Refeeding Tantrum #1

I feel like a three-year-old, kicking and screaming.

I'm only the second day into refeeding and already I hate it I hate it I hate it so much, so much more than I ever have in recent memory, and I want to quit and I'm fine and I donnnnn't neeeeeeed allllll thisssss foooooood.

It's only an extra 100 calories. (But it'll be more tomorrow!) I haven't gained any weight, or even maintained. (But it's only a matter of time until I do!) Look, I fucking have to do this because the labs show my body, especially my liver, is hugely compromised. I'm lucky to be able to exercise in voice and movement class. By all accounts, even the amount of walking I do to and from class is overly jeopardizing. (I don't feel good I feel full IhateitIhateitIhateit.)

I hate yogurt. I hate processed food. I hate sodium. I hate microwave meals. I hate eating. I hate calories. I don't want to do this anymore.

I'm going to. I keep telling myself it's not optional; I can't fuck up refeeding or I don't have a chance of pulling the wool over my parents' eyes. That it's only temporary. That it's medicine, for fuck's sake. I try to imagine my liver slurping up the calories and using them all; my cells burning every extra gram of fat and protein into restorative, repairing energy. But it's hard. I just want to lose more weight.


^ I typed "happy liver" into a google image search and this is what came up. Oh internet.

What a Difference a Year Doesn't Make

My initial calculations were incorrect. It was a year ago TODAY that I discharged from CFC.

Really fucked that year up, didn't I?

I wish it were later at night. I'm really tired; it's been like this all day. I've also been dizzy and especially weak. But there aren't any signs of edema and the scale is still being my friend, so while it's probably related to increasing my calories, I don't think it's RFS. This happens sometimes -- I eat more and at first my body feels worse, not better.

But If Denial WERE a River in Egypt, You'd Be Drowning in It.

I saw my MD today. Remember how I said that there were liver abnormalities, and I'd had those before so I wasn't worried?

Yeah.

These are more different liver abnormalities. These are the kinds that say, evidently, that my liver/body is very stressed and having to work really really really hard to do its job. (Well, at least it's still doing its job, right? It's not shutting down -- it's just working overtime so that it won't have to.)

But everything else is okay.

Except a few other bits about my labs that are not awesome: platelets -- low. Already knew that. And then there are a lot of values that are borderline too low. Like my white cell count and my calcium, the latter of which has been historically either high-normal or high (even when I'm healthy). So borderline low calcium is, for me, definitely a sign that something's up.

But everything else is okay.

Except my blood pressure. I think the doctor's words were "we're kind of toeing the line between you walking around and you needing to be in the hospital."

But everything else is okay.

Except my heart. Apparently it's "pounding."

But everything else...

Look, I feel like, if my doctor really thought I needed to be in the hospital, he'd say so. And also since I'm increasing my calories (albeit temporarily), these things should probably either improve or not get any worse over the next couple weeks.

I started taking an Omega-3 supplement. I include it as part of my daily caloric intake, but I still think it at least shows I care enough to try something new. I also went shopping today to buy people food. In addition to my "safe" menu of Fiber One, edamame, grapes, celery, apple slices, blueberries, and 110-cal protein drinks, I got nonfat yogurt, plain oatmeal, two kinds of 100-calorie packs, frozen diet meals, tofu, and the real kicker... high-protein Boost. (Upon re-reading: wait... how much of that actually sounded like "people food"?) I don't have much time to eat during the day, and I'm such a slow, gamey eater that I figured Boost would be a good way to get in more calories in less time. It's kind of hard to explain that you're late for class or rehearsal because you were stabbing at a Lean Cuisine with a fork, or putting away some Healthy Choice angel hair pasta one hair at a time. I also like the fact that Boost is pretty nutritionally balanced, so I know I'm getting what I need.

I'm 100 calories above safety level for me tomorrow. Wonder how bloated I'll feel. Or look. Or feel like I look.

