"Don't ask me. Tell me. You're the boss." #pelvicfloorphysicaltherapy #endometriosis #PTSD

Three months ago, I had a complete hysterectomy and endometriosis excision surgery. The doctor didn't know how extensive the endometriosis was until he got in. My bladder, bowel, colon, rectum, left tube, left ovary, and uterus were all fused together in one big clump. There were several other spots of endometriosis spread throughout my pelvic and abdominal areas. It was a pretty extensive surgery, and it's taken a while to heal.

There are a lot of things that have improved since my surgery.
I no longer have pain so bad that I feel nauseated. I no longer spend a few days vomiting during my period.
I don't have a period.
The intense pain (felt like a hot poker stabbing my insides) is gone.
I don't feel the burning/urgency/painful cramping whenever my bladder is full or while peeing or after I've peed. It used to feel like I had a UTI all the time, but I don't feel that way anymore.

I still have some bowel issues that weren't there before the surgery, but since I had major surgery on my bowels, it's apparently normal. It takes time for those things to heal.
I also still feel exhausted a lot. I no longer take a nap everyday, but I feel like I still could if I had the chance.

I still have a constant aching, burning, uncomfortable pressure pain throughout my whole pelvic region. That combined with the fatigue I still have since the surgery has been discouraging. Last week, I spoke with the surgeon again. He told me I should be feeling better by now, and suggested I give physical therapy a try to see if that could help me. He also said it could help with preventing more adhesions (scar tissue) from sticking to my organs and muscles. Scar tissue can cause the organs to stick together in the same way endometriosis did. If it got bad enough, I'd have to have surgery again to fix it. Physical therapy can help break up the scar tissue and keep the organs moving in the way they should.

Pelvic floor physical therapy was not my idea of fun. It sounded AWFUL. Besides the fact that physical therapy of any kind is generally painful and difficult, I have a history of sexual abuse. I have been diagnosed with PTSD, and anything that feels anything like being sexually abused felt, triggers reactions in my brain and body. PTSD makes it hard for me to know if I am in the present (with a doctor that can help me) or in the past (with a man who is raping me). As far as my body and brain are concerned, I FEEL like I am being raped. I am in the past. I can see the things I saw then. I can hear the noises of the fan whirring above the bed, and his grunting. I can feel the pain of being raped or the suffocation of having a pillow over my face. I feel scared and alone and betrayed and disgusting and disgusted. I feel so many things that I can't come back to the present without a lot of work and usually some help.

Pelvic floor physical therapy uses both internal and external muscle manipulation. It's like a regular exam on steroids - and I have never done well with regular exams.

I was afraid to go, but I also want to feel better... Really better. I want to be able to go to work, or fishing, or horseback riding, or to sit on my couch and watch TV, and not think about being in pain. It's exhausting to be in pain, and it takes a lot of energy.  If there's a chance I don't have to live like that, I want to do whatever I can to take that chance.

Pelvic floor dysfunction can be caused by a lot of things.
Chronic pain from endometriosis can be a cause. Surgery (hysterectomy or the extensive excision) can also cause it. Sexual abuse can also be a cause.
It could also be caused by pregnancy, miscarriage, sitting too much, exercising too much, poor posture, etc.

(In other words - I have a lot of things that could cause it, and they probably all contributed to where I'm at today.)

I had my first physical therapy appointment yesterday. I was scared out of my mind. I asked Todd to come with me. I made the decision that I wasn't ready to do any kind of internal work yet. As I was filling out the paperwork before meeting with the therapist, I was trying not to cry or panic or run away.

Then I met her.
She asked me about my pain. She asked me to describe it. She asked me what has helped, what has made it worse, what other doctors and professionals have told me, and she told me it usually took a woman seeing at least seven doctors before they got to her. (I counted. I have been to eight doctors for pelvic pain. The last two were helpful. Everyone else was dismissive.)

She showed me some stretches to do. She reminded me the importance of breathing deeply (diaphragm breathing). Then she handed me a sheet and told me she liked to do both internal and extrernal work.

"Is it okay if we just start with external for now?" I asked, very timidly.

She responded, "Of course! Don't ask me. Tell me. You're the boss. It's your body - I'm just here to help you."

I breathed a sigh of relief, and gladly got on the table where she massaged my incision scars and tested to see how tight my stomach and back muscles were. She had me move in different positions as she massaged and moved different parts of me. I learned about fascia, which I was unfamiliar with before. She talked a lot about teaching my body to send new signals to my brain, because the cause of the pain was gone - but my body didn't know that yet.

