what a year of "recovered" looks like

Sometimes I feel like I need to stop writing posts about eating disorders, but it's my jam.

Sorry for trying to be funny, but I know eating disorders are a hard topic to read about all the time. It's all I write about anymore but I think it's because it was such a big part of my life. It was one of the hardest things I've experiences. It was real, for me, for three years. I couldn't talk about it for a long time, especially last year when I was recovering, but I can now. I find myself wanting and needing to write about it. So here I am, writing about it for another time.

I don't know why I had to justify myself, but I did, so happy Tuesday.

I guess I just wanted to write a post about balance. I have for awhile, ever since I saw a blogpost from a girl who had an eating disorder but didn't want to participate in eating disorder awareness week because of some of the treatment particulars most commonly used for eating disorders - such as: sticking to an exact meal plan with three snacks and 5 servings of vegetables and X calories every day and not being able to be vegan during treatment because "it limits your diet" and other stuff like that.

I mean, I feel that. That makes sense to me. But to not participate in building awareness for the millions of men and women, boys and girls, people, who have eating disorders because of that makes me sad. It makes me most sad because I don't want people to believe that they have to recover a certain way. That they must do and eat the way above, only, to be "recovered."

The reality is that recovery is your own. It can be like what I described above and for some people it must be. For some, there has to be a strict plan to follow in order that their bodies heal from their disease. Until they can intuitively eat, monitor their body and weight on their own, and trust themselves to feed themselves they will follow that plan.

Anyway, I'm done talking about that. I just wanted to make how I felt about that very clear, especially for those considering recovery -- it's yours. Your body, your food, your plan. Work it out with people you trust, and learn how to feed yourself and live.

I wanted to give a bit of an example of how my eating has worked the past year, since I officially reached my pre-eating disorder weight exactly a year ago. It's been a whole year?????? I can't believe it.

But I can feel it in my body. Which is never really and truly hungry anymore. Which is strong and alive and well maintained. It's healed. I don't gain weight anymore. In fact, I've lost a lot of it. Not by restricting or exercising. By just living and trusting my body.

I'll use numbers to show this, because I think it helps. Last April I reached about 135, which was my weight before anorexia. That January I had weighed 98 pounds. So that's nearly 40 pounds in 4 months. Then, though, I kept gaining and gaining until I was probably 150 by July.

Let me be clear, it was very hard. But I had to eat. I was eating 2000 calories a day. I felt uncomfortable all the time, but that was what my body needed. It had been starved for three years. It had been YEARS since I'd eaten butter or pizza or popcorn or ice cream or bread. It hadn't had real sugar in forever, or protein. I ate granola bars and oatmeal for 3 years. How was it supposed to know what the heck to do with real food?

But, by September, I realized I wasn't hungry ALL THE TIME anymore. I began to feel full at meals, instead of having no idea when I was empty or full. I began to crave specific things - vegetables, bananas, salty pretzels. Suddenly, I knew what my body wanted to eat and how much it needed. I listened to it, ate when I was hungry and stopped when I was full, and by December I was back to 135 pounds. I rest there now, comfortably, eating what I want and need to without fear of gaining 5 pounds or starving myself.

I'm chilling. And it's so easy now. I really am able to like myself now. Whereas, in April and August and December and June I hated myself. I was repulsed. I cried all the time. I felt terrible.
I got used to this new body. I'm fine with it. Sometimes I feel uncomfortable, but most of the time I am content. I worry about stupid things - like showing my arms or thighs, or the roll I have on my belly - but I'm challenging myself to ignore them.

Because I'm tired of counting and measuring and hating this thing I'm in. I want to eat popsicles and go to nature centers and speak French and kiss my boyfriend and beat people at basketball.
I am silly and funny and high maintenance and love languages and eat donuts and a fan of cuddling. I am a sister, a friend, a Gab-Gab, a student, and a fiancé.

I love being able to eat two bananas and peanut butter and a bowl of Captain Crunch all in the same day. What I'm saying is that you have to learn. It's a process. It's not perfection in the slightest. Today I had two bagels for breakfast, two bowls of Captain Crunch for lunch, 3 little powdered donuts, and I'll have granola and some clementines for dinner. And I'll try to get Daniel to buy me a strawberry popsicle later.