February Song

I don't want to jinx anything... but the past couple days have been pretty good, anxiety- and mood-wise. And I haven't taken a lorazepam since Sunday evening! It's not that I'm trying to quit, as I'll take it if I need it, but seeing as just a few weeks ago I was taking one every two days at the very LEAST, this is tremendous progress.

On Tuesday I found out that the limey git school of theatre dean is probably getting sacked at the end of the year, which made me immensely happy. Apparently not many of the professors like him, he's neglected a lot of his professional responsibilities, and he's been sending ooky text messages to at least one of his female students talking about how he was going to "make her a star."

Then today, I gave a presentation in my poli-sci class. The professor, whom I really like but who seems to be a hard-ass when it comes to grading, told me that it was "fantastic," "definitely in the 'A' range," and that I explained the concepts I was supposed to be covering "better" than he'd been able to articulate during lectures.

Score!

I have a lot of academic hurdles to get over in the next couple weeks. It's midterm season, which means lots of rehearsals, papers, studying, and pulling shit together. But for once, it feels manageable. Not easy. Manageable.

What does not feel very manageable is the fact that I have to start RF tomorrow (just by 50 calories at first, then adding 100 every couple of days). I'm really not ready. I mean, my weight is at a tolerable place for my ED, and I'm actually just under where I reasonably expected to be by the end of this month, but mentally there will be a lot of guilt to overcome. I know this is something I need to do to buy myself time, otherwise I physically couldn't make it to the end of the semester. And I know it's something I need to do so my parents won't freak out over my eating habits when they next see me, otherwise I couldn't permissibly make it to the end of the semester. But it just feels like such a betrayal to the eating disorder when I'm SO CLOSE to breaking my old lowest weight for this height. It feels like I'm being set back such a long time.

I've finally hit a point where I feel comfortable wearing just about anything. Like the worst an outfit can do is make me look slightly less dead, not the dreaded f-word. (Or even the h-word... "healthy.") This helps in winter, when I have to wear bulky sweaters and layers just to keep from feeling like I'm going to die of hypothermia. But I also feel like I'm wasting my much-improved body image as I sit shivering in a winter ski coat that's the same shade of blue as my lips.

I Should Really Update This More Often, Because Entries Like This Are Way Too Long And Convoluted

In just over a week I start rehearsals for a play I hate, by a playwright I hate, espousing a message I hate, with a cast I hate working with, directed by a director whose directing style and views (and maybe personality, I haven't looked into it) I hate.

In order to engage in this hate-fest, which is a curriculum requirement, I have to cut down to one therapy session a week. Because we're talking 5-hour rehearsals 5 days a week.

Yup.

This is also the director that, as my freshman year acting teacher, had me spend that year feeling like a rubbish actress. Granted, she didn't sit there and force me to feel a certain way, but you get the picture. I was vulnerable, and very new in recovery, motivated for the first time in the history of ever to embark on an anorexia-free life (and boy, was the timing super), but very raw and impressionable. And the impression she gave me (and others in my class) was... you are not good enough.

There is something wrong with the way you do things.

There is something wrong with you.

You should be better.

Well, that sounded familiar.

I ran back to restricting like a Pavlovian dog running to his supper dish at the sound of a bell. The difference being, my supper dish was empty save for a few celery stalks and some mustard.

The recovery, at that point, had in me found a solid enough footing that it put up a valiant struggle. It actually took time for the eating disorder to win me back behaviourally. But by summer '09, I was back to my old tricks, fresh out of a year of stern, self-invalidating acting coaching and the eating disorder using that class as a portal to weave its way into every facet of my being.

And then residential and then summer relapse and then trying to recover on my own and then fuck that shit.

And here we are now. (Entertain us?)

I am about to descend back into the lion's mouth of being coached by that director, only this time, already ill. Yet knowing that what she says is bullshit and that I am enough. Loving my personality, yet addicted to my eating disorder.

It's still a toxic environment. I'm already infected, but things could get worse.

I could start doubting my acting ability again.

But strangely enough, I feel strong enough that I believe that won't happen. In the oddest way, I have made leaps and bounds with the esteem in which I hold my personality and my talent (or at least my ability to fake talent).

