Today has been a pretty low-key day for me, which is always welcome because it does NOT happen very often. My best friend spent the night at my house last night. And, as always, we accidentally stayed up until 4am talking and laughing. We did some cleaning and laundry around my house in the morning, and then we went out shopping with her mom. At one point, we were standing in line for Chipotle and her mom says: “I know you have always been thin, but have you lost MORE weight??” I just kind of blinked at her for a second, unsure how to answer. (Yes. but I don’t want to freak you out. But I don’t want to lie, either…) So I said something like “Oh, um, I don’t know. Oh actually yes, I think I have, because I don’t drink the Amish market chocolate milk anymore.” She looked at me funny. I didn’t lie, though. When I lived with my parents, my mom would go to the Amish market every week and get me several pint-sized chocolate milks. They were something like 420 calories in each pint. I moved into my own place in June, (which has been quite an adjustment for me,) and I don’t shop at the Amish market anymore- it is a little too far out of my way. I have been trying to find a suitable chocolate milk to replace what I have been missing, but nothing is the same. And nothing is anywhere near as many calories. There were some days that would be my sustenance for the whole day.
In high school I was 110 lbs. In college and nursing school, when the patterns of my eating disorder got worse, I was hardly ever more than 107, and sometimes got as low as 100 if I had an especially long “episode.” I feel I should define my “eating disorder” a little bit: I have done a lot of research on depression, self-injury, and eating disorders. And I discovered that there really isn’t a name for mine. (For you psychology people, I would have an ED NOS). For you non-psychology people, that means eating disorder not otherwise specified. It means it doesn’t fit into any mold. It is not anorexia. It is not bulimia. It is not any of the other lesser known disorders. The best conclusion that I have come up with is that it is a control mechanism. My mother was very controlling and dictating when I was a child. I had no control over anything, and eating was never exactly a happy thing. I was forced to sit at the table until I finished everything on my plate. I had to have some of everything that was cooked, although I could put less on my plate if it was something I didn’t like. But there was absolutely NO wasting food. And there was no leaving the table until it was gone. Control. I remember days sitting at the table alone as the sun set outside the window, making up silent games to play by myself without leaving the table. Eventually I got brave and started sneaking to the trashcan with my plate and moving some stuff aside to dump the rest of my food into the trash, then put the other trash back on top so that I wouldn’t get found out.
I never had a body image issue growing up. I have been small my entire life- short and skinny. The eating disorder began to arise in high school, and I’m not sure what caused it other than a combination of lack of appetite and the need to control SOMETHING in my life. My mom stopped packing my school lunches in about 5th grade, expecting that I was old enough to make my own sandwiches and stuff, which I was. But I loved sleep too much and hated to get up. I would never get up early enough to pack lunch. So, starting in 6th grade, I would often skip lunch. I would eat a quick bowl of cereal before school and a snack when I got home and then dinner, which I may or may not have liked and may have had to sit at the table all night to finish. When I was in 7th grade is really when the depression started, although I had no idea at the time. It was very mild for several years, not really interrupting my daily life. Then in high school, I wouldn’t regularly eat breakfast or lunch. I would snack at school sometimes and again when I got home. Most of the friends I had made in middle school had chosen to go to a different high school than me, and I didn’t have many friends. I was shy anyways, and then add on being a self-conscious 14 year old in a crown of other young teenagers who already knew each other, and making friends was a little more difficult. I would spend my lunch time in my favorite teacher’s room. I considered her my best friend. As the year went on and the depression road got a little more worn-in, I would start sleeping at lunch. The summer between 9th and 10th grade is when I cut for the first time. July 27th, 2005. I was very aware of that fact several weeks ago on July 27th, because it marked a decade since that struggle began. I have made well over 1000 cuts all over my body since then, from my neck to my ankles. When I first started, I would only cut my wrists. I only have a handful of pictures of any cuts, mainly because I was always terrified that if I took them, someone would discover them. But I do have this one from the summer of 2013- which was only 2 years ago. These scars were several weeks old at this point, and hardly visible, but then I went to the beach, and after tanning for awhile, they really stood out. Right there on my thigh for anyone to see. It seemed so striking to me like a neon sign saying “HEY LOOK AT ME, I CUT MYSELF” that I just had to take a picture to see if looking at it from a different viewpoint would make it less noticeable. It didn’t.