Let yourself feel this out. But you must eat. You can't just eat 1200 calories or 1000 - "just what I need to survive" - and call that healing or living or being free. It's not. You can't restrict your diet and life and body to a certain size or food items or whatever. Eat what you need. Be aware of your needs - supplement. If you don't wanna eat meat, by all means, don't! But eat nuts and tofu and get your protein and iron, because you need it.

Don't be afraid of this. I know you are. I was. Still am, many a time.
It's going to be okay. You are. It gets better. I promise. Give yourself 6 months. Live with yourself. Feed your body. Nourish it. See what happens.

I bet, maybe, just maybe, you'll find you have so much more life than you've ever had before.
And if there's extra weight, I know you don't believe it, but, you aren't going to mind that much anymore - not with what you'll find in front of you: the beauty & freedom of a life not starving but full.

Why should I care about eating disorders?

Why should I care about eating disorders?

Good question.

I understand where you’re coming from, though, to be perfectly honest. Before I had an eating disorder, I didn’t comprehend what having an eating disorder meant for a person. I didn’t understand how it affected a person and their family’s lives.

Looking back, I encountered eating disorders numerous times and I didn’t even realize it then. I remember, distinctly, the time where I walked in on one of my closest friends only to find her throwing up in a bathroom. She explained to me, quite quietly, with a note of guilt creeping into her voice that sometimes she threw up after she ate.

I said, “Oh.” Because I had no idea what to say. I didn’t know what else to say or do, whether I should talk to her about it or not, whether she wanted me to or not. It never even crossed my mind that she needed help. I didn’t think “maybe I should tell an adult” or “maybe she has bulimia.” I didn’t say anything, and, unfortunately, she continued to struggle with an eating disorder for quite a few years, until she was finally able to find help.

But what if I had said something? Don’t get me wrong; I am not plagued by guilt over this conversation. I, simply, was ignorant. I didn’t know the signs, symptoms, or realities that come with eating disorders and the people suffering from them. I had no idea what to do, or what to look for, or how to help someone battle their condition.

I am writing this blog post to try to help you know what to do. I think it’s vital for you to know what to do because 30 million Americans will have an eating disorder sometime during their lives. I am writing this blog post because at some point in your life, someone you love will have an eating disorder, whether it’s your neighbor, your spouse, your child, nephew, partner, or best friend. Whether it’s a girl at work or your son’s lab partner or someone of your very own flesh and blood - they will be suffering from the mental disorder that has the highest mortality rate of all mental disorders. They’ll be dying, right before your eyes.

And it doesn’t matter what they look like. They can be whatever label society has created - fat, skinny, curvy, a twig, a stick, voluptuous - and still be dying and suffering right in front of you.

Eating disorders are silent, vicious beasts that exist best in secret. They are most threatened when they are discovered by others. They vie to be kept in the dark, feeding on the insides of the person you love, in order to accomplish their goal. The goal is always death. If you’re good at anorexia, or bulimia, or any eating disorder, the prize is less weight, and, ultimately, dying.

I’m writing this because I never knew what I could and should do to help someone. I am writing this for my mother and father and sister and brother, for my best friends and lover, who had to watch me starve myself for three years. I cannot begin to imagine how they felt and I am so very sorry, but I am determined to try to help you and me, us - I am determined to try to help us, as people, - help those who we think are struggling with the deadliest mental illness there is.

What can I do about eating disorders?

1. You can spread awareness. If no one knows about something, how can we ever expect there to be understanding or - better yet - action? If we don’t know the facts about eating disorders, especially the signs and symptoms, how can we help the people we love get better? Do your research. I’ll do mine, too. And then tell others about it.
2. You can do SOMETHING because “awareness without action is worthless.” I just quoted Dr. Phil, and I am not ashamed, because he is dead right. I can know all the facts about eating disorders, I can know what it’s like to have one, but if I don’t do something about it, I’m not changing anyone and the time I spent existing in an eating disorder or learning about one is worthless. There are always things to be done, so don’t let yourself use that excuse. There are walks every year for NEDA (National Eating Disorder Awareness) and many other organizations dedicated to helping people recover. There are treatment centers who would love funding or volunteers or support that change countless lives every year with their care.
3. You can talk about them. There are girls and boys on track teams and sitting in history class wondering if they are alone in their illness. I DID NOT KNOW I HAD AN EATING DISORDER FOR OVER SIX MONTHS AFTER IT BEGAN. I didn’t know what anorexia really was. I didn’t know if other people were like me, or if I was the only one. I thought I was alone, but now I know - we are never truly alone. I was lucky enough to meet countless others struggling with conditions similar to mine, but so many people, especially the young boys are girls who are fighting eating disorders, are so deeply alone. So, please. Let’s talk about this.