I just don't know if this will maybe make my anxiety worse, or fuck with my body image so that I'll want to cut my calories death-low, or anything.

And speaking of that.

Got a call from the MD today. My blood work came back with some liver abnormalities (that's happened in the past and doctors have always been very vague about it. Like "yeah... this is, um, a... thing. Don't freak out, it's just there. I dunno"). A new development is that my platelet count is low. Again, no huge medical emergencies, but I guess my body is getting lazier and lazier. "Platelets? Do you really need that many? Here, take these, I made them yesterday. If you want more, I'm charging you extra. Calories."

Well, give me a fucking week and you'll get your damn calories, body. I fly out to visit my parents for spring break on 12 March and RF always takes two weeks if I want it done properly (read: with no tissue gain, minimal water gain, and lowest possible risk of RFS).

On Thursday night I went out for what I believe was my second party of the semester. One of the few girls I actually really dig was turning 21, and it was pretty fun. I was out of my comfort zone, so I only stayed a couple hours (which for me was a lot), and pretended to drink and be tipsy. I didn't feel pressured to imbibe for imbibing's own sake, I just didn't want people noticing that I was sober and figuring that it might be a calorie thing.

Really, all this has got me wondering about my own 21st birthday, which is coming up in just over a month, and asking myself, "what the hell am I gonna do?" Obviously I want to celebrate, but... drinks? Calories? I'm not foolish enough to fast all day and blow every calorie on alcohol. That's how death happens. The girl whose party I went to was talking to me about how we would commemorate my impending legality, and she recommended this truly brilliant-sounding tavern downtown. I looked it up online, and everything, from the name to the decor to the ahh-mazing top shelf alcohol selection, just sounds so perfectly me. And it's new, too (established in 2010), so it's almost like a group of awesome people got together and were like, "AJ's turning 21 soon; let's erect a tavern entirely in her honour." Anyway, I want to go. I want to go and sample drinks and laugh with friends and take pictures and laugh some more and... yeah. I want to enjoy food.

I want to enjoy life.

Nobody should spend their 21st birthday sitting in a cramped one-room apartment, staring vacantly at a computer screen or book page, waiting for it to be 30 minutes since she's finished her nighttime cup of blueberries because then she can weigh herself for the first of three times that night, to get a better idea of what the scale's going to say in the morning. And wondering if she should have eaten 12 almonds instead because 80 calories of almonds weighs a lot less than 80 calories of blueberries and it's all about volumetrics, see.

That's not enjoying life. Doing that, especially on your 21st birthday, is pissing on life.

So I really hope I can formulate some plan to allow myself a night off. Without eating normally all that week. Fuck knows I'll already be hating myself enough, just having come out of spring break.

Four days until my one-year anniversary discharging from CFC.

Brief

I made an iota of progress in therapy yesterday.

It happened when I was talking about happy moments in my childhood with my mother and then paused, and added, "I just wish there had been more of those."

It was the first time I admitted to wanting or craving something specific (outside of my eating disorder), and in the pause, I had to fight with myself internally regarding whether or not to say it. I was mentally arguing that to say something like that would sound ungrateful, as I'd had many things to be thankful for during my childhood, or that it might sound whiny, or negative, or babyish. Finally, I just told myself "but it's true -- I do wish I'd had more happy memories with my mother growing up," and I said it.

"I just wish there had been more of those."

Therapeutic progress.

I just wish I could make more of it.

Maybe This Time

Here is a summary of my past few days, as organised by subject for your convenience (ha):


~ The Doctor's Appointment ~

Went well. And by "well," I mean, I really dig this guy. He's the first medical doctor I've had outside of a residential treatment setting (or perhaps even including that) who truly seems to "get" eating disorders at their very core. Like my new psychiatrist, he was very sympathetic but not the least bit insincere. He's also just very personable. I'm not sure how else to describe it. "Good bedside manner," I guess it's called. And he knows his shit. Which is very important.

