I was one semester into my university education, living very far from home, and I had agreed to get help so my roommates would leave me alone to destroy myself with my eating disorder. And maybe about 1% of me hoped I could get actual help, but I was pretty much trying to kill that part of me. One of my roommates came with me to an intake appointment where we determined I would do individual counseling and join the eating disorder recovery group.
I had done counseling before and was wary still about saying anything that could land me in the hospital, but not as wary as before. I felt I knew the ropes of counseling. I don't really remember much about counseling that semester. It was with a PhD student. I liked her well enough. That's all I remember about counseling. All the important parts of my recovery came from the group.
The group was called Fed Up With Food. I'd seen posters for it the previous semester and secretly had been intrigued but I was too scared to make any effort to inquire about it. The group was based on the 12 steps, but also had a religious focus, and unlike a traditional 12-step group where you are expected to choose a sponsor, we had mentors assigned to us - one mentor to one participant. We were to meet with our mentors for an hour each week and attend group (1 1/2 hours) each week. We were given workbook/journals to write in during and between group sessions. In group, we weren't allowed to discuss specific symptoms or behaviors related to our eating disorders (because it could be triggering), but with our mentors we could discuss whatever we wanted.
I was full of doubt. 50% of the member of this group (of about 20 people) were mentors and said they had completely recovered from an eating disorder. I had read for years that this was impossible. I thought they must be where I had been so many times, in a good spot but ready to relapse at any moment. I was quiet and felt superior in my knowledge, like I'd been around the block with my eating disorder and knew more than anyone else. In my first one-on-one meeting with my mentor, I told her I didn't believe in recovery and thought all the mentors would relapse eventually. She didn't seem to mind that I felt that way. She also gave me a book, The Secret Language of Eating Disorders, which I promised to read. I'm glad I did.
Every week in group, we started off with successes. Everyone in the room was expected to share a personal success from the previous week. That was really hard for me, because I was so used to beating myself up about everything. Looking back, I think sharing a success once a week was really helpful. I knew the whole week that I would be expected to share a success, so it made me look for something I had done that was good. It forced me to find something nice to say about myself, which I was not in the practice of doing. Here are a few successes I remember sharing:
- I did well on a test.
- I ate peanut butter.
- I called my mom and was honest with her about my eating disorder.
We also worked on the 12 steps (usually a few at a time, kind of clumped together) in group and did some sort of activity, and processed our thoughts through sharing. We also made goals every week, which we wrote in our books.
After several weeks of this, I started to believe that my mentor was actually recovered. This was probably the biggest turning point in my recovery. There is this belief I have about most things that if other people have done it, and I want it badly enough, I can also do it. So, once I believed that real recovery was possible, and even had access to someone who had done it, I threw everything into it. And it was really, really hard.
I read the book my mentor had given me. One of the helpful things it got me to do was to differentiate between the negative mind and the actual mind. I bought a steno pad and recorded "conversations" between the negative mind and actual mind. Things like:
| Negative Mind | Actual Mind |
| I want a cookie. | |
| You can't have a cookie. You don't deserve a cookie. You're too fat to have a cookie. And you're bad. You're a bad friend. You're a bad person. Why would you ever think you can have a cookie? And if you get a cookie, you'll probably eat a whole bunch of cookies and then you'll regret it. | |
| I'm not that bad. I think probably even rapists eat cookies. I'm not a rapist. | |
| You're not any better than a rapist. You shouldn't ever eat again. You should just starve to death. You'd be doing everyone a favor. You're just a burden anyway. Nobody wants to listen to you, they just do because they're scared not to. You scare everyone. | |
| My mentor says I'm not a burden. | |
| Of course she says that. It's her job. It doesn't make it true. You're a burden on her. You're a burden on everyone you tell the truth to. |
At first, like in the example, the negative mind controlled the conversation, taking up most of the real estate. As time went by, though, I started to get better, and was able to give the actual mind more control and more real estate in the conversations. I started believing the actual mind more and recognizing how false and crazy the negative mind was.
