My hair blew every which way as I enveloped myself in the musty smelling, warm, worn leather seat of a cab this morning; escaping Boston's harsh, cold, wind. I was headed across town to campus. My new black satin Chanel manicure clutched my Starbucks late. The Times Style Section was folded under the arm of my pea coat. My mother's soft voice was tucked between my cheek and my shoulder as I attempted to balance my over sized bag on my other shoulder and listen to her at the same time. I teetered on high heels and almost fell over as I finally seated myself and whispered directions to the cab driver. I had a second to glance in the rear view mirror. Shit. Smudged charcoal eyeliner on my cheek bone. Life is a literal and figurative balancing act for me.
As I caught up with my mom over the phone like I do every morning, she commented on the cold. "It's freezing here and your father hasn't turned on the heat yet. It is TIGHTS weather!" Whichever way you choose to mark the season, it's here. Pumpkin spice lattes, fall fashion, turning leaves, midterms- it is inescapable. Many of us are preoccupied with work, school, family; we forget to acknowledge our well being at a time like this.
Aside from my family and best friends, one of my main anchors that reminds me of my self care is a support group endearingly named "IOL Loves." We are a group of women struggling primarily with eating disorders but anything else from depression and anxiety to OCD. We all have eating disorders and the same treatment facility in common. These women are honestly the strongest, most inspiring fighters I know.
So what does this have to do with fall? I have noticed all of my "loves," including myself, have seriously been struggling during this season of change. The season's name "Fall" is characterized by the leaves which fall from the trees. I cant help but picture all of us withering from our healthy state as lush, green, healthy leaves that once belonged in a community of a strong, deeply routed tree. Recently our colors have been changing. We are wrinkling, withering. But there is beauty in the breaking. We are maturing. We are turning a richer color and composting to nourish our roots and strengthen the existing tree. What we are going through is truly just a cycle.
It is tempting on these cold, dark, bitter days to revert to old comforts. I have found myself falling, if you will, back to old coping mechanisms. Hiding behind over sized sweats, filling up on diet soda, water, fiber cereals carefully divided in to portions that will last the whole day.
In this time of transition it is increasingly important to keep your anchors with you: friends, family, doctors, support systems. The easiest way to deal with the day to day grind for me is to find small bits of pleasure throughout my day. Hold the door for someone, exchange a smile with a baby on the street, have a daily conversation with my mom on the phone, write, read, yoga, prayer.
It may be fall, but it doesn't mean you can't fall gracefully.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Inner Struggle
I recently read a book by Helen Brown: Brave Girl Eating. Brown's memoir chroniocles her teenage daughter, Kitty's, battle with anorexia. The memoir is both hearbreaking and insightful.
Brown is successful at recognizing a common thread between all types of eating disorders. She describes Kitty's battle with her "inner deamon" that is anorexia.
Personally dealing with "Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified" or "ED-NOS" I can relate to Kitty's "inner deamon." One have the biggest things I have learned in recovery is that no matter what behaviors you may engage in, an eating disorder stems from similar deamons. In treatment, I look around the room and see my peers. Without words you see the neglect, self hatred, worthlessness, DEAMON in them. We affectionately refer to this deamon as "Ed." He is our Eating Disorder. But he is so much more than that.
He is depression sinking in my chest, weighing me down in bed. He is anxiety robbing me of steady breath. He is the diet coke, coffee with splenda, cigarettes, sugar free gum. Ed is water bottles littering the floor of my car, the 500 calorie count on the treadmill, the cast on my ankle, the scars on the knuckles of my right hand. Ed is a creepy whisper, a deafening shout.
Needless to say, my life has not been much of a life recently. My former life has been ispected, disected, analyzed, sifted through by many handelers. Pediatritions, psychologists, psychiatrists, case managers, social workers, peer at me over my file with the same concerned eyes.
It's a thick file.
Old, worn, professional hands grip the thick white binder. They flip through an observe my messy history: benzodyiazapine abuse, EDNOS, traits of clinical depression, generalized anxiety disorder, celexa, klonopin, prozax, buspar, neurontin, emergency hospitalization, detoxation period, inpatient hospitalization, Intensive Out Patient intake, IOP discharge, Partial Hospitalization Program intake, IOP transfer, PHP transfer.