I walked away feeling hopeful. I still don't want to go through the physical therapy. It still sounds awful. I still think I will have a really hard time with it, and I will probably get triggered in a way that will leave me feeling awful on more than one occasion. I also know enough about recovery and PTSD and myself to know that I can handle it... And the only way out of the pain is to go through it.

So... here I go... through pain. Twice a week for at least the next month.

Abuse and Recovery (Elizabeth Smart and Rebecca Musser as my examples)

On my mind:

Two books - one by Elizabeth Smart.
The other by Rebecca Musser.

One was kidnapped and taken against her will.
The other was given by her father to marry a man sixty years her senior.

Both were treated horribly by a man claiming to be a prophet and a religious man.

Elizabeth, it seems from her book, never believed what her abuser told her. She never bought into the idea that this is what God wanted for her, or what she deserved, or was her place in life.

Rebecca, at least for a while, totally believed that this was what God wanted for her, she totally believed Rulon Jeffs was a prophet, and that to be his wife was her place in life.

Both detested the men that raped and abused them, but only one believed that she was supposed to love and revere the man that hurt her.

In my mind, it is that belief that makes a huge difference in recovering.

If you believe it is your place in life to be used and abused; if you believe it is what God wants for you; if you believe you are supposed to take it, it is so much more difficult to recover.

If you believe you will be loved if you stay and take it, or you escape, or no matter what happens, the abuse is still just as awful, but it won't affect you for as long.

I have no idea if either of the women who wrote these books telling their stories would agree with me, but I do think that believing I deserved to be in the marriage I was in, and to be used and abused has made it harder to move past.

Time for horses to teach me something new

I've been reading the book Nature in Horsemanship by Mark Rashid. (Thanks Mellen and Elliot! Merry Christmas to me!!) He has an entire chapter about the importance of protecting yourself. He talked about a woman who let her horse run her over, because she didn't want to make him mad at her.

I've never been run over by my horse... but... I have been called "fearless" when I didn't move out of his way while he was running at me. He stopped in front of me, and I wasn't hurt. But I was lucky.

I have made grand improvement from my first day on the horse. I was willing to sit on his back, but I didn't dare touch the reins, because I was afraid of hurting him. I didn't want to be bossy or controlling or tell him what to do. I now have no problem touching the reins or asking him to do some things (like not run me into a tree, or to climb a mountain with me on his back, etc.)

Sunny has taught me a lot. That horse has been the best therapist to me, and he has played a huge part in my recovery**. Besides all that he has taught me, he has taken me all over the mountains. There are very few trails that are within driving distance that we haven't been on and all over. We have done a lot together. And lately, I can tell we are stagnating. Reading the book, I can see where we (and by we, I mean me) are stuck. I'm still afraid of hurting him... so I haven't worked with him more.

Eventually, I want to adopt a Mustang. I want to gentle wild horses. I love watching people with their Mustangs, because I know the relationship they have to build with their horses. I know how hard it is to convince a horse to do things like crossing streams or climbing mountains or standing still. I want to do that, but I'm afraid.

I also recently wrote about how my fear of hurting BJ drives me. I definitely never want to hurt him AND I don't want to be motivated by fear.

Sunny taught me that it was okay to trust another being. And now, it's time for me to learn that it is okay to ask for... and to expect... and to want... and to need... from another being. I think Sunny (and BJ) will be great partners for these lessons, but I don't think they can teach me the way I want.

I'm lucky to be surrounded by equestrian centers. I live in a teeny tiny town in Utah, but there are at least four HUGE private arenas with trainers in every area of horsemanship you could want. There is also a public arena and trainers that will meet you there.

This morning, I called one of the local trainers. I've met him before, and I like his style. I can't afford him, but I can afford to be a working student at his place. I told them that I hoped to work with Mustangs one day, but I need experience. I also told them that I am terrified of hurting the horses, or doing something that would make them into bad horses somehow... and that is getting in the way of the relationship I want with my horse. They said they had classes that could help me...

I'm afraid. Even writing about this, my chest feels tight, my throat feels tight, and I might just want to climb under the desk and hide... and I'm excited.


**I was asked today if I had recovered from PTSD. I don't think you can ever recover completely, because the trauma and the abuse are a part of me. I can't go back to when it had never happened. I can't get back the innocence. I can't go back to before I believed all of the shitty stuff about myself because of the things abusers said and did. I think it will always be a part of me. AND I can also keep moving forward, learning new things, and dealing with the old stuff in new ways.

The real reason I just told the story I told...

In my last post, I talked about BJ's ex... But, I want to make it clear... I judged her. My judgment may or may not be accurate. The accuracy of my judgments doesn't really matter. What matters is the way my judgment has motivated me in the past, and still motivates me.