At group, we worked through the twelve steps, not exactly in a linear, one step at a time, way, but kind of clumped together. When we worked on the steps, we usually did something imaginative and symbolic. One book I had read about eating disorders, Eating by the Light of the Moon, indicated that symbols and metaphors speak especially strongly to women with eating disorders. I don't know if it's always true, but it was true for me. A lot of times we drew a picture at group - I remember one time being tasked to draw a picture of our eating disorder; another time we were supposed to draw our path to recovery.
Another part of group and recovery was letting myself be as little as I needed to - not physically, but emotionally. If I needed to be held like a baby, that was okay. If I needed to draw and do crafts like a little girl, that was okay. If I needed to be talked to like a grown-up, that was okay. I think I needed to identify with Heather the baby and Heather the toddler and Heather the little girl and Heather the teenager and Heather the college student in order to become whole. All of those Heathers needed healing.
Another thing I worked on was eating. Even though my eating disorder was a disease of the mind, it certainly took its physical toll. By the time I was ready to put forth the effort into recovery, my body didn't feel okay eating normal amounts of food, and it hurt to do so. I had also caused some food aversions by telling myself for years that I didn't like certain things because I believed they were bad for me - like mayonnaise, for example. So, to work on eating, I first turned to something familiar - I set a calorie goal that seemed reachable but healthy, and tried to get as close to it as possible. I didn't pat myself on the back if I was under it, like I used to. I also didn't try to go over it, because I was sure if I ate a lot more than the amount I'd specified, I wouldn't be able to handle it. I stuck to that for about two weeks. I felt my stomach stretching out. The physical pain was intense. After those weeks were over, I moved on to what I knew I really wanted and needed to work, intuitive eating.
Truthfully, I've never read much of the book Intuitive Eating, although I've read parts of it and own more than one copy (for sharing, obviously). But I understood and embraced the concept that my body had once been capable of knowing exactly how much to eat (think of an infant, nursed on demand - I had been that, once) and I could get there again. Having stretched out my stomach to an appropriate size, I began to trust my body to tell me what to eat, and I listened to it. One of the foods it really wanted was peanut butter, which is high in fat and contains some protein. It makes logical sense that I wanted it. When I told people at group how much I wanted peanut butter, there was almost universal acknowledgement that peanut butter was an amazing food for those recovering from a restriction-based eating disorder. When I told my mom that I was so excited about peanut butter, she recommended I choose something less fattening to love. I got mad and hung up on her. I'm sure my mom was trying to be helpful, but what I needed then was complete acceptance about anything I felt I needed to eat.
I began to have success understanding what my body needed to eat and how much. I still detested the feeling of being full, so I found that if I ate until just full, and then went to the bathroom - not to throw up, but to actually use the bathroom - I would feel okay to "sit with myself." I was in a really good place by the time the semester was over and it was time to go home.
Once I left college, things started falling apart a little bit. I was relapsing. I called my mentor in complete distress. She assured me that she loved me no matter what I did. Her love was not conditional upon my success at recovering. And also, she believed that I would recover completely. I think I might have implied she was stupid for believing in me, but it didn't phase her or change her mind. She believed in me completely, even though I doubted. So I decided to work on recovery, again. I spent the summer in a general addiction recovery program and also in counseling. I leaned on my friends for support and was honest with them. I called my mentor every so often.
Toward the end of that summer, I was at my addiction recovery meeting, and as usual, one of my friends had come to support me. She said something in that meeting that was kind of the last piece of the puzzle, for me. She said that in the bible, people would offer animals as burnt offerings, as sacrifices to God. But, when people offered an animal, they left it at the altar...and left. There was no taking back their sacrifice. But with addictions, it's so easy to place our addiction on the altar and say we're going to sacrifice it, but then take it back and use it whenever we feel stressed or upset. It's important to leave the sacrifice at the altar, and leave it. With all the work I'd put in, this was the last step. I needed to leave it and walk away forever. I chose to do that that night. I let it go and promised myself to never return to it, no matter what.
And this time, I didn't return to it. And I never will. Not ever.
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