The days leading up to my next appointment were long and dark. I cried all the time for fear of what recovery would bring. I mourned the loss of the naivete of that girl who just thought she was doing what any skinny girl did. Now I knew the truth: this was not normal. Just because I ate did not mean that I didn't have a problem. Eating a cheeseburger was not "normal" if I fasted for 2 or 3 days afterward. 500 calories a day was not normal. I was not normal.
Recovery was a long, slow process. I remember going to my second appointment thinking, "Okay! They will give me the magic word and I'll get better in about 2 months. 3 tops." A year and a half later, I was still on that couch crying about how I didn't want to change. My treatment included seeing both a dietitian and a therapist on a weekly basis. The dietitian taught me how to reframe my thoughts about food. Fat was not fat. Fat was energy. And I needed energy if I wanted to be able to study. The therapist taught me how to reframe my thoughts about myself. I was not fat. I was just me. Defining myself as fat took away from all of the other things that SHOULD be defining me. Of course, that explanation of my treatment is nowhere near what should be said. There are really no adequate words to describe what treatment is like. I imagine that it is unique to every situation. But the one thing that really shocked me was how long and hard it was. I feel like for a good year or so, I had my toe in the recovery pool--testing the waters just enough to say I was trying--but I never really dove in head first.
About a year into treatment, I realized that I was moving away in a matter of months. If I was going to do this and really get better, it was now or never. I needed to equip myself to take care of myself on my own--outside of my current city and outside of my support system at Children's. If I didn't, I was going to be on my own out there and I wasn't sure if I could take care of myself the way that I needed to.
There was a point where I just decided, "Fine. I have spent way too much time, money, effort and emotion on this treatment thing. I either need to go all in and really get better or stop wasting everyone's time." I chose the first option. I think that was the real turning point in my recovery. I decided that I honestly, genuinely wanted to get better. And I listened to my therapist and dietitian and took their advice and assignments to heart. I didn't just let it go in one ear and out the other just for them to repeat the same things the next week.
By the time I was preparing to move, I knew that I was in a place where I could remember what they taught me and use those tools to stay better. When my husband and I moved states after I graduated from law school, I was scared of being a thousand miles away from the people who had helped me get healthy. Before, I knew that if I relapsed, they would be there to push me back to a healthy place. Now here I was and I didn't have that same support system. I was studying for the bar exam--perhaps the most stressful time in my entire life--and although I had a great support system in my family, it was hard knowing that the professionals who knew my little tricks and habits--weren't there.
I knew that I had to tread lightly on my newfound recovery. I knew that any huge changes would be a catalyst for a relapse. I figured that if I just took baby steps, I could ease into this new me and life without therapists and dietitians watching my every move. Well, I tell you what--there is nothing that can put a hiccup in the recovery plan of someone with eating and body image issues quite like an earlier-than-planned pregnancy.
My husband and I always knew that we wanted to have children. We decided that we would wait until I was out of law school for a few years and we knew that I was healthy enough-mentally and physically-to handle what pregnancy would do to my body. Well, as my dad put it over and over the night that my husband and I found out we were going to be parents, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." As I stood there holding that positive pregnancy test, I was terrified that I wasn't ready to take care of this baby. I was so afraid that my old habits would sneak back into my life and I would do something to harm this innocent little life all because of my selfish disorder.
I have to say--I underestimated myself. You see, the one thing about my eating disorder is that I never thought it affected other people. And I never wanted it to. Even in the deepest parts of my anorexia, I was always making sure that my husband was well taken care of--had enough to eat, had a clean home, had what he needed. I wouldn't let this baby be any different. My eating disorder was about me. It was not about my baby--and I wouldn't let this sick little disease come anywhere near him. Luckily, my pregnancy hunger didn't let that even come close to being a problem. For the first time in a long time, I couldn't have restricted my eating even if I wanted to. The bottom line? I was just too darn hungry. And it wasn't the kind of hunger I had when I was deep in my eating disorder. This wasn't the kind of hunger I could shut up with a tall glass of water or the vision of being skinnier. This. Was. Insatiable. I was starving nearly every second and if I didn't do something about it, I would get physically ill. Pregnancy, ironically enough, was the best thing for me. I HAD to eat because physically, I couldn't avoid it. And mentally, I couldn't deprive my baby. Now, I am not advocating that everyone with an eating disorder go and get knocked up. I am just so grateful that for me, our sweet boy came in God's perfect timing and not in ours. I am not sure how I would have handled this first year away from the support staff at Children's hospital had it not been for the unexpected blessing of this pregnancy. It was a physical and emotional catalyst to stay well. Plus, I couldn't worry about what all that eating was doing to my body because I was SUPPOSED to be gaining weight. After all, I was growing a human being inside of me.
I will admit that I was pretty terrified about how I would react after the baby was born. Sure, I could keep things in check while he was inside of me because I had to care for him. But what about when my body went back to being my own? Then what? Would I restrict again in order to get my pre-baby body back? The book "Does This Pregnancy Make Me Look Fat?" has a great take on this: media today is obsessed with celebrities getting their "pre baby" body back. And getting into their "pre pregnancy" clothes. Pre Baby. Pre Pregnancy. Both of these things imply that you want to somehow go back to before the baby was around. But to do this discounts the whole reason why you lost that pre baby body: to gain a baby! To be obsessed with the body you had before the baby is to discount the fact that you...well...had a baby! I realized that if I was going to obsess about getting back to my "pre baby" body, then I needed to embrace everything that pre baby lifestyle embodied--and that pre baby lifestyle did not include well, my baby. I'm a mother now. And a life without my sweet child is not something I want to return to. So on those days where I am disappointed about not being able to fit into the same jeans I used to be able to wear, I remind myself that the reason I have all this extra weight is because I brought another person into this world. My body will NEVER look the same again. Even if I somehow ended up in my pre-pregnancy jeans, my body would still be different than it was before I had my child. So I can either embrace that or be miserable. Because there's no going back. And that's okay.
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