In other words, this isn't about her, it's about me... and the way I think... and how that affects my daily life. And I didn't realize all of this while I was writing that post... but I am starting to see things more clearly...

I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to be selfish or self-centered. I don't want him to ever feel about me the way he felt about her. I don't want him to ever feel like his wants, needs, feelings, or thoughts don't matter. I don't want him to ever feel like he belongs to another person and especially not to me. I don't want him to feel obligated. I don't want him to feel controlled. I don't want him to feel like a slave.

That fear... of hurting him... or of being selfish... is a strong motivator. And it sometimes still gets in my way. I don't allow myself to have the healthy and happy relationships I want, because I am afraid that if I want, that want will somehow become abusive and controlling.

I don't know what else to say about it - because I am still working through the emotions and the false beliefs that have driven me for a long time. So... stay tuned? I will continue to work through my stuff and I plan to write about it as I do...

I remember, and I never want to be there again

Recently,  I was talking to a friend about her business. I thought her products were all "weight loss" products. She corrected me, and wanted to tell me the story of a girl that she'd helped gain weight.

This girl had been very sick. She couldn't keep any food down whatsoever. It wasn't a choice she made - there was something wrong with her body. She'd eat, and then seconds later it would all come back up. If she kept the amounts small enough, she MIGHT be able to digest the food. Doctors didn't know why. (They told her to just stop throwing up.)

K pulled out the pictures of this girl.
She looked so thin, so sick, near death. After taking K's supplements, this girl put on weight. She's been able to keep food down ever since.

The part of the story I want to share is what I felt as I looked at her pictures.
There was once a day when my body looked like that. I know what it feels like to be nearly starving to death. Many people with an eating disorder (myself included) WANT to look that frighteningly, sickeningly thin. It doesn't make a lot of sense, even to me.

BJ, knowing my history, asked me if I was okay.

So, I shared with them both.
There was a time that I looked like that. The reason I looked like that was different, but I remember how it felt for me. I remember feeling so hopeless that I just wanted to die. I remember knowing that if I didn't do something different, I was going to die, but I couldn't understand why I would want to live. I remember how it felt to feel unworthy to even exist, so I tried to make myself stop existing - or at least take up the smallest amount of space possible. I remember how much it hurt emotionally and physically.

I remember what it was like to be there.
I remember how it felt.
I remember, and I never want to be there again.

The realization itself was huge. Do you know how far I've come? That I don't feel a desire to go back, only a sadness that I was ever there? I don't feel guilty for living and existing. I don't feel like I am less strong because there is meat on my bones. There was a time when I would feel those things and so much more.


I don't like remembering what it was like, but sometimes it's nice to be reminded how far I have come.

I'm trying to start blogging again. In the meantime, a photodump

I haven't been blogging. Part of that is that I don't need the blog like I once did. I spend my time with a lot of people, and I talk and share myself more than I once did. I also don't have to deal with all of the crazy effects of abuse, PTSD, ED, or even leaving the church. Everything is pretty calm generally speaking. I also have been very busy with BJ's family, my family, work, with some horses and fishing thrown in.

At the same time, I miss writing. I miss blogging and having a record of who I was in that moment.

So... I'm just dropping in to say, I plan on writing more, and sharing more here.
I'm planning on writing some of the stories from my past in a more complete form. I have the journal/blog entries from when I was going through it all, but I'd like to write it all down differently.

A few days ago, I did an interview for a study about Eating Disorders and Spirituality/Religion. She asked me to share the story of my eating disorder and specifically how it related to religion and spirituality. As I shared with her, I made connections I haven't made before. It also felt good to just tell a story from beginning to end (so to speak... Actually, my story hasn't ended yet, but... whatever.)

That's my goal. I'm writing about it, so that I have a better chance of actually doing it.

In the meantime: Here is a bunch of pictures I've taken since the last time I posted.

BJ enjoying the semi-nice weather on our last ride. (There was snow on the ground in some places, but the sun was out.)

My family came over for my mom's birthday.

BJ and I went to Vegas for a tradeshow (for work), but while we were there, we stopped to visit Rick's Restoration.

We also went to Count's Kustoms

Sometimes we get bored at tradeshows.

My brother performed in a benefit concert. They gave away four scholarships that evening, and he got one of them!

Three of BJ's grandkids came over to ride the horses. J has been riding since he was a baby. He's pretty comfortable up there.

I love this smile.

My cat. She was hunting mice, and we were in the way.

