One would normally think it a matter of course (and common sense) to take a doctor's advice; after all, you do want to get better. For Eating Disorders, this is easier said than done...
This most likely sound’s rather peculiar, what person would ignore the doctor’s advice? This is something I regularly ponder; why, after all the help I have received, am I still unwell?
There is no answer. Anorexia is devious, it convinces you that the way you live is the only way possible. It tells me that I will never cope without it. It has locked me in chains for so long, I often can’t possibly picture a way to unlock them. It feels as if I have lost the keys.
Eating disorders have a high rate of relapse. One would presume that once I have gained control of my behaviours, gained some weight and learned a regular eating pattern, why would I sabotage that, and revert back to my old habits? It seems to feel like a revolving door. Going round and round and round.
I remember when I was 19, I was sitting on a beanbag crying my eyes out to a kind nurse whilst refusing to come to lunch. I was telling her how I was desperate to be well enough to celebrate my birthday in a few months with my friends. She questioned me then how I could possibly even consider this when I wasn't able to just eat some lunch. I soon gave in, told her she was right and was determined to recover by then. She successfully coaxed me to stand up, and I hesitantly made my way to the kitchen.
Well, that birthday ‘milestone’ soon passed, and I made a new recovery deadline, my 22nd birthday. Yet again, I missed another goal, and I began to tell myself every year I would be recovered by the next. I am approaching my 26th birthday, and saddened by the fact that I have still failed to reach my target. I feel as if I have failed.
I know now that the recovery process isn’t linear. It’s not as simple as taking some medication, eating some food, and being magically cured. It has been a long long road, full of twists and turns, and I remain frustrated that I have succumbed to so many ‘lost’ years of my life. Each time I returned to a hospital or treatment centres, year after year, I would convince myself that it would be my last admission. Despite seeing it as a failure, I have slowly begun to view it as a journey. Instead of viewing the need for multiple courses of treatment as a failure, I have instead tried to look at the small steps I have made in the right direction. I have learnt more about myself, conquered different fears, and met other inspiring patients and staff who have helped and held me in different ways.
Six years ago was my first admission to hospital, for what I naively assumed would be a stay of only a few weeks. I was wrong. I arrived mute, unable to even utter a few words. Looking back, it feels rather embarrassing that I would lie on the floor, hysterically wailing that I just ‘can’t get better,’ with nurses patiently doing everything in their power to stand me up and face my fears. I would do the most absurd things, hiding toast with strawberry jam in my socks (yuck, I know), pour supplement drinks down my sleeves, (again, gross) and smear butter all the way down the table leg. I would go to such lengths to manipulate the staff and convince others that I was complying with treatment. I would do anything to just avoid those few extra calories. No wonder I wasn’t getting better! It must be hard for others to understand why I was in a hospital, yet refusing to listen to doctors. I was on such a mission to have control over my weight, that I had lost sight of anything else.
My darkest day was just over 2 years ago. It was the holiest day of the year in Judaism, Yom Kippur, a fast day. I already knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to participate in the fast, and I was ashamed to be stuck in an eating disorder unit. I pleaded with the doctors to allow me home for just one day, but they refused. I stood at the window, tears rolling down my face, as I watched my mum walk away, making me feel truly abandoned. I couldn’t see how ill I had become.
I was furious; did they not understand how important this day is to me? On the day itself, My dad walked an hour and a half to see me (you’re not allowed to get in a car on this day). By that time, I had simply forgotten that it was Yom Kippur. My mind was elsewhere and I was actually confused why he had walked. I screamed and cried. I begged the nurse in charge to allow me to go for a walk with him, just a walk!. She shook her head, saying I couldn’t be be using any energy to walk and potentially lose more weight. Eventually, I managed to convince them to let me out for a 10 minute walk with him. It felt amazing to be out in the fresh air, and yet, at the same time, devastating that the thought of 10 minutes outside was something to get excited about. I was a prisoner. After this small taste of freedom, back I went to the unit, manically exercising in my room. What had my life come to?
Now over 2 years later, I can definitely say I am in a better place with a more positive mindset. I am by no means recovered. Without even realising, I still sometimes absent-mindedly restrict my food when left alone. This has become my next challenge, to be able to feed myself properly without the need for outside interference. This coming year is especially important for me as I am getting married. I have to be ready to live independently without being treated like a child. None of this is easy, and neither is the path that must be trodden. All the while. I know that I might never fully recover, but it is about getting myself to a place where I can stand on my own two feet, and having the coping mechanisms to deal with whatever life might throw my way. I do however, pray that I will make a full recovery, and I strongly hold onto that hope.
My message that I want others to understand that recovering from an eating disorder isn’t as simple as taking some medicine. It is infuriating for others to watch, seeing someone they love blatantly ignore advice. Remember, it isn’t ‘them’ that is ignoring it, it is their eating disorder, and the task they are facing is painful, arduous, and difficult.
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