The nurse who did most of my workup was also pretty good, if not a little less empathetic, clucking disapprovingly as she tried to take my blood pressure with a normal cuff and then sighed, "let's try the child-size one, then." Cool, my eating disorder said. The only thing I really care about with nurses is whether or not they're good phlebotomists, and this one was. (Unless it was a fluke, which, yes, I do worry about.) I don't know what it is about getting needles stuck in me that makes me regress to a four-year-old state. I'm not squeamish, and my pain tolerance is fine. I think it's just the knowledge that, eek, there's something foreign and unsexy inside my body and it's taking out something that I need to survive and one wrong turn could really, really screw me over. But anyway, the blood draw went down with minimal pain and I'm still anxiously awaiting the results of that.

I also had an EKG done and the one thing that came up was the fact that I have a few premature beats. I was told that this is normal in malnourished individuals, and even in some otherwise healthy adults, and the rest of my EKG looked good so this was nothing to worry about. I worried about it a little bit that night anyway, but got over it. I have a follow-up scheduled in a couple of weeks.

*

~ Academics ~

I met with my academic adviser on Friday, as is mandatory for all school of theatre students before picking the next semester's classes (because actors are incompetent and can't select their own schedule without the advisement of a... failed actor). I told her about my plan to get another General Education class out of the way for first half of the summer -- I only have two left now -- and further free myself up for my double major in political science.

"Absolutely," she said. She then informed me that because of the number of credits I've completed I now have senior status at the university, and that I'm the first BFA student ever to double major. WHAT NOW, SCHOOL OF THEATRE DEAN. I came in last semester a sophomore who, per academic protocol, "couldn't handle" junior level classes, and now I'm a technical senior taking on an unprecedented second bachelor's.

And for THE FIRST TIME since starting back with the sophomore class -- and I mean that from the bottom of my prematurely contracting heart -- I had a sense of my life moving in the direction it was meant to go.

I honestly wanted to cry out of happiness when she let me know all this. I felt myself getting teary. It just sounded so smart, so capable, so mature -- all these things that I repeatedly tell myself I'm not. And all I could think in the back of my head was, "please don't screw it up, AJ, please don't screw it up, please."

Do. Not. Fuck. This. Up.

I need to reevaluate where my eating disorder and I are going, at the end of this semester. ("Why not now?" Shut up; inconvenient.) I need to have a long sit-down with myself and my priorities and my scale and my calorie calendar and my weight diaries and say, "look, we just want very different things."

Because we do.

My anorexia wants me to be dead. I want me to be awesome.

Does not compute.

*

~ Therapy ~

As discussed in my last post, I'm slowly being pummeled with more and more evidence that MY EATING DISORDER LIES. More than I ever understood. And in therapy, I'm starting to get where a lot of these lies are coming from.

The first lie has to do with my distorted body image. My therapist and I have been exploring the roots of my seemingly innate feeling of fatness, of needing to lose weight, and the first bit goes like this: infants, not having a fully developed limbic system, often experience emotions physically. They will feel anxiety, anger, confusion, uncertainty, happiness, what have you, in their bodies. (Even adults get this a bit, now, don't they? The whole "pit in your stomach" thing; the physical pleasure a rush of endorphins produces; the heat of anger.) My early life -- early early early early life -- was full of uncertainty. My mother drank. I noticed a lot and understood a lot less. I took in a lot of information, perhaps more than other babies, and put some of the pieces together in very illogical ways because, hey, an infant's reasoning is a bit limited. I felt uncomfortable in my world and so I felt uncomfortable in my body. Something felt "off" on the outside and so something felt "off" about my body.

Secondly (and sort of on the same vein), my anorexia and body image distortion ties very neatly into my anxiety around needing people. I don't want to need people. I don't want to need others -- because I learned at a young age that others might not be reliable. But it's not just that. I don't want to need at all. Needing anything -- help, love, food, or people -- felt like weakness because I wasn't taught that needing would produce reliable results. Needing felt wrong. And I felt like every last one of my needs, however insignificant, however fundamental to life, was too much.