She wasn't so sure at first, but by the end, "Look Grandpa! No hands!" and she wanted to go around several more times after the boys were all done.

I had an orchestra concert. BJ's daughter took this of us afterwards.

BJ's mom has been in a Rehab center. BJ's brother and his family started the deck, and BJ and I were there to help finish it up.

The little dogs were not enjoying the cold.

They asked me to take their family photos for them. I'm not a photographer, but I sure had fun.

E (my bro-in-law) and Olive (the dog)

Sadie, why are you being so naughty?

BJ helped Sadie get in the pictures.

Olive's "Batdog" ears make me happy.

I REALLY want a dog. For now, I have been playing with my sister's three. (Though, they found a home for Bandit! So, now she is back to just two dogs.)

We went fishing in the dark. Someone told me that was a euphemism for sex... but I didn't know that. We really just went fishing (for Trout) in the dark.

Sunset while I was at work. (This is the view out my office window.)

We went to the rodeo with all of BJ's kids and a few of the grandkids. These three loved the barrel races.

My sister had a birthday. They made her dance.

Happy Halloween!

This girl makes me smile. (BJ's granddaughter.) She told me to get the camera, because she was in the perfect spot for a photo.

Carving pumpkins together.

Making stuff with clay. (BJ's grandsons.)

We went to cowboy poetry.

This guy lives across the street.

We helped BJ's sister and her husband move from Montana back to Utah. (Anyone who is friends with BJ on Facebook saw this picture, cropped a little.)

BJ's granddaughter's drawing. Do you know who it is?

Last Christmas BJ bought me a camera. He said that made me the official expedition photographer. I took a photography class and learned how to use it. Now sometimes I can get cool action shots like this one.

An old wound

I have an old wound. It's deep. It hurts, and the silliest (seeming) things make it hurt more.

I hate that I'm a girl. I feel less than, because I have the wrong genitalia. It has been a part of me for a long time. BJ asked me seven years ago (holy cow. It's been a long time!) why I felt less than... I wrote a long reply about everything I could think of... It had a lot of stuff about the EQ President (I couldn't say no to him, because he had authority, and I was just a dumb girl), Larry (I was his wife - nothing but his property), D (I felt guilty that I couldn't just support him... that I actually had thoughts and opinions of my own), the temple (A woman is supposed to just obey the will of her husband), etc.

All of those things were important and definitely things I needed to deal with... but those things aren't a part of my life now, and the wound is still there.

I feel it every time BJ says, "I wish my sons were here." or "I wish my boys liked fishing." or "I'm taking the boys (somewhere)."
I feel it every time someone says, "Just going fishing with the boys."
I feel it when the guys invite me to go fishing/camping, but I'm the only girl there... I feel like I have to be the best fisherman there to prove that I deserve to be there.
I feel it when girls talk about stuff they want to do together, and that sounds awful to me.
I feel it when we get together with other couples, and I'm supposed to go spend time with the women-folk. I feel it whenever the topic of Boy Scouts comes up.

I felt it when I was eight, and my mom was a cub scout den leader, and she spent a lot of time with all of my friends, doing fun stuff, and I didn't.
I felt it when I was supposed to go spend time with Kaily, but I felt out of place and shy around her.
I felt it when I was in YW, and our activities were all about weddings, and dresses, and marriage, and crafts, and my brothers were going to Day Camp where they got to do fun things like hiking and camping and zip lines.
I felt it when I compared Young Women's Camp to Boy Scout Camp. I HATED Camp as a YW... but I might have liked camping with the boy scouts.
I felt it when my dad went camping with the Scouts, and he took me a long when I was little. Once I was older, it wasn't a question, and I didn't get to do things like that with my dad anymore.
I felt it when I felt like I wasn't supposed to want those things anymore... I was supposed to want to be a good girl.
I felt it when my girl friends were all crushing on boys, and I wasn't.
I felt it at church every time I had to go sit in that stupid relief society room... And I wanted to scream at some of the stupid things the women said.
I felt it whenever women talked about needing their girlfriends, because I didn't need that.
I felt it when I realized how little authority I had in my own life: bishops, counselors, twelve-year-old boys, had more authority than I did.
I felt it when I'd listen to talks at church about the eternal nature of gender.

I don't know how to heal it.
BJ has made adjustments to the way he talks. He says "kids" now instead of "boys" or "sons", and that doesn't hurt... but I'd like to HEAL the wound. I'm tired of feeling it...

I just don't know what my next step is.

One hundred fish in one day can make you forget (in a good way!)