After the summer between 9th and 10th grade, I went back to school having the new heavy burden that is the secret of self-injury. The depression got a lot worse. Hiding, withdrawing, covering up, and lying became more commonplace because of the cutting. I had no friends. And I was unapproachable. I had my head down on my backpack either crying or sleeping every chance I got, and I didn’t speak to anyone unless I had to. I remember in class one time having to talk to someone and the person sitting next to them looked at me with wide eyes and said “you CAN talk!” For awhile, I cut every night. I didn’t eat very much, but only because I had no appetite and I was already in the habit of skipping meals. There is a long story involving my teacher friend finding out about the cutting, getting the guidance counselor involved, who got my mom involved. I’m not getting into that story tonight (maybe in another post,) but the outcome of that story was that nobody trusted me and my mom was disgusted by what I was doing. But then nobody ever followed up after completely rocking my world exposing my secret. Nobody asked how I was, the counselor didn’t call me back to the office to check my body for scars. My mom made no other mention of it. It was ignored by everyone who had found out. Nothing. Not that I wanted them to say or so anything, but it still made me furious. Probably because part of me knew I needed help, and they were supposed to be helping me, not ignoring me. If my guidance counselor and my mom wouldn’t help me, how would I ever get help. I had gone on a cutting fast for about a week for fear of someone checking up, but I still remember that moment that it hit me like a lightning bolt: they weren’t going to check up. Nobody was going to check on me. Not the counselor, not my mom. Nobody. That night I bypassed my wrists and slashed a 2-3 inch cut across the front of my shoulder out spite. And I remember it feeling so good. From then on I went after my shoulders, hips, and thighs. I started cutting more because I wasn’t so scared of someone seeing them on my arms anymore. I could make them longer and deeper, so I did. I made sure they were always in discreet places, because I wasn’t one of those people doing it for attention. I was doing it for me. I was doing it for my mental sanity.
The eating didn’t become more of an issue until 11th grade. That was the first time I starved myself on purpose. January 10-12th. It is interesting the things you remember. I didn’t eat or drink anything for almost two days. As I neared the 2-day mark, I could hardly stand. I was so thirsty. A little hungry, but mostly just so thirsty. There was part of me that liked that feeling. Like finally my body was reflecting how my mind always felt: like giving up. Eventually I gave in and guzzled some water. But that started what slowly evolved into a strange, uncommon form of eating disorder.
I struggled with cutting every day until some time in college. I had made a new friend who I became very close to. She took care of me in a way nobody else ever did. She was not angry or disgusted when I cut. She did not shame me or turn away or avoid the topic. I would come to her and she would clean and bandage my wounds. I stopped cutting for her. And I stopped for months. It has always been a struggle, but ever since making that friend, it has never been a daily struggle again. The food issues got worse in college, though. I would go a whole day or two without eating anything, sometimes a week on only a handful of foods and my chocolate milks. I came minutes from passing out from hypoglycemia on a friend’s floor when we were in nursing school. I came to love and crave the crash- that dizzy feeling that I was going to collapse. The dull headache, heart pounding, palms sweating, breath quickening, hands and feet tingling… I still crave it sometimes. It sounds so crazy, and I know that many people think it is crazy. But anyone who has been there understands. There are a lot of reasons and there are a lot of theories, and there are a lot of people who can’t explain it, even when they are part of it. I can’t explain it, either.
Sometimes I wonder if this will be something I deal with for the rest of my life. I know that I have come so far and I have become so healthy compared to how I used to be. My eating habits need some work, and once every couple months, I may make a few desperate cuts on my thigh if things get too overwhelming. But that is a far cry from cutting every night and falling apart on a friend’s floor after starving for days. A lot of that I owe to my daughter. She needs me. She saves my life all of the time. Where suicide used to feel like a feasible option, now it is just a fleeting, occasional thought. Because I could never leave her. She is my world. She needs me. And she is the only person who thinks I am the greatest person in the world. There is a lot to be said for that.
Well, that is a decent summary I guess. I didn’t know what I was even going to write about tonight, but I really wanted to write something. I’m feeling a little down tonight since I have to work the next 3 days in a row (12-hr shifts and I live 45 min from my job.) Also, I felt there wasn’t a good description of who I am and what I deal with since I only briefly mentioned it on the “about me” page. I really wish that I could make all this public on Facebook. Like that I could just put it out there to everyone I know: this is who I was, this is who I am, this is what I deal with. Every day that goes by makes me feel more strongly that it is an important thing to do. I am strongly against the stigma associated with mental illnesses, knowing that the best way to break down the walls is to talk about them, and I can’t even be honest with everyone about myself. I keep feeling like, oh, when I can beat these issues and when I’m over cutting and starving myself, I will talk about it more openly. But… no. What good is that? That leaves me to suffer silently for the entire time I am trying to beat it, if I ever do. And it may prevent me from connecting with someone else who is struggling with the same thing who may not be as ready as I am to make it public. I really feel like God wants me to talk about this, and not anonymously like I am now. I wouldn’t have any of the things that I do if it weren’t for God’s provision. Even though I was not seeking or spending time with Him for most of the past decade, He is still so involved. I am still His child, and nothing can change that. Not even myself.
Thank you for reading.
thedepressednurse 