Lunch with Bailey Part III

I expected Bailey to deem me insane, but to my surprise she only looked concerned. Bailey knew where I was coming from. She had been there. How relieving and utterly comforting it was to read what her eyes were saying and to know that someone has been down the same road as me and come back healed. Thank God we were in a public place or I would have broke down crying and melted into my own puddle of hot salty tears. But, I remained composed the whole time as I willingly revealed more and more about my disorder. Bailey spoke next.

            “I would weigh myself and freak out, literally scream at the scale, if I gained an ounce. It consumed me. It dominated every part of my life.”

            My fits with the scale were in silence. I let my anger out in tears or on the treadmill. I would weigh myself three times a day: when I woke up, after practice, and after dinner. I would refrain from drinking water after practice so I could go home and see how much I lost. Never mind that whatever I drank after working out was only water weight, I had to see how low I could go. But lower was never low enough. Each time I stepped on the scale lighter than the last time, this tingling sensation, like some sort of  twisted excitement, would shoot from my toes to my fingers. The satisfaction remained until food touched my lips. I would no longer weigh what the scale said before if I ate. But I know I had to eat. I wanted to run. That’s where the irony comes in; the only thing that kept me going was the very thing that released the demon to start with.  Pretty fucked up if you ask me (or anyone else). I was aware of all the complications of starving yourself, but they didn’t matter because I was running well and I looked good. Surely I wasn’t damaging anything if I was performing at the level I was. I have ever been so dead wrong in my life. I didn’t have a period from August to January and then not again until late April. I lied to the doctors by keeping track of when I should have my menstrual cycle. It sure is a pity when someone with such an attention for detail uses the gift to harm herself.

            I told Bailey all of this and she listened as intently as ever. Damn, she is an awesome listener. I don’t think she interrupted me once. I suddenly felt uneasy and even nervous when she spoke about the next part of her journey. Bailey told me how a camp she attended out in Arizona, Remuda, I believe it’s called, changed her life. That’s how she is where she is now: healed, strong, ready to help others, and most importantly at peace with her body. At Remuda she discovered she wasn’t alone in her habits and way of thinking. Many girls out there had been abused as well. My face contorted when she said that. If I have come this far sharing my story then there was no use trying to hide anything. I told her briefly about my abuse. I was slowly, or rather quickly in the grand scheme of things, allowing all my dark, shameful secrets seep out.  I felt like a clay statue, hardened in my ways and unwilling to accept advice. But the sands of time are wearing my guard thin. All I need are tears now, my tears, to saturate this clay covering. Then it would melt into a puddle of mud and I could walk away clean and able to breathe fresh air.

Bailey asked if I had ever considered going to a treatment center like that. I said I hadn’t. I don’t know if I am ready for that yet. Then again, who is ready to go? Very few, I suppose. Our conversation continued as we discussed the lingering effects of anorexia. Her hair was brittle, my bones were thin. She talked about how alive she feels now and how through overcoming her illness her perception on life has totally changed. She lets her body be the guide and the rest just flows. I know I should want that freedom and self-respect, but I just don’t feel it. We are at two different places of a possibly unending journey. Even physical breaking hasn’t brought me to tears yet. My clay shell may be cracked, but it remains intact.

“That’s why I decided not to run. I didn’t want being around girls thinner and faster than me to trigger anything. I know I would end up in trouble again. Now I run on my own. I sign up for races and run when I feel like it and rest when I don’t.”

What an awesome attitude. When I get myself out of this funk, I want an attitude just like that: free and full of self-acceptance.  I don’t think you can ever truly “recover” from an eating disorder, but you can control it. Then again, maybe you can. I don’t know if I can. It’s like an addiction, you can be sober and you can say no to a drink, but there is always that little voice, that little demon living inside you head telling you take a sip, not to eat, to light up. It’s up to you to suppress that voice. That is where strength comes in, personal strength only God can see, and the incomprehensible will to heal that begins with self-forgiveness. 

Lunch with Bailey part I

I honestly can’t believe I was sitting across from Bailey about to admit something I had never told anyone. The demon was about to breathe fresh air. If the air didn’t rekindle the fire maybe it would do the opposite and extinguish it. I don’t know what sparked my desire to expose what I have kept in the darkest corridors of my mind after nearly a decade of compulsive concealment. Or maybe I do know why. It may have just been Bailey herself coupled with the fracture in my foot that inspired me to speak out about my anorexia. About two months ago Bailey and I ran into each other on the concourse. We hadn’t seen each other since spring semester and even then we only saw each other in passing. She had wanted to walk on to the cross country team last fall, but we were told she couldn’t get something passed through NCAA clearing house for whatever reason. Most of the girls on the team agreed she didn’t belong on the team anyway. Bailey had never run cross country or track in high school. Her only running experience was through soccer and a few road races. Of course she wasn’t a real runner! But, my insecurities about my fractures and poor health back then prevented me from judging Bailey based on what she hadn’t done. To me, she and I were equal. So she never ran in high school and couldn’t meet the academic record requirements—big deal. At least she could physically run. I was still in the walking cast, unsure about my chances of being able to compete at all.

