, even when I don’t have time to over analyze the menu.<br /><br />Challenge yourself. Like I learned, it’s not going to kill you.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><!-- AddThis Button BEGIN --><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><!-- AddThis Button END --><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-1782519874984030?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-53547626968717029492011-09-28T17:07:00.005-05:002011-10-02T18:50:41.606-05:00I think in recovery we’re all going to, at some point, experience that “buyer’s remorse” sensation. I know I did. Three weeks into the summer and I found myself crying in a parking lot following my ballet teacher’s Thursday night class. <br /><br />It hit me when I watched the girls put on their pointe shoes. I leaned against the wall, pulling my jeans up and over my tights, thinking that I needed to eat dinner. I ticked through the list of foods I allowed myself to eat, just as I did at every meal time. And there it was waiting for me, that thought.<br /><br /><em>You’re going to have to give this up.</em><br /><br />Why it hadn’t hit me until this moment, I’m not sure. I darted out of the dance studio and into my car, slamming the door, resting my hands on the steering wheel, keys sitting in my lap, and cried. <br /><br />Ten years. My eating disorder had been my life for ten years. I grew up with it and it grew up with me. What was I to do without it? How could I manage? It all felt very real and very impossible.<br /><br />Rummaging in my car’s trunk for tissues, a short while must’ve passed because there was my ballet teacher, car next to mine, asking why I was still in the parking lot. Barely glancing up, I bit my lip and shook my head, unable to speak. <br /><br />She leaned out of her window. “Kate, what’s going on?”<br /><br />I looked up, tears streaming down my face, and walked toward her. I told her I couldn’t believe I was giving up my eating disorder. Then, she did something I hadn’t expected. She smiled. <br /><br />“It’s a good thing,” she said, “but it’s like giving up an old friend, I remember.” I nodded in agreement. My eating disorder had been all that I’d needed, it had become my best friend. Finishing her thought, she continued, “And really, these past few weeks are the happiest I’ve ever seen you. It’s like meeting you for the first time.” <br /><br />It was nice to know that there was a visible change in me. I had felt happier in those past three weeks of recovery than I had in my entire lifetime. My ballet teacher was meeting me once more, but this time as a person in recovery from an eating disorder, not as a person consumed by one. I hoped that other people would be able to recognize this shift in me, too.<br /><br />Later that night, a friend said to me, “People don’t like the sick you, Kate.” She was right. After awhile, sickness becomes boring, it becomes predictable, but mostly it becomes taxing on the relationship. It’s difficult to respect someone who so obviously has lost all respect for themselves. It’s difficult to sustain a relationship with someone who is so absorbed in their own illness. <br /><br />When it comes down to it, I don’t like the sick me either. I was comfortable with it. I had known it for so long that I believed I could be nothing more than the “sick girl.” Now, stepping outside of that role I’d placed myself in, my relationships are thriving. They are true relationships. No one is forced to play the caretaker. Though there is still a desire to be sick at times, I know I do not have to be in my disorder to keep those close to me. <br /><br />Slowly, I’m giving up the sickness I’ve held onto for so long.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><!-- AddThis Button BEGIN --><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><!-- AddThis Button END --><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-5354762696871702949?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4664408815427706858.post-13469644516261825072011-09-28T08:14:00.004-05:002011-10-02T18:50:49.520-05:00If there is one thing you should know about me, it’s that I love to write. I loved to write as a child and it’s carried over into early adulthood. The pen and the paper (more so these days a blank word document and an empty USB drive) are my old friends. They comfort me, offer a safe place to let loose. They are not judgmental. They are always forgiving. They have been a constant for me.<br /><br />The last ten, nearing eleven, years of my life (I turn 21 in November) have been spent in the grips of an eating disorder. I remember few things other than starving. The moments not spent thinking about food or weight were fleeting. As a teenager, I had resigned myself to a life of sickness and an early death.<br /><br />Now, here I am, eight dieticians, six hospitalizations, five psychiatrists, four therapists, and one nurse practitioner later, working toward recovery. At times, it doesn’t feel real. Statistically speaking, after ten years of starving, six years of throwing up, five years of abusing laxatives, and four suicide attempts, I shouldn’t be alive. Yet, here I stand.<br /><br />There is something to be said about the will to live and to recover. If you want it enough, you are capable. Right now, I am learning that I am capable of living a life outside of my eating disorder, something I never dreamt to be possible. <br /><br />I am only in the early stages of recovery, which is why I created this blog. I want to be able to share my experiences with you. Whether you yourself have an eating disorder or have a loved one with an eating disorder, I hope my writings help you in some way.<br /><br />Best,<br />Kate<br /><br /><!-- AddThis Button BEGIN --><br /><div class="addthis_toolbox addthis_default_style "><br /><a class="addthis_button_preferred_1"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_2"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_3"></a><a class="addthis_button_preferred_4"></a><a class="addthis_button_compact"></a><a class="addthis_counter addthis_bubble_style"></a><br /></div><br /><script type="text/javascript" src="http://s7.addthis.com/js/250/addthis_widget.js#pubid=ra-4e852d3068e64cbe"></script><br /><!-- AddThis Button END --><br /><a href="http://feedburner.google.com/fb/a/mailverify?uri=SmallStepsUpward&amp;loc=en_US">Subscribe to Small Steps Upward by Email</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4664408815427706858-1346964451626182507?l=smallstepsupward.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Kate Peopleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02117545563389172262noreply@blogger.com0