BJ and I went camping. It was awesome.
I knew before we went that we were going to be there on the anniversary of my wedding to Larry. I also knew that in the past that has been a hard day for me... Just full of bad memories that make me want to curl up in a ball in my closet and disappear for a day (or more)... I hoped that camping and fishing in one of my favorite places would make it easier, but I didn't know.

The trip was AWESOME.
So relaxed. So chill. So much fun. And I completely forgot what day it was, and that THAT day is usually hard for me. Of course, the fishing was non-stop. I lost count of how many fish I caught, but BJ and I figured we each caught at least 100 fish that day.

Home sweet home - at least for the weekend.

The view from our tent.

I don't know what this is... but it's kinda cool, right?

There are so many little springs that feed the lake. That's a tree root that is catching the water.

Setting sun

SO MANY BUGS! But I couldn't really see them until I used the flash. I quit fishing when I couldn't see my fly on the water anymore, but that didn't stop BJ.

I was super excited to catch an albino trout.

Then BJ caught one, and he was super excited about his. (They are just weird looking!)

Then I caught another one, and wanted my picture taken with him.

Not sure what this face is about... but here you go.

I am "Catch and Release" only. This guy just got released a few seconds earlier than I was planning.

Using my new camera to take pictures of the moon... It didn't work so good at first.

That's the moonlight! I felt super loved having BJ sit with me while I tried to figure out how to capture the best picture. I also felt super loved that he gave me the camera just for moments like this one. He has given me the assignment to take pictures that will be custom framed and then used to decorate our house. These aren't quite there... yet...

This one would be awesome, but when viewed at it's full size, you can see it isn't quite in focus... I'm getting better though!

 And next week? I'm going to Alaska! BJ, my parents, two of my brothers and their wives, and me... Getting on a boat and cruising through Alaska. BJ and I are going fly fishing for trout and Dolly Vardon. We're all going to go to "musher's camp" to play with the sled dogs. We're going to Alaska!

Is a comedian still funny underwater?

(I wrote the following in December - day after it happened. I never posted it, and to be honest, now I can't remember why. Probably because I was hoping to have a nice little addendum before I posted it that said, "I went back and tried again! I was fine. It was awesome!" But I can't say that. I haven't gone back yet...)

Sometimes, I'm still crazy. I thought about not sharing this story, because I was embarrassed. Because I'd like to say I'm all normal and silly things don't freak me out ever. But then I realized that silly things DO freak me out. I'm not "normal", and that's okay. It sucks to still have to deal with trauma related shit, but it is what it is. Part of recovery is learning how to deal with triggers.

Scuba diving in the pool went great. In the pool, if I felt anxious or if something wasn't going quite right, I could come up and talk to my instructor. In the open water dive, I knew that wouldn't be possible. If you're forty feet underwater, and something isn't right, you still have to take your time coming up (or cause yourself serious injury).

I passed the written final. I passed off everything in the pool. I was all geared up and ready to do the open water dive. And then I got dizzy and nauseous and I couldn't breath. I thought it might be because the water (and the cave around the water) were really warm. I walked outside, and I realized it wasn't the heat. I was about to have a full-blown panic attack.

At this point, I didn't want to go back in and look like a fool. I also didn't like just walking away and having the instructor worrying about where I'd gone. I walked back in, told them I wasn't feeling well, and I'd make up the dive later. One of the worst parts of dealing with PTSD or panic is dealing with other people's thoughts and opinions of me. It sucks to have people think that you're crazy and out of control, but I learned a long time ago that trying to control other people's opinions of me didn't make my life better. It didn't help me recover. It didn't help anything... except that we all got to live in a delusional world. I don't know what instructor dude thought of me, but he told me it was fine.


At first, I didn't see how panicking about scuba diving could possibly be related to trauma. I was sexually abused... there was no water around at the time... what the what?

One of the skills I've learned in dealing with fear (irrational and rational) is to ask myself two questions:

• How old do you feel?
• What's the worst that could happen?

How old do you feel? often shows me what is triggering me. A few years ago, I was having panic over buying brand name shoes for myself. When I asked myself that question, I realized I felt like a little girl. My dad didn't see the need to buy brand name shoes (and when you're buying them for a ten year old, it makes sense). I was still holding on to what he'd said. As soon as I realized that, I let go of that old story, and just enjoyed my shoes.

This time, that question didn't do any good. I couldn't link to any specific age or event that would be triggering this.

What's the worst that could happen? usually helps me to get to the root of my fears. When I asked myself the question this time, I first thought, "I might drown." But that didn't really trigger any fear. When asking myself the question, I have to pay attention to what I think would be the worst, not what OTHER people would think is the worst.