Ed is summed up in neat black ink, laminated, hole punched, and bound. The truth on paper does not do the deamon justice.
Brown is successful at recognizing a common thread between all types of eating disorders. She describes Kitty's battle with her "inner deamon" that is anorexia.
Personally dealing with "Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified" or "ED-NOS" I can relate to Kitty's "inner deamon." One have the biggest things I have learned in recovery is that no matter what behaviors you may engage in, an eating disorder stems from similar deamons. In treatment, I look around the room and see my peers. Without words you see the neglect, self hatred, worthlessness, DEAMON in them. We affectionately refer to this deamon as "Ed." He is our Eating Disorder. But he is so much more than that.
He is depression sinking in my chest, weighing me down in bed. He is anxiety robbing me of steady breath. He is the diet coke, coffee with splenda, cigarettes, sugar free gum. Ed is water bottles littering the floor of my car, the 500 calorie count on the treadmill, the cast on my ankle, the scars on the knuckles of my right hand. Ed is a creepy whisper, a deafening shout.
Needless to say, my life has not been much of a life recently. My former life has been ispected, disected, analyzed, sifted through by many handelers. Pediatritions, psychologists, psychiatrists, case managers, social workers, peer at me over my file with the same concerned eyes.
It's a thick file.
Old, worn, professional hands grip the thick white binder. They flip through an observe my messy history: benzodyiazapine abuse, EDNOS, traits of clinical depression, generalized anxiety disorder, celexa, klonopin, prozax, buspar, neurontin, emergency hospitalization, detoxation period, inpatient hospitalization, Intensive Out Patient intake, IOP discharge, Partial Hospitalization Program intake, IOP transfer, PHP transfer.
Ed is summed up in neat black ink, laminated, hole punched, and bound. The truth on paper does not do the deamon justice.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
From 10 West to 7 West
Things I used to take for granted: Sweat pants with draw strings in them. My over sized hoodies. Conditioner. Showering without the the wedge of an ugly, fluorescent, nurse's "crock" in the door way.
From the emergency room I was taken to a rehab facility, 7 West. This was a far cry from the energetic, chaotic dorm of 10 West up in Boston. I was not Harriet the college student. At 7 west I was Harriet with clinical depression. Harriet with general anxiety and panic disorder. Harriet who was at high risk for suicide, bulimia, anorexia, alcoholism...
Needless to say, this transition was not easy. The first few hours there were terrifying. My fellow patients eyes followed me as the doors to the ward unlocked and an alarm sounded. I had arrived! It was not the prettiest procession of my life. Two men rolled me in on a stretcher as my nurse and social worker introduced themselves and jogged to keep up while briefing me about where I was, why I was there.
As I slid off the stretcher in to a chair in the lobby, I felt aware. Out of my drugged haze, I was starting to notice the little things. The tight grasp of the blood pressure cuff on my arm, the blinding glare of the freshly buffed linoleum,the sterile scent.
An hour later after intake, I was left alone to "collect my thoughts" and "get acclimated". I cried in the tiny bathroom. Thoughts of "One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest" would not leave my mind. How did I end up in this position? Mental illness has such a stigma. Patients end up here because they have lost it, they are crazy, they are "psycho."
I was there because I needed help. In order to get better you have to leave your shame and pride behind. It is important to write about my experience so others can learn about mental illness. I have not lost it, I am a work in progress just like everyone else.
From the emergency room I was taken to a rehab facility, 7 West. This was a far cry from the energetic, chaotic dorm of 10 West up in Boston. I was not Harriet the college student. At 7 west I was Harriet with clinical depression. Harriet with general anxiety and panic disorder. Harriet who was at high risk for suicide, bulimia, anorexia, alcoholism...
Needless to say, this transition was not easy. The first few hours there were terrifying. My fellow patients eyes followed me as the doors to the ward unlocked and an alarm sounded. I had arrived! It was not the prettiest procession of my life. Two men rolled me in on a stretcher as my nurse and social worker introduced themselves and jogged to keep up while briefing me about where I was, why I was there.