What can I do if someone I love has an eating disorder?

I decided to add, “What should I do?” to this question, because, as a survivor of anorexia, I know what it’s like to have people who want to help you. I know the good things people did to help me - and I know the things that pushed me away, closer to my eating disorder.

1. Don’t show them you are angry toward them. I think this is hard. I think it’s very hard, but it’s also very important.

When I first started losing weight, I remember my parents telling me for the first time that I needed to stop. I remember their words - “that’s enough.” I remember my real dad yelling at me to eat. I remember their frustration and the accusations and the constant feeling of tension at meals in our house. Oh, I hated it. I was so angry and scared, but I didn’t believe I had a problem. I was angry because they wanted to take something I thought was good away from me. Their anger made me shut down. And, later, when I finally realized I did have a problem, I was too embarrassed and scared to talk to them, because they had been right. I was afraid they’d be angry again. (This was not their fault at all. It was no one’s fault. It was simply how my and our story unfolded).

Please, if you expect someone has an eating disorder, don’t be angry.

2. Try to talk to them about it. Like I said, I didn’t believe I had a problem, and I believe many people suffering from an eating disorder have similar beliefs. I have heard the phrases “I only skip one meal” or “I eat enough calories to live” or “I only threw up twice last week” so many times from people who needed help. Even if they don’t believe they have a problem, they do. Try to talk to them about if. If they don’t want to talk to you, find someone they will talk to. Take them to a counselor, a good one. And even later, ask them if about how they’re doing. Be gentle. Remind them you’re only asking because you love them, and you aren’t trying to control them or take away their power. You want to hear them. If they don’t want to talk, respect that, but remind them they can always come to you.

3. Please, be careful with the doctors. This one is tricky, because doctors are essential for recovery. They were for me. I had two counselors, a psychiatrist, and a person who weighed me every week when I first started to truly recover. I wouldn’t have gotten better without them - and I needed a medical professional to write down my weight each week. NOT A PARENT. A medical professional. Doctors are essential for recovery, but some don’t handle eating disorders well. At all.

I was told by the first doctor my mother took me to, that I was perfectly fine. That losing the twenty pounds I had lost was okay, as long as I didn’t lose more. That my BMI was normal, so I didn’t have an eating disorder. I used that against my mother, and lost thirty more pounds for good measure, because I was perfectly fine with a lovely BMI. Again, for the ones in the back, you can have any BMI and have an eating disorder. So find a doctor that takes the person you love’s condition seriously, regardless of their size.

4. This one I feel like I’ll get some flak for, especially from people with eating disorders, but I’m sorry. I believe this. Put them into treatment. Do it. Stop whatever it is they’re doing and get them into a program. If it’s college or high school or work or being a mom or playing baseball - get them out of it and put them into an intensive recovery program.

They are not living. They might be doing “big things” but they are dying from their disorders. School is not more important than recovery. Graduating college is not as important as not starving to death. Being able to finish your senior year of high school will not ever be more important than you getting your life back and healing from a disease that is very likely to kill you and rob you of your future.

5. Don’t comment on their bodies. Especially once they start gaining weight because they are saving themselves by eating. DO NOT DO IT, no matter your intentions. It’s not encouraging. It will destroy them. It’s devastating. Don’t comment on their bodies or weight. If you must, compliment their souls. Complement their choice of makeup or shirt or eye color. Tell them you love their smile and laugh and the way they make pancakes or can do math. Compliment on what is definitively them, not what is changed as they change shape and size.

5. Love the crap out of them. Love them so hard. Point them to Jesus, because that’s a transforming kind of love. Pray for them, sit beside them while they cry, let them know they can call you anytime of the night (and mean it), help them believe they are precious and have value and are loved because they don’t believe it. They don’t see themselves the way you see them. They can’t. They have to learn, and it takes a really long time. So love them until they can learn to love themselves and let themselves eat and live again.