Being hungry meant needing food, and needing food was wrong.

My needs and desires were too much. I was immature, incapable, clingy, foolish, and stupid to have them, and above all, I was fat.

I apologise because I'm certain I haven't articulated this clearly at all. But trust me, it makes sense to me, and that is no mean feat. I'm finally starting to believe that the lies are lies. What with the discoveries I'm making in therapy, and the whole thing with the girl in my class (see previous post), and feeling like academically/professionally more and more stars are coming into alignment... maybe recovery is right. Maybe recovery is possible. Maybe I can; maybe I should. Maybe I will.

And with that, I'll leave you with a picture of my nail polish and my Powerade Zero having a colour fight. (I'm drinking Powerade like a good girl in the hopes that the electrolytes will help my heart rhythm. So far, they just might be! I've had fewer chest flutters the past couple days.)

I would also like to point out that when buying nail polish, you get what you pay for. That Sally Hansen blue has about the same consistency as paint. Huzzah collegiate budgets.

Just a few random updates...

1. So I've started up my meds and so far their re-introduction into my system has gone rather smoothly, although there is this one side effect I hate: waking up in the middle of the night and having a hell of a time getting back to sleep. This happens at all weights, and has gone on as long as I've taken the drug. Oh well. I can stand that, as long as my anxiety abates... still waiting to see whether the meds make any noticeable difference there (I should know in about 4-6 weeks -- seems like forever).

2. My doctor's appointment is tomorrow, and of course I have to go hit a plateau just in time. I keep telling myself "your weight is still X pounds, even if you're losing super slowly or not losing at all the past few days -- it's still X." I know where my plateaus happen and how long they last, but that's little consolation in the moment. I just want to get RID of this water and watch the numbers plummet again. Sigh.

3. We had costume measurements for the play yesterday. I was really surprised when I happened to glance at others' measurement sheets, and realized that the girl who I thought was the skinniest girl in the sophomore class was several inches larger than me everywhere, as well as being about 3 inches shorter and 10 pounds heavier overall. She's tiny! She has celiac, so that's why she's so thin, in addition probably to genetics, but if I didn't know better I might even wonder if she had an ED (she for sure doesn't; trust me). This really fucked with my head. I always had her pegged as being way smaller than me. Distorted body image is an absolute mindfuck. So now I'm telling myself, "well, obviously we carry our weight differently..." Yeah. Obviously. Because what I see in the mirror is totally what everyone else sees. Right? Right?

4. ... I just did some math, and this girl's BMI is actually a point or two higher than mine was whenever I've been minimally weight restored and eating intuitively for a few months. Yet, I could swear I look like a fucking WHALE when that's the situation; like I've completely let myself go. All bulky and big and just... so... big. Solid. Husky; that's a good word. Sorry I'm going on and on but my mind has seriously just been blown. When my body is where it wants to be, am I really as diminutive as that?

You do not understand the level of unabashed whatthafuckery currently taking place in my brain. Maybe I shouldn't even blog until I've had time to process this. This girl is so skinny I don't even.

Okay. Deep breaths. My eating disorder is clamoring desperately to save face: "It's a lie you don't look like that at all when you're healthy you look puffy and huge; she overestimated her weight is all, and she still looks smaller than you do even at this weight and several BMI points below her, I don't know how but she does, trust me." Trust me.

5. I've been making a lot of discoveries in therapy that mainly get to the root of my distorted body image (is it possible? You ask. Indeed it is, and I'll hopefully blog about it all later but I have to dip imminently, so we'll dog-ear this one for now) and feelings of shame around hunger, enjoying food, and food in general, as well as my confusion as to how to have real friends, emotionally intimate connections, not wanting to need people or ask for help, and not understanding what friends are really good for. All of these issues have literally been present ever since I can remember (we're talking like 2 or 3 years old) and suddenly THEY'RE ALL CLICKING; IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL. And fucking exciting.

