I Believe That Recovery from an Eating Disorder Is Possible

“When we were five, they asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Our answers were things like, astronaut, president or in my case, a princess. When we were ten, they asked us again. We answered rock star, cowboy or in my case, a gold medalist. But now that we’ve grown up, they wanted a serious answer.” - Anna Kendrick

I guess I would have never thought that I’d be spending the first half of my teenage years, the years that were supposed to be the best of our lives, in a state of mind where I would never like to be again. When I was five, I wanted to be a ballerina. When I was ten, I wanted to be a ballerina. When I was thirteen, I wanted to be dead.

My body wasn’t the dancer’s type. I wasn’t skinny although I was far from fat. I longed for strong legs that looked as though they were never ending and to be able to leap through the air and make it look like I were flying. But instead of trying, I ended up dying. Not literally. But figuratively and mentally. I rid my body of much more than just food. On March 27, 2015, I was diagnosed with anorexia. On March 27, 2015, my life changed. The worst decision of my life, turned out to be one of the best. I made friends that made a special impact in my recovery and I learned tools and skills to help me get through the tough times I was experiencing.

I am now 18 and if you ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I’ll say a psychologist. Nobody should have to engage in the things I have. For three years I lived in fear. But on March 27, 2015, I turned my world right side up. I believe recovery is possible.

~

March 27: 5:00 AM

The alarm clock in our small hotel room goes off. Between the emptiness of my stomach, my anxiety levels sky rocketing, and the snoring of my dad, I didn’t get an ounce of sleep last night. I lethargically rise from the pull-out couch and head to the bathroom to throw my thin hair in a pony and brush my teeth.

March 27: 6:04 AM

I pick at a frayed string on the left sleeve of my worn out grey sweater. My favorite burgundy pants, a size two, are scrunched up around my knees, the waist is a little loose. I sigh, “today is the day,” I think to myself.

My mom, dad and I gather up all our things, two small suitcases, a backpack and a penguin pillow pet for me, and we head down to the hotel lobby. Skipping breakfast is not an option seeing as today is the day my life is going to change. I grab a mini strawberry yogurt, a spoon and a bottle of water from the complementary breakfast bar. “I’m ready,” I tell my parents.

As we head to the car, my mom dishes through her black and white Vera Bradley bag to hand out the “drugs” as I like to call them. Two vitamins, a calcium supplement, Two Tylenol, and my favorite, Prozac, 40 mg.

March 27: 6:33 AM

We are settled in the car and pulling away from the last of civilization for the next 40 days. I text my friends a quick goodbye and call my gram and pap to tell them I love them. I turn my phone off and a tear escapes from my sunken eye socket.

March 27: 7:47 AM

Thirteen minutes early. My sister, who is meeting us in the parking lot at 7:55, is not here yet. I'll have you know, these were the longest 13 minutes of my life. A million thoughts swirling through my mind. All the books I’ve read, all the movies I seen. I have no idea what this place is going to be like or how they’re going to treat me.

March 27: 8:02 AM

It’s been two minutes and I want to go home. A petite, young lady, Melissa, escorts my family and I into a medium-sized room in a building known as the “Manor House.” My mom leaned to me, “Maybe she was a resident here before,” she whispered.

Through the door and to the right is a girl and her father sitting on a couch in front of a window. Beside them is a woman, who later turns out to be my best friend and her mom. My sister takes the seat closest to the door, then my mom, me, and my dad. Melissa hands each patient a blue folder, and each guardian, a clipboard. She then continues to talk in a cheery voice for 11 minutes—most of which I drown out—explaining what is in the folder and all the places we need to sign our lives away. Ok yes, I’m being dramatic. But still.

During those 11 minutes, I scope out my competition. Marielle, age 17, I learn during our introduction, is wearing a choker, a baggy sweater, boots, and has long flowing hair. 'Smokes pot. Pretty chill. Hipster,' I think to myself. Erin, who will be turning 30 during our stay, looks as though her legs are going to break beneath her light weight while she walks. Her hair is perfect and she’s wearing what teenagers call “nerd glasses.” 'I like her,' I think.

March 27: 8:14 AM

“So, if you could just fill out these few papers, that would be great and I’ll be back to check on you in a few,” says the perky Melissa.

I look at my mom who is frantically reading over the terms of agreement and the admission forms. She asks me for my signature a few times and I try and fill out the giant stack of question placed on my lap. We have 16 minutes, my schedule in the blue folder tells me, until “Research.”

“Sounds sketchy,” my mind's running in a few directions. “I might as well fill out these damn questions,” I think.

Circle the answer best fit for each statement:

• I am interested in: Males Females Both
• I believe in God: Yes No To some extent
• I am here because a loved one is making me: Yes No
• I have an eating disorder: Yes No

I skim through the first page only reading four questions. “Cats.” “Yes.” “I don’t know.” “Maybe.” “This is bullshit,” I whisper to my dad. He sighs and that gets a giggle from Marielle.

“I can tell we are going to be friends,” she says.

March 27: 8:28 AM

Melissa comes in and takes the clipboards from our parents then asks to take each patient's photograph. “Hell no, my hair is a pony,” I think. “Fine,” I mumble.

March 27: 8:32 AM

Two minutes. My thoughts interrupted by Melissa saying, “If you could all follow me, I am going to take you to the main building where you will wait for someone to come get you to fill out a few questions.” We all walk quietly behind the *click click* of the small woman’s heels.