So I just kept asking myself.
What's the worst that could happen?

The worst that could happen is I will be trapped under water, and I won't be able to use my voice.
I won't be able to tell people what is happening.
I'll be hurting and have no way of communicating my hurt.
Trapped. No voice. No way out.

That's when the flashbacks started. I was suddenly back trapped, no voice, no way out, and in so much physical and emotional pain that death would have been a welcome relief. (No wonder drowning didn't trigger any fear.)

I called my friend Steph. She has an amazing ability to make me laugh at things that aren't really funny. She teased me about what a storyteller I must be: Why else would I be afraid that I wouldn't be able to talk underwater? How could people know I was funny, if they couldn't hear my jokes?

And then she empathized. It sucks to have such silly things feel SO big. It sucks to have something so unrelated (like scuba diving) trigger trauma and flashbacks. She understands. Been there and doing that herself.

What she said next is the main reason I am sharing this here. She told me I was a hero. Not because everything is perfect. Not because all of the flashbacks and trauma symptoms are all gone, but because I keep fighting even though they aren't. She also pointed out how rarely this stuff comes up now, and how it takes so much more than it once took.

That's what recovery from PTSD and sexual trauma and shit looks like. Sometimes it's just messy. Sometimes you look crazy, and a lot of times you feel crazy. And we just keep going anyway.

Eating Disorders: Numbers, behavior, and body size aren't the point.

I have never done a post about eating disorder with numbers, but today, I want to. This could backfire. I could be super triggering and make a mess of things. To anyone with an eating disorder, you know that ALL numbers can screw with your head, so maybe stop reading here.

At the same time, to anyone with an eating disorder, I want you to know that just because you don't think you are sick enough, you still are. (And a good sign that you need help, is if you think you are not sick enough to get help. Think about that for a second: If you have to make yourself more sick in order to get help, there's probably definitely a big problem in your head. Or if you are competing with someone to be the closest to death (aka the skinniest), that's a good sign things aren't right. Anyway...)


Every time the news runs a story on eating disorders, they talk about the extremes. They love to tell how little a person eats in a day, and it's usually such small amounts that no one can fathom how that girl (because it's almost always a girl) can still walk around. They love to tell how many hours are spent exercising, and it's usually as much as an Olympic athlete, sometimes more. They like to talk about all of the other extreme behaviors a person can do, and there's a lot. (I'm not listing them here, but if you've ever seen a news piece, you know there's a whole lot more.) They LOVE to show scales and low weights and skeletal bodies.


Those stories are real, but they aren't the only stories out there. In fact, they are probably more rare... That's definitely not what all eating disorders look like. I have been inpatient twice. The first time, I firmly believed I didn't have an eating disorder and I didn't deserve to get treatment for one. Just because it didn't look like the stories on the news... or the women that came to speak at my high school... or the made for TV movies. I wasn't sick enough to deserve help.

The second time was different. I didn't wait until it got so bad that I didn't have any other options. I was sick, and scared, and confused... and somehow still somewhat grounded.

I don't want to dismiss how bad off I was. (That was BJ's fear as I was writing this.) I don't want to glorify or glamorize an eating disorder. (That's a fear in writing this.) I don't want to give people ideas, or give anyone a reason to justify or excuse behavior. (That's my biggest fear in writing this.) I don't want to trigger anyone, or make anyone else's battle with food and weight and eating disorder and shit worse. I just want people to know what the eating disorder looked like for me.



Here goes.

The week before I went inpatient (in 2008), I averaged about 1400 calories/day. There were days I ate less, and days I ate more, but that was my average.

The week before I went inpatient, I was walking about 6 miles/day. Walking. Not running. I also played DDR most days. I don't think I lifted weights the week before I went in, but that was a regular part of my routine up until I knew I was for sure going.

I didn't lose my period. I didn't lose my hair nor did I ever have detectable problems with my heart or other internal organs.

(Although while inpatient my blood pressure started doing funky things and I was dizzy ALL the time. I'm still not sure if the dizziness was because of the eating disorder, or if it was a problem that was already there, or if  it was anxiety related. My guess is it was a combination of all three.)

I kept working both of my jobs, and I was still a good employee. I fulfilled all of my responsibilities. My employers didn't know there was a problem until I told them I needed to take time off to go inpatient.

I was considered underweight. (Fifteen pounds. That's how much I gained while I was inpatient.) I didn't think I was fat. I knew I was thin. I didn't own a scale, and I didn't care to. I wasn't against gaining weight, but... more on that later.