Well, I have to run. To therapy, in fact. Probably will discuss #s 3 and 4 on the couch... because my brain is still broken.

It's Still a Question of How Long Will This Hold

So today I saw my new psych -- ten points to me for actually going! I got lost half a dozen times on my way there, thanks to my GPS that can never make things easy. Heading back was much easier because I ignored her "severe traffic ahead; recalculating" diatribe and bumped along the freeway listening to music and talk radio. I really don't mind being stuck in traffic if I know I've got time; it's a good way for me to unwind. I'm not racing to a destination but I've still got something to do, and plenty, of course, to think while I'm doing it.

The psychiatrist is really sweet; very sympathetic and all without seeming saccharine. She prescribed me new doses of the meds I'm used to, so we'll see how that works out. This is all for anxiety and panic, but naturally my treatment team is hoping that as my generalized anxiety goes down, so too will my food- and body-related anxieties (even though I've told them that's never happened in the past), and I'll start to withdraw from my behaviours a bit. I guess it could happen, but I wouldn't put money on it.

Next Thursday I have my MD appointment. I'm nervous about that as well; I'll have to miss voice class and I HATE missing class -- I always feel like such a little deviant. I feel like the professor will think I don't care about the subject or respect them; they'll just think I'm lazy. At the same time I hesitate to tell my professor in advance that I'm going to have to miss class because then it's like, "an appointment? You couldn't just reschedule?" No, I couldn't reschedule. The guy is an hour away in somewhat shit traffic (which is to be expected), not to mention filling out paperwork and getting my initial medical history -- which always takes forever. There's the eating disorder timeline, the hospitalization timeline, the trauma timeline, the coke timeline, the academic timeline, and the other health issues timeline. Some overlap and some don't.

I'm really happy it's Thursday, which makes it practically the weekend. For some reason this week has just been so arduous. With this semester's schedule -- the timing and location of classes -- plus appointments, it feels like I'm rushing nonstop from 7 or 8 AM to 6 at night. And my Tuesdays begin at 6AM, but so far I've been getting through that like a champ.

I was super panicky earlier, between 1:30ish and 4ish, but I popped a loraz around 3:30 and it just finished metabolizing completely maybe half an hour ago. It takes maybe 45 minutes to start noticing a marked difference, and 4 hours later I'm golden. I like to revisit whatever I was panicking about just to get recently-unshackled reasonable AJ's take on the matter, and there's usually a very logical explanation for my "symptoms" or heightened anxiety. That's the thing about nightmares. They always seem real until you wake up, and then it's so clear that you were just dreaming. That's what I tell myself panic attacks are. They're waking nightmares. It's kind of cute, in a pathetic sort of way, wrapping my arms around myself and rocking back in forth in bed saying, "it's just like a bad dream."

I guarantee you, my social world would be shocked if they knew how horribly I suffer from panic and anxiety. I don't think anyone I interact with on a regular basis (aside from my family and therapist) has the slightest inkling. Which is real good, I guess.

Speaking of not having the slightest inkling and putting on fronts, I really want to share with y'all a portion of a text messaging conversation I had with B. last night. I like to call it "Why Do You Lie, Liar?" I'm sure that's the title B. was giving it, anyway.

B. How r u?
AJ. I'm super, doing Mother Courage this semester which is not my fave but it is what it is. Anything promising for ya on the audition front?
B. I just got a representation offer from a very nice agency. Thats cool, hows ur health
AJ. Health stuff is really good. That's awesome about your offer. [I tried to change the subject by asking some other question]
B. Are u sure ur ok? U seemed like u coulda used a little help last time, be honest
AJ. Yeah, I was a wreck, haha, but that was ages ago. Things are better now. [Changed subject again and persisted until convo was successfully derailed]

For some reason, I could tell that he could tell that I was transparent as glass even over text, which is a superpower he alone possesses. And I could also tell he was a little hurt. (How can you tell that shit over texting?) He's basically the only person I've never lied to.

Well, I guess his time had certainly past come, then.

Le sigh.