            Over a year had passed since we first met in the doctor’s office waiting for our physical examinations and we were still in the same position; she wasn’t running on the team and neither was I. We struck up a conversation in which Bailey asked how running was going.  Though she was probably just trying to find something to talk about, at that point in time, running was an open wound, bleeding emotion and regret through all facets of my life. Responding that I was doing great was not going to happen, especially with the fragile emotional state I was in. I didn’t need to speak; without muttering a word, my facial expression said it all. My foot had started bothering me about a week and a half before our conversation and I was absolutely certain I was done running competitively. Even if the damn thing healed the next day, collegiate running was over for me. I told Bailey running wasn’t going, that I was once again injured, (I didn’t know it was a fracture at this point in time) and that I didn’t want to run anymore. Judging by the look of utter surprise on her face, I don’t think she was expecting that answer. Bailey wanted to know more, as I assumed anyone would after I made such proclamations, so I told her my extensive injury history and how I had crap bone density and I was tired of beating myself up to the point where walking to class and driving my car were dreaded chores. Her look of surprise shifted to one of empathy.  She said she understood completely, and that for her, running on her own was all she wanted. She liked the freedom of choosing where, when, and how far she ran without having to adhere to anyone’s schedule. She also mentioned she had struggled with eating issues in the past and she didn’t want running on the team to trigger any unwanted behavior.  

            Shit! Eating issues? She mentioned eating issues and a dark cloud of stigma didn’t erupt over her? People didn’t stop and stare and point? Maybe I could do that, too…My eyes lit up as I nodded in agreement. I whispered a raspy, “me too.” We changed the subject after that, but I could tell something clicked between us, some familiar battle on familiar ground. I didn’t need to speak a syllable. She knew. I knew that she knew. I was relieved I didn’t have to say anything more. I wasn’t ready to. That was the closest I had ever come to admitting to anyone that I was anorexic. Hell, I didn’t even know I was anorexic until my therapist slapped it my plate. I read list after list of symptom on line to discover I was the spitting image of an anorexic. Fun stuff. Talking with Bailey sparked my curiosity once more. I couldn’t wait to get home and scour the Internet for more information; I wasn’t the only one with problems!  But now, as I devour articles and blogs online I am fully aware that I am sick, pretty darn sick. I might not be anywhere as thin now as I was at my worst, but my thinking hasn’t changed an ounce. I am fat and I despise who I see in the mirror and as a result I have fucked up any chance of running collegiately. Bailey and I ended the conversation agreeing to have lunch together soon. I was starving to hear what she had to say and I am pretty sure she was just as hungry.

Field Trip

The best place to start is the present, so I'll start with yesterday. (hey, it's more recent than say three years ago!) A couple of my new friends from a university club who's goal is to bring local food to campus and I drove out to a farm yesterday. A local Unitarian congregation had connections and invited us to tour a local farm. I knew one of the people I was driving out to the farm. The two others I had only met at club meetings. We piled in my little car and headed south with incorrect written directions and an iphone. After taking the scenic route for about 15 miles, we finally reached our destination. The tour lasted about two hours as the farmer showed us his crop, cows, and chickens. Man, cows have big eyes!

We had a bit of time before dinner was ready so I began speaking with a member of the church who standing next to me in the little kitchen the farmer's used to make granola. I don't remember how our conversation began, but she said something about gluten and my ears perked up. I tested positive for gluten intolerance test this past summer which confirmed my self-diagnosis. I also found out I was casein intolerant, too. Awesome. I immediately gave up gluten and dairy (after one last trip to to the local frozen yogurt stand) and have been gf/cs for about five months now. The first thing I noticed was my face; within weeks my acne had substantially decreased. My stomach felt much more settled after a meal and I rarely felt bloated like I used to. I could exercise sooner after eating as well. That was amazing. Before I had to wait at least 3 hours before I could do any sort of impact exercise or I would cramp up like no other. Now I could be out on the trail in an hour. I miss cheese a ton and frozen yogurt even more, but I feel better than I have in years after eating.

Back to the farm...So the woman I began speaking with told me she was a nutritionist for cancer patients at the hospital. Boy that woman had an opinion about gluten and Celiac's. Apparently the blood test I had for Celiac's a while back is not always accurate. I tested negative for the antibodies but I could still have the gene. We have met our insurance deductible for the year. I will see what I can do when I return home for winter break...

The focus of this post, though, comes from her comment, "I was looking at you. You look so healthy- Your hair, skin, your eyes. I can't see any obvious signs of a deficiency." I just about died when she said that. I did laugh, though. Me, healthy? That's debatable. My hair is shiny, sure, but it is thin. I can fit my entire pony tail in my fist. It goes down to my shoulders. I have have a fatigued look in my eyes, because, honestly, I am hardly ever mentally where I am physically. Nightmares leave me exhausted the following morning even though they hardly ever wake me up.  My hands are pale, purple at the tips, and alway cold. And I just got out of my walking cast for my fourth stress fracture three days before this trip. Maybe I am being a bit overly critical, but the physical signs don't lie; I am not the picture of health. I found sick humor in the dietician's observation. They again, she's not the only professional I have fooled.

Or have I fooled them? The sports psychologist and my family doctor bought the load of shit about training too hard to maintain my weight. Yeah, I just trained so hard for 6 months 12lbs just melted off my already slight frame. Uh huh. I didn't fool one of my coaches, but he could only say so much without crossing personal boundaries, I guess. I lied about my weight, too. To him, my doctors, and other concerned individuals. I mean once you're as small as I was can any adult tell the difference between 90lbs and 82? Oh, probably. Would say anything? Maybe. Would they do anything about it? No. After all, I was running fast, winning races, and getting colleges to recruit me. I was excelling at school and winning awards left and right. Life was good. I was on top of the world, my world at least. I had this game figured out. And this is how I dug myself into the biggest f-ing hole of my life. If only the woman on the farm could read my mind she wouldn't be puzzled as to why I have a bone density so low it is considered osteoporosis for a 70 year old woman. But, alas, she cannot, so she, like the rest of the world, will take pity on me and my situation oblivious to the truth that the sickness is myself.