There are diet sites out there that tell people to do exactly what I was doing. These aren't "pro-ana" sites. These are sites that are supposed to be all about healthy living. (Weight watchers, the government website (mypyramidtracker.gov and choosemyplate.gov), and others) Most people saw nothing wrong with my behavior. They were still congratulating me on my "will power" and my healthy habits.

None of the above is me trying to say I wasn't sick. I was! That's the point.
If I had kept doing what I was doing, I don't know what would have happened to my body. How long until there were health problems? Or until I couldn't go to work? Weeks? Months? Years? How long could I keep up that behavior without it getting worse? The worst part wasn't what I was doing, it was the fight going on in my mind that was going to kill me. I was in mental and emotional hell.

Food was a constant battle. I felt guilty for every bite I ate. I felt like I was bad. I felt like a good person would eat less. I felt disgusted with myself for eating as much as I did. If I was a good person, I wouldn't need food. I hated myself for spending money on food. I kept track of every penny I spent on myself, and felt guilty for it. I thought I was selfish and needy and out of control, because I spent money on food AND I ate it. I kept track of every bite I ate, and added up every calorie over and over and over again in my mind. It didn't matter how I added it up, it was always too much AND too little. If I was good, I would eat nothing, and if I was good, I wouldn't make people worry about me by not eating. The thinking and the behaviors were just symptoms of a much bigger problem.

I felt panicked if I couldn't exercise. I told myself I was lazy if I sat down, or slept, or stopped walking. I told myself I was lazy for not running... I was angry at myself for only walking and not running. I was constantly worried that I should be exercising more. I hated myself for not going farther or doing more.  That doesn't mean I was always exercising - I just felt like I should be even when I wasn't. My mind never rested. Every time I felt sad or scared or depressed or angry or anxious or happy, I wanted to walk. (In case you missed that, that means, I felt like I should be walking, wanted to be walking, had to be moving 24 hours a day/seven days a week.) Walking was the only way I knew how to feel okay. I'd walk at night. I'd walk in the cold. I felt safer on the streets alone at 2 am than I felt at home... as long as I was moving.

I hated my body. I wasn't trying to lose weight, but I wanted to punish myself and my body.  I thought that the less I ate and the more I exercised, the stronger I was. I wanted to prove to myself and to everyone else that my spirit was stronger than my body. In my mind, the more I punished myself, the better person I was.

I felt suicidal, depressed, miserable, anxious, MISERABLE, sad, self-destructive, and I wasn't getting any better. I couldn't stop what I was doing, because when I stopped walking, I felt the full rush of emotions, flashbacks, and memories, and I didn't know how to handle those. (And I didn't even know what they were. All I knew was that I felt awful whenever I wasn't moving.)

I knew that I should eat more. Exercise less. I didn't care.
I knew what I was doing was harming my body, or it would be soon. I didn't care.
I wanted to die, but didn't feel like I deserved the relief of death.
I wanted to live, but didn't want the life I had led up to that point.
I felt helpless and stuck and alone.

I felt guilty that therapy cost so much. I wondered if it was a waste on me. I thought maybe I was just crazy, and I needed to accept that. I KNEW I was bad, and I didn't deserve to be happy. I felt guilty for using up my therapist's time.

I said brilliant things like, "I just need someone to help teach me how to 'take it' (meaning abuse)," and, "If I were stronger, than I wouldn't need therapy for this. Other people can eat this same amount and they are just fine," and, "What is wrong with me?" (Meaning: I should be able to handle never eating, exercising all the time, never spending money, allowing people to use and abuse me, and be happy.)

I desperately needed help...

I was lucky. There were people around me that were fighting for me to have a better life. There were people who wouldn't let me fall into the oblivion I knew I deserved... And... I am aware that my small body made people pay attention in a way that they wouldn't have if I had been bigger. That made me feel shitty... as if something I can't control (like the genes I was born with) made me more deserving of help than someone else. NO!

There was something inside me that wouldn't let me give up. I knew there was something more and better just out of my reach, and I wanted it. I felt guilty for wanting it, but I WANTED it.

I understood that I could not do the work I needed to do on my own, or even with an outpatient therapist. I asked to go inpatient. My therapist worked with me. The church paid for my time there. My family was supportive. It was the best thing for me. I know I am so lucky that I even had the opportunity to go. Most people don't have that. Most people have to deal with the trauma of abuse and an eating disorder and depression and all of that shit all alone. Still...I don't know how I could have stopped or changed my behaviors AND dealt with the anxiety and trauma without the help of inpatient, therapy, friends, etc.