As I slid off the stretcher in to a chair in the lobby, I felt aware. Out of my drugged haze, I was starting to notice the little things. The tight grasp of the blood pressure cuff on my arm, the blinding glare of the freshly buffed linoleum,the sterile scent.
An hour later after intake, I was left alone to "collect my thoughts" and "get acclimated". I cried in the tiny bathroom. Thoughts of "One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest" would not leave my mind. How did I end up in this position? Mental illness has such a stigma. Patients end up here because they have lost it, they are crazy, they are "psycho."
I was there because I needed help. In order to get better you have to leave your shame and pride behind. It is important to write about my experience so others can learn about mental illness. I have not lost it, I am a work in progress just like everyone else.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety in October of 2010. Most college freshman face similar challenges; moving away from home, making new friends, living on one's own, distance from loved ones, academic stress, and the pressure of complete independence. I seemed to be doing well with these challenges on the surface, yet internalized a great deal of stress.
I manifested my stress in a completely controlled lifestyle. I was an absolute slave in my own body. Coffee with skim milk and two splendas, 40 calories. Yogurt, 130 calories. An apple, 60 calories. A six mile run, -600 calories, success. Before I knew it, I was restricting myself to 1000 calories a day. I entered every single bite of food and exercise in to a weight loss app on my phone. In an unpredictable and stressful environment, my body was the one aspect of my life which I completely controlled.
Restriction was not the answer; often I was moody, starving, weak, dizzy, and constantly on edge. I would sit up in bed in my dorm room dizzy with hunger. My vision would blur as I made my way to the bathroom sink, the dresser, the door, the elevator. I would sit slumped over in class preoccupied with the growling of my stomach and unable to focus on the professor.
And then, the binging. A furious walk back to the dorm. My safe place. I rushed to the dinging hall desperate with hunger. I would fill the pockets of my over sized sweatshirt with all of the bad foods; peanut butter, cookies. Soon I was back in my room recharging with all of the comforts I had been denying myself.
Then...sleep. I would curl up in a ball for hours at a time in my bed especially following a binge. I gave myself licence to relax and just let go while the day continued around me.
I came to realize I had a real problem when I noticed my new lifestyle was interrupting the friendships I had established earlier in the semester. I had no motivation to go out to parties, I ate meals often alone, my roommate would shake me from bed if she feared I was sleeping too much. I was living an isolated life despite my usual outgoing and fun-loving personality. I wore sweats everyday of the week, I was sleeping 12 hour nights and taking two hour naps daily. I was not like myself.
With the help of my family and friends I sought resources on campus. I went on antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. I also began weekly therapy. Yet, I was not thriving at school. I would travel two hours home to Connecticut almost every weekend to "decompress" and seek peace outside the stress of school and a big city.
I have taken the second semester off to regroup and seek intensive therapy four days a week. I have been forced to put my education and social life on the back burner as I "re-learn how to care for myself." (As they say in therapy.)
For the rest of my friends, the second semester of school has just started this week. It was not until last night when I realized the severity of my situation. A therapist told me yesterday to think about the last month of my life and how intense it has been for me. 2011 has not been easy thus far.
On the night of January 2, 2011 I overdosed on 10 mg of Klonopin, my anti-anxiety medication. I was in a deep depression. Days prior to this night I had been completely unmotivated and numb. Stress in my personal life had lead me to feel lonely, abandoned, and worthless. I was unable to get out of bed, let alone leave the house or even work out. I felt like a failure, a prisoner to this disease. So, in an act of desperation I wanted to feel relief from this state. Then came the pills. I started with two, and before I knew it it was four, six, ten, twenty. I got what I wanted, a complete state of oblivion. I knew I was in trouble and called for help. I did not wish to die.
At the time I felt disconnected from my body. Only when I reflect on the night do I understand the severity of the situation. I vaguely recall the terrified expressions of my friends' faces, the clutch of my father's cold hand when he met me in the emergency room, the concerned glance from my sleepless mother from across the room the next morning.