6. Let their recovery take time. Eating disorders don’t just go away, especially once a weight is reached. Even if they look healthy again, don’t just assume they’re better. It’s still a long fight and struggle inside the mind. I struggled the most with my eating disorder once I was weight restored (i.e. reached the weight I was before anorexia). Let their healing take years, if it has to. Allow them to heal at their own pace, and let them find their life slowly and steadily.

I think that’s enough for today, guys. I’m tired after writing that, but a good kind of tired. I will hopefully write more this week. I want to, desperately. Please, please, please email me or message me on facebook if you have any questions or concerns, or if you want to tell me your story. I would love that. I truly would.

Below, I am including a chart concerning eating disorders in teenagers, a poem from my current work in progress Heartbeat Sound, and some useful links for research. I hope you enjoy all of them, and can learn something to help you whenever you encounter a person with an eating disorder.

Much love always,

Gabbie

from http://nedawareness.org/about

Also, check out, https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/learn/general-information/what-are-eating-disorders.


This poem was written the first week I started not restricting. By restricting, I am referring to the diet I lived by when I was anorexic. I had a 1000 calorie limit, and I exercised for about 2-5 hours a day. For some reason, I started to eat much more than that. I blame a loving God, who put me in the places I needed to be. He gave me wonderful counselors, medication that helped my brain, a boy who loved me desperately, and some amazing friends and family that believed in me.
It was three years long coming; I started to gain weight back that I desperately needed. People started to notice. The following is what I wrote last year in response to that. I have decided not to change it, because I think it's important to show you what I thought when I was still in the depths of my eating disorder.

January 31^st at 11:39 PM

Two people today

told me:

         “Wow, you look different.”

         “Your face looks rounder.”

Because I do not look like a skeleton?

Because I am 107

bordering on 108

         with thighs close to touching

Nauseating

         that thought

But I have a body that isn't fat

         it's not, gabbie

         It’s not

It's got more meat

you can't count my bones

but it is firmer

solid

with bones that do not feel like they will break

and a softer waist

wider thighs

thicker arms

but it's also fed

more energy

larger size

not straight lines

broader thighs

lighter eyes

hair that grows

         not falls

a number that climbs on the scale

muscles gaining mass

fat gaining, going high

fat doesn't have to be bad

Why live a life

dictated by a number?

But don't

comment on my body

the shape of my face

don't tell me I look great

don't mention my thighs

or the roundness of my face

or how different I look

Just don't

I don't care what place you're coming from

whether it's kind

         or not

concerned

         or proud

Don't comment on my body

my shape or my size

my hair or my eyes

Comment on my kindness

         my compassion

Find something that's me

         regardless of size

Tell me to nurture that

to make that grow in size

remind me that I am not me

         not bound by this body

because as of now

this thing is my enemy

and I don't want it to be me

So let's focus on different aspects of me

comment on my laugh

or my jeans

         not their change in size

tell me you like my creativity

or my writing

how I cannot do geometry

make my spirit

my portion my prize

until I'm ready

and can live and exist

regardless of size

What's life after anorexia like?

This is a messy blogpost I just wrote on an iPhone on a train. But it's one that has been brewing inside me for some time now. It's full of metaphors and weird comparisons and talks a lot about the color blue, but I hope, somehow, it's telling. I hope it gives glimpses of what life with and after and before an eating is like. I want to help people understand. I want people to be known and to feel like they are not alone. But most of all, I want to give hope.

I hope this does that. So, here we go.

Life after anorexia is interesting.
I’ve tried to come up with brilliant, beautiful, or even remarkable ways to put it, but that’s ultimately what I boiled it down to: "interesting." I am the future.
Writing an about it is hard. Finding the words is hard. So I decided to write about it using colors.

I did.
I wrote about my world now compared to my past two worlds: before anorexia, and in the midst of it. I wrote using the colors that engulfed me, that devastated and corrupted me, that stole my breath and life's fire from me, but ultimately set me free.

My world when I was living in my eating disorder had its colors completely flipped. The sky was a harsh, ugly green, brittle like grass thirsty for rain.  The ground was a tired, sad blue. It ached for sleep, for death. It was a blue that filled you, filled the corners of your mind with its weight and heaviness. Its tiredness tightened in your throat, promising an ending. This world wasn’t beautiful or good. It was full of sharp angles and ragged lines. Its wind was blood red and it stabbed your skin, your hands.