I stare nervously at my feet below with my right thumb in my mouth, chewing my nails has always been a bad habit. My sister reaches for my left hand. She reassures me that this is the place I need to be with this one small gesture.

We climb the six cement steps to the main building and the first thing I lay my eyes on is two twig legs in a pair of mint green leggings. “I don’t need to be here,” I say to myself.

Melissa leads my family and the two others into a small sitting room adjacent from the front desk.

A girl, maybe 18, with dreadlocks and a tie-dye shirt sits on a little duvet and says, “Hi, I’m Claire. Where are you all from?” “Williamsport,” my dad replies. This is where I begin to zone out again.

March 27: 8:37 AM

Seven minutes late. “Just answer some questions on the computer for me,” says a man I will only see twice in my stay. That day being one of the times.

March 27: 9:01 AM

A woman that I learn to despise comes through a door that reads “Staff Only.” She walks up to me with her hand extended and says, “My name is Diana, and I’ll be your therapist.” “Great, another cheery shrink,” I whisper to my sister, who stifles a laugh.

She leads us upstairs and into her office which consists of a couch only big enough for my mom and me, two chairs across from us, and her desk with a swirly chair and her computer in the corner. “It’s cold in here,” I blurt out shivering.

“I’m sorry. I’ll shut the window,” she says.

'Shut the window?!...IT’S MARCH!' I think to myself and give my sister a weird look who shrugs it off.

Diana talks to my family about what she will be working on with me, the details of family therapy, and the confidentiality policy.

March 27: 9:29 AM

Diana leads my family down a narrow hallway outside of her office. “Dr. Frank is not here right now, so you’ll be seeing Dr. Hahn today,” she says looking back at us.

She leads me into his office while my parents and sister stay in the hallway.

“I’m one of the psychiatrists here at Renfrew,” he says to me.

I sit carefully at the end of the light blue couch in his office.

“Why are you here?” He questions, looking right at me.

“I-I’m not sure,” I reply, taken aback at the abrupt conversation.

“What meds are you on?”

“Prozac, 40 mg,” I tell him confidently because that’s the one thing I am sure of.

“Well it says in your chart that you are on Zoloft, 50 mg,” he says, giving me a confused look.

“No,” I say. “Go ask my mom, I take Prozac. I know what I put into my body and what I don’t.”

“How does a 16-year-old not know what medication they are on?” He says, under his breath.

Dr. Hanh comes back looking a little discouraged and sighs, “You were right.”

He asks me to step out into the hallway while he speaks with my parents.

“What was going on in there?” My sister asks me when my parents are out of sight. “Nothing,” I say through my clenched teeth.

March 27: 10:53 AM

My mom and dad walk out of Dr. Hahn's office clearly upset. We walk quietly down the hallway to find the next office we are supposed to go to.

“The schedule says patient only. Your father, sister and I have to go to a separate meeting,” said my mom.

'They're leaving you. You’re all alone,' my head tells me. “Ok,” I say.

It says that I have a nutrition appointment with Trish. “Hehe,” I giggle to myself. “Trish...nu trish ion.” If my sister were here she would have laughed alongside of me.

I sit in a chair outside her office and wait, and wait, and wait.

March 27: 11:04 AM

Four minutes. “You must be Michaela,” says a tall woman walking out of her office.

I follow her into her office and sit on yet another couch. I look around and take it all in.

“Your nutritionist is going to be Brittany. She’s not here today, but I am the coordinator of the nutrition department and I oversee everything,” Trish tells me. “I am going to ask you a few questions, much like the ones you were asked on the phone interview prior to your admission. Try and answer honestly. What is said in here, stays in here. Now first, what are you diagnosed with?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never gotten a diagnosis or an evaluation or anything. Back at home, we don’t have a lot of resources for me,” I reply.

“Okay...well what are your symptoms, tell me a typical day. Food-wise,” she shoots back at me.

“Well, I wake up and usually grab a bagel to go. I wrap it in a paper towel and when I get to school I throw it away. At lunch, I have a yogurt, six peanut butter cracker sandwiches, one-fourth cup of goldfish, and a fruit or a veggie. But I usually just eat the fruit or veggie and throw everything else away. I go home and eat dinner with my parents. Depending on what it is and how much I eat, I will purge. Sometimes my mom makes a dessert or we go out for ice cream. I always throw up after that,” I tell her.

“Do you ever eat breakfast or lunch?”

“If I do, I get rid of it.”

“Do you do any after school activities?”

“I am a very active dancer.”

“And what do you all wear? Leotards? Tights? Leggings?”

“Leotards and tights. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Michaela, have you ever experienced spells of dizziness or have you fainted?”

“I get really dizzy at dance.”

“How often do you dance?”

“Five times a week 3-4 hours weekdays and around 5.5 hours on Saturdays.”

“On an empty stomach, I assume.”

I shamefully look down at the string on my sweater that I was picking at again.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Well, It looks to me as though you have Anorexia Nervosa. I cannot say that for certain until we weigh you and check your height. You do not binge, and you restrict. And looking at you, you are underweight.”

“O-oh,” I stutter.

March 27: 11:33 AM

“Michaela S,” a sharp voice calls out.

I quietly say “Yes?” A short, round woman named Peggy leads me behind the front counter into a small room that looks as though it is in a hospital.

“Strip please.”

'WHAT?!' I scream frantically inside my mouth. “O-o-k,” I stutter out loud. The lady leaves for a moment while I take everything off and wrap a paper hospital gown around my frail body. I fold my clothes neatly and place them on the table. 'Better get used to it