I lost friendships, trust, relationships, and responsibility. I feel as though I have reverted back to a child-like state where my well being is every one's main concern. Day to day is a struggle for me. I am thankful to have the support that I do to keep me focused on my self care.
This blog is an important outlet for me to express what I have been through and educate others. I was hesitant to do so, but encouraged by friends and family to write about my experience. I am aware that my challenge with anxiety and depression may evoke reactions of surprise, sadness, or comfort to those whom can relate. One of my comforts is that these diseases are nothing but a medical condition. There is no shame in mental illness, it does not define the individual.
I manifested my stress in a completely controlled lifestyle. I was an absolute slave in my own body. Coffee with skim milk and two splendas, 40 calories. Yogurt, 130 calories. An apple, 60 calories. A six mile run, -600 calories, success. Before I knew it, I was restricting myself to 1000 calories a day. I entered every single bite of food and exercise in to a weight loss app on my phone. In an unpredictable and stressful environment, my body was the one aspect of my life which I completely controlled.
Restriction was not the answer; often I was moody, starving, weak, dizzy, and constantly on edge. I would sit up in bed in my dorm room dizzy with hunger. My vision would blur as I made my way to the bathroom sink, the dresser, the door, the elevator. I would sit slumped over in class preoccupied with the growling of my stomach and unable to focus on the professor.
And then, the binging. A furious walk back to the dorm. My safe place. I rushed to the dinging hall desperate with hunger. I would fill the pockets of my over sized sweatshirt with all of the bad foods; peanut butter, cookies. Soon I was back in my room recharging with all of the comforts I had been denying myself.
Then...sleep. I would curl up in a ball for hours at a time in my bed especially following a binge. I gave myself licence to relax and just let go while the day continued around me.
I came to realize I had a real problem when I noticed my new lifestyle was interrupting the friendships I had established earlier in the semester. I had no motivation to go out to parties, I ate meals often alone, my roommate would shake me from bed if she feared I was sleeping too much. I was living an isolated life despite my usual outgoing and fun-loving personality. I wore sweats everyday of the week, I was sleeping 12 hour nights and taking two hour naps daily. I was not like myself.
With the help of my family and friends I sought resources on campus. I went on antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication. I also began weekly therapy. Yet, I was not thriving at school. I would travel two hours home to Connecticut almost every weekend to "decompress" and seek peace outside the stress of school and a big city.
I have taken the second semester off to regroup and seek intensive therapy four days a week. I have been forced to put my education and social life on the back burner as I "re-learn how to care for myself." (As they say in therapy.)
For the rest of my friends, the second semester of school has just started this week. It was not until last night when I realized the severity of my situation. A therapist told me yesterday to think about the last month of my life and how intense it has been for me. 2011 has not been easy thus far.
On the night of January 2, 2011 I overdosed on 10 mg of Klonopin, my anti-anxiety medication. I was in a deep depression. Days prior to this night I had been completely unmotivated and numb. Stress in my personal life had lead me to feel lonely, abandoned, and worthless. I was unable to get out of bed, let alone leave the house or even work out. I felt like a failure, a prisoner to this disease. So, in an act of desperation I wanted to feel relief from this state. Then came the pills. I started with two, and before I knew it it was four, six, ten, twenty. I got what I wanted, a complete state of oblivion. I knew I was in trouble and called for help. I did not wish to die.
At the time I felt disconnected from my body. Only when I reflect on the night do I understand the severity of the situation. I vaguely recall the terrified expressions of my friends' faces, the clutch of my father's cold hand when he met me in the emergency room, the concerned glance from my sleepless mother from across the room the next morning.
I lost friendships, trust, relationships, and responsibility. I feel as though I have reverted back to a child-like state where my well being is every one's main concern. Day to day is a struggle for me. I am thankful to have the support that I do to keep me focused on my self care.
This blog is an important outlet for me to express what I have been through and educate others. I was hesitant to do so, but encouraged by friends and family to write about my experience. I am aware that my challenge with anxiety and depression may evoke reactions of surprise, sadness, or comfort to those whom can relate. One of my comforts is that these diseases are nothing but a medical condition. There is no shame in mental illness, it does not define the individual.
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