The staff at CFC pushed me to eat more. They pushed me to gain weight. They watched me closely and helped me to hold myself accountable, so I never exercised. I learned how to deal with emotions without exercise. They challenged me to spend money on myself. They challenged me to rest. (The dizziness I talked about earlier made it so I was a "fall risk". They stuck me in a wheelchair. Even when I was no longer a "fall risk", my therapist wouldn't take me out of the wheelchair until I was comfortable there. He thought it was good for me to just. SIT. All. The fucking. Time.) They challenged me to change my beliefs about food, but even more importantly than the beliefs I had about food... They challenged me to change the beliefs I had about myself, my relationships, and the world around me. They wouldn't let me punish myself, and in time I began accepting myself.

I was hit with memories, flashbacks, depression, anxiety, and all of the other shit that I had been trying to avoid by my constant motion and obsessing about food and exercise. There were people there that supported me: sat with me while I cried, helped me sort through all of the thoughts in my head, gave me a safe place to feel anger, stayed up all night with me when sleep wouldn't come, made me laugh, gave me a place to talk about myself and the struggles. They didn't care how sick I had been or hadn't been. They saw that I was hurting and needed help. It didn't fucking matter if I was skinny or fat or somewhere in between. All that mattered was that I was hurting and I needed help.

They took care of almost everything else, so that I could focus my energy on healing all of the shit inside. That healing and that work didn't end when I left CFC. Really... it was just beginning, but they gave me a great start. They saved my life, and then gave me tools to create a better life.

Recovery doesn't look like I thought it would either. I eat a lot more than what the government recommends. WAY more protein than the little pyramid shows. Exercise is just doing the things I love: riding, fishing, hiking, and occasionally a walk. (I would like to add some weight lifting in there, but I haven't done it yet.)

Nobody congratulates me on my will-power anymore. Strangers don't give me accolades for my healthy habits. In fact, I have had people tell me I should eat healthier, eat less fat, exercise more. AND, I have energy and a will to live. The mental battle is (mostly) over. I don't battle with food at all. I still have to battle the beliefs about myself and what I deserve, and I'm fighting every single day to change those.

My "before" picture (2008). Me at my sickest. I felt so much shame. I wore big jackets. I hid. I kept myself covered. I didn't allow people to take pictures of me, and the only pictures that exist are ones like this one: taken when I wasn't looking. I smiled, but I didn't FEEL a smile. The smile was nothing but a mask.

My "after". There is a small difference in my weight, but... that's not really the point. I look at this picture, and I see ME.
I'm NOT ashamed of my body. I like getting my picture taken. My smile is real and comes from deep inside. I love life (most of the time, and I have no problem saying I hate it when I hate it.) I am real and honest and ME.
I also recognize I'm still small. It makes me angry that we live in a world that values and/or hates small women. WTF? Being small doesn't mean I did recovery right... or better... or worse...

Eating disorders ARE physical. They do manifest themselves with food and the body, but they are far more mental and emotional. I wish the news (and professionals, and recovered people, and anyone willing to talk about it) could help people see and understand that part... but I guess showing a skeletal body does the trick. People immediately understand that THAT person is hurting. It's one of the reasons eating disorders exist.

Let's hear it for Materialism

I used to be so afraid of spending money. Even buying groceries caused me SO MUCH STRESS. This morning a friend asked me what things I have bought that bring me joy. What a strange question... except that I have a lot of things that I have bought or that others have bought for me that bring me GREAT joy. I answered the question for him, and decided I want to share more of that list here...

 
piano, 
violin (though officially my parents paid for that), 
fish tacos from Rubio's, 
a new quilt for the bed with matching pillows,
fishing gear (a fly rod, waders, boots, jacket, and flippers),
a saddle that fits my bum and Sunny's back and (for that matter) Sunny, the horse, his hay, his shoes, etc., 
a warm coat, hats, boots - all of the layers that make going out in the cold... less cold feeling,
snowshoes (they make winter a lot more fun),
symphony tickets, play tickets, movie tickets,
a camera (I have two. One that Dann bought me a few years ago, and one that BJ bought me for Christmas. I love them both. The one Dann bought is small and can go with me anywhere. The one BJ bought is really nice and I have taken some awesome pictures with it already.)
an iPhone, 
frames for the pictures on my wall, 
camping gear, 
plane tickets to Germany, LA, Vegas, and those are just the plane trips over the last two years,
gas for the car and hotel stays in Montana, Yellowstone, Arizona, Zion,
and cruise tickets to Alaska (although I haven't even gone on the trip to Alaska yet. Just thinking about going brings me joy.)

I feel lucky to have money, so I can buy things that enhance my experience in this life.
I recognize I am incredibly wealthy, and I like it!