It’s not that I didn’t know anorexia could kill. In the span of four years between 1999 and 2003, I had known eight girls whom I had met in treatment who had died because of their eating disorders. But I always said, “She was sicker than me” or “She’d been sick for a long time” or “I’m not that bad anymore.” These were excuses I used to not get better. These were all convenient lies that allowed me not to face the truth. The truth was that I was dying, but at the time, I would never have admitted to this.
Then in the spring of 2004, I was part of a panel presentation on eating disorders at the college where I was currently earning my second bachelor’s degree, this time in English and creative writing. On the panel with me was a mother, Kathy Benn, who had lost her daughter to bulimia less than a year before. Her husband, Allan, was a professor in my field of study. Their daughter, Shelby Starner, was a talented musician who had signed a two-record contract with Warner Brothers, had a song featured on Dawson’s Creek and had produced her first music video. They played the video that night. As the lights dimmed and I watched this beautiful girl singing on a giant screen, I realized that the woman sitting next to me was grieving for this very girl, that she had lost her daughter and that she would never get her back. That night I finally came face to face with my own grief for my eight friends who had died. It wasn’t something that could happen to someone out there. This was up close and personal. And I held the choice in my hand: would I make someone grieve for me the way Kathy was grieving for her daughter?
At the time, I was doing okay. I was maintaining a weight slightly lower than my normal weight but well above my danger zone. I thought I was fine. After all, I was eating. What I didn’t recognize as a problem was how much I was exercising. I was running at least an hour a day, doing 1 ½ hours of yoga a day, weightlifting three times a week and teaching three yoga classes every week. If I missed out on a run, I’d run twice as far the following day.
In the fall of 2004, I began applying to graduate schools and started planning my big move to Washington, D.C. I was anxious, scared and overwhelmed. I didn’t plan on relapsing, but as an effort to cope with all of the stress, I just slipped back into the anorexia like it was my second skin. I hardly noticed it happening. Allan, however, did notice it happening. On a day when I was lightheaded and dizzy from being malnourished and dehydrated, he sat me down in his office, made me drink two containers of Pedialyte and then said, “What are you going to do now, because you can’t keep doing this?”
I had no answer for him, but he had an answer ready for me. He suggested going into the hospital to get back on track. I didn’t want to do that, especially in the middle of a semester. But at the same time, I didn’t want things to get worse. So I went to the hospital, an intensive inpatient eating disorder unit in Philadelphia.
While I was there, I followed the program. I went to groups and ate my meals. But I was so afraid of getting behind in my classes that every free second I had, I buried my nose in books and papers. By the end of three weeks, I was closer to my healthy weight. I was also seven chapters ahead of my Advanced Spanish Composition class and had written two essays for my Creative Nonfiction class. Part of me knew that things were not fine. But most of me wanted to keep my 4.0 GPA. So I returned to classes with a vengeance, covering up the anxiety and fear by being the perfect, overachieving student I was known to be. I still maintained my obsessive workout routine, but justified it by following my meal plan. I thought I had things under control.
Moving to DC in the fall of 2005 was a terrifying experience. I had never lived in a large city before. I had to learn how to navigate the city using the buses and subway because I was scared to drive the confusing mass of streets. I didn’t know anyone before moving. I was starting graduate school at American University and was afraid of the new professors, the new students and the new workload.
I increased my running so that I was running two hours a day. Every night I alternated sets of 100 sit-ups with sets of 50 push-ups. I didn’t have a gym membership, so instead of lifting weights, I increased my yoga to two hours a day. If I wasn’t in class or working out, I was walking to a coffee shop, where I would sit alone in a corner doing my schoolwork. When I needed a break, I walked to a different coffee shop. I stopped following my meal plan, usually only eating when I was on campus during a mealtime, when I would have stood out for not eating. No one noticed anything.
But that fall, I attended a conference with Allan. One night after the presentations, we were talking and I started feeling dizzy and hot. Then my heart started racing and I was having a difficult time breathing. I was shaking so much, I could hardly stand up. Allan called the ambulance, and in the ER, I remember scratching at my throat and saying, “I can’t breathe!” I also remember the look of helplessness and fear on Allan’s face as he watched me struggle.
Thankfully, the doctors pumped me full of fluids and got me stabilized. But in seeing the fear and powerlessness Allan experienced watching me struggle to breathe, I realized that I was not safe. I could die, and if I didn’t change how I was living, I was going to. That night, I realized that I did not want to make another person grieve for me and that if I couldn’t live for me, I had to live for them. My father had lost his mother to suicide. I could not be the one to add to his grief when I had the ability to choose. I may not have chosen to develop anorexia, but I could choose not to give in and die.
I began looking into long term treatment that would be covered by insurance. In December of 2005, with the full support of my professors, I admitted myself to an eating disorder unit for three months. This was my fifth hospitalization for the anorexia, but it was the first time I was fully invested in my own recovery. It was also the first time I was open and honest with my treatment team, which was terrifying. At times I wanted to give up and go home. But instead of leaving when I felt I was ready, I waited for my doctor to tell me I was ready.
Transitioning to the real world was difficult, and I relapsed in the process. But unlike previous relapses, I saw it happening, accepted help and sought treatment. I realized I couldn’t fight this battle alone and began talking about my struggles with my professors and fellow students. Rather than walking away from me like I had feared, they supported me. They sat with me through difficult meals and encouraged me. They asked how I was doing and they wouldn’t let me give up. They gave me a reason to fight because of the connection I had with them.
I made a list of the reasons I couldn’t relapse, a list of reasons to live. At the top of my list were my nephew and my niece. Although I have never wanted children of my own, the love I feel for these two children is surreal. I do not want to be known as “The Sick Aunt.” I do not want them to grow up visiting me in the hospital. I do not want them to have to attend my funeral. I want to play with them, take them to the playground and introduce them to my favorite authors and books. I want to be there with them on Christmas morning and see the joy on their faces as they open their presents. I want to hug them and feel their small hands reach behind me, holding me tight and close.
Some words to live by:
“It takes courage to grow up and turn out to be who you really are.” – E.E. Cummings