It's air was a thick yellow: the color of erratic heart beats and the numbness that pervaded and was always present in your fingers and toes and then your hands and legs. It's trees were fat smudges, ugly to look at, scary if you looked too long, like the hair that came out of your head in clumps.

It wasn’t a pretty world at all. It existed simultaneously beside the one you actually lived in, with its midnight blue skies pricked by soft yellow lights. With its sunsets that were violet and coral and golden all at once, with colors that leaked and bled into each other, pouring over one another to mix into something altogether miraculous and new.

It was like Upside Down. I was the eaten dead thing, always hungry, always roaming, stabbed with an ax with a leg caught in a bear trap. I ignored the other reality, disregarding all of its life, in my own pursuit of what I thought would fulfill me. I destroyed. I took. I tasted blood, and eventually it made the world I was in collapse.

So what now?

Goodness.
My world now still has some streaks of the gray and blue from my last one, but they are the last brushstrokes before the painter dips his brush again. I still feel their presence, and sometimes the tiredness and heaviness press upon me more than I’d ever like to know them again. The wind is still red like blood, but it’s not constant. It is not even often. It is fleeting moments, where I have to breathe through them and refuse to exist within their unkind time.

But this new life is marked by soft, gentle breezes that bring air sweet to taste. It is full of soft, lovely sunrises that are pure colors: violet and pink and baby blue. All the colors we give our newborns.

It's night sky is radiant, making up for all the colors you forgot. It is vast and deep and full, pulsing with brilliant reds and greens and blues. The Northern lights are streams that weave new patterns and occur weekly, because I am still so often amazed and taken aback by this life I forgot for so long.
It's trees are new and little. They bend occasionally. Often, especially when it is windy. But they hold promise. They see older, ancient trees riddled with antiquity and wisdom and life and they know what they’re living for.

The grass is patchy. Sometimes brittle and sharp, but in a lot of places its soft and good. These are the places where Dan and I go to lay our blanket on and look at the stars. It is feeling the earth beneath your palms and smiling thinking what “grounded” means, in all its ways.
It has laughter and joy. It is full of a new energy that makes the air come alive, like lightning is about to strike. It rains a lot, and it’s a warm, kind rain that your brother and sister beg you to come out in to jump in puddles.

And you do, hair plastered to your neck, feet bare, and you think “Goodness, this is all worth it after all: being alive.”

It’s also you crying, and acknowledging the pain. It’s seeing the scars your fire had on the earth and its people. It is seeing the burned places, the dredged ones. It is full of a sad, harsh memory of emptiness: the time you lost yourself.

It is the absence of.
Is is a whispered wonder.
It is a new hope, and an older whisper, saying “Maybe, come back to me,” and a fragile, shaking: “No, thank you. What you have to offer isn’t enough for me anymore.”

It is the tentative prospect of holding your babies, bones of your bones, in your arms and how thinking of that makes you cry. It is a palm that encompasses your own, a hand on your neck pulling you in, blue eyes that light a fire in you. It is sleeping curled against your best friend, feeling her heat beat through her cocoon of blankets and soft pillows that smell like home.

It’s full of taste and wonder and hard things, but most of all, it’s full of second chance. It’s a thirdlife, marked by previous ones, hopefully an evolution, with lots of memorandum and bits of grief.

It is delicate and fragile, lovely and strong. It is mine, held tightly, knowing full well just how miraculous and wonderful it can become, and how very cold and full of blood and bones it sometimes becomes.

It is a new treaty, a new country out of old ones. A new generation with hope and the weight of its ancestors. But most of all it is me learning and stumbling and remembering why I want to be alive. It is me being blinded by color and smiling in wonder, thinking “Surely, there will always be enough.”

It is me learning what it means to truly be full.

It is worth it.

Surely, there will always be enough.

a new perhaps

It's 12:57 in the morning; I can't sleep; I'm writing a blog post.

Something new has been happening in me within the past month or so. And it's odd, but I think it's good.

6 months ago, in January, I weighed under 100 pounds. After years of struggling with starving myself  and engaging in a constant tug-of-war battle with my body to remain "skinny," I was finally able to start the physical part of recovery. Mentally, spiritually, emotionally - I had been engaging in those forms of healing for about two years. I had to do those things before I could start to eat. To feed and nourish my body, instead of starve it.

It was the hardest thing I have ever done. It was brutal.

Suddenly, I was back at the weight I had been before I had and eating disorder, and then some. 20 pounds some. And I was angry. I was angry because I had done it. I had done what I was supposed to. Eaten. Gained weight. I was supposed to be better. I was supposed to be free, not enslaved to a life that was all about losing weight and calories and being starving and skinny.

I hated the way I looked. I hated the way I felt. I was supposed to be healed, but I felt broken and, more so, I felt like I had lost myself.

It was like that for quite a few months. My body felt too big. I was retaining water. I felt awkward and bad but then, it settled. You see, my body was repairing itself. It swelled, holding water, as my cells received nutrients and life they had been deprived of. A body that was so close to dying was suddenly full - and it took time for it to understand what to do again. But it did it.

And I don't feel big anymore. My body feels like mine again. I don't feel huge. I feel like me. I feel comfortable. I like it. Even though it's bigger. Even though it has fat on it.

I won't lie. Sometimes it's still hard. Yesterday I gave my favorite pants to one of my friends. I can't fit into them. I got them when I weighed 103 pounds, and now I can't get them past my knees. I cried after I gave them to her. I told my mom, I'll never be like that again. I'll always be this way. I'll never be skinny. 

And she hugged me and told me she liked me the way I am. Lately, it's just been me realizing that I have a body, and it's the way it is. Numbers (sizes) have just started being numbers. They don't mean anything about me. Oh, the 4 doesn't fit? Try the 6, grab an 8. They are numbers; they are clothes. They are not me. They don't determine how much my friends love me or if Daniel wants to marry me or not. If I make my brother laugh or how someone treats me. They shouldn't. And they definitely should never make me hate myself.

I'm still learning how to do the whole food thing. How to not eat based on emotions or restrict or binge. How do people do this? I don't know, but I'm trying to figure it all out. I'm trying to eat healthier. After years of not letting myself have pizza or chocolate or chips or pie, it's been hard not to have those things every day all the time. I want to have a strong, healthy body. It's not strong yet. But it's alive. It's full. It's ready to take me as long as life will have me. And that's the important thing.

It's been really amazing to experience this. Below, I am posting something I wrote on my phone from last month. I tend to do this: write notes on my phone, on other's, on whatever I have able.

It's not particularly poetic, but it's remarkable. It's my new perhaps. And I wanted to share it with you, because I never knew or believed that this could happen to me, especially when I was in the middle of anorexia.

But it has. It's happening. And it is a possibility of a future full of so many potentials. So many perhaps.

I just had to start; and now - now I have to keep moving.

July 27th, 10:52 AM

I have started to see myself. 

Truly see this body for what it is. I do not see it as something fat. It has fat on it, just like it has skin. It feels a bit uncomfortable, a bit too much - but it is not something I need to shed or hate or fear. 

It is something I can take care of. But more than that, it is something I can live in. To live that has nothing to do with food. 

It is a living that is laughing and growing and learning and speaking and building things with two hands, and holding things tightly, and singing and loving and being alive. It is sunshine and fire and wind and trees. It's peace and joy and sorrow, and beauty. This body is made to be alive, and I have a mind that is made to be concerned with things other than skinny and food and weight and being trapped. 

It's exciting. And it's a gift that I love. And that I am slowly unwrapping, and turning over in my hands - looking at it from all angles. It is something new, and it may be wonderful. 

It certainly makes me think, and it makes me wonder, and it makes me think: more. 

There's so much more. There's a whole complex world. There's wanting and having and growing and trying. And one more thing: for the first time in my life, my existence, I have the opportunity to be strong. To be something strong. Not a little girl trapped in a bird body, that is delicate and robbed and ribbed and fragile. That is dying and starved, with eyes too big and hands shaking. Not a girl in a normal body who is forced to be small. By words and fists. By being told "what you're feeling is wrong. Be silent. You are mine. You are nothing. You aren't yours."

I can be strong. A strong body, and a strong mind. That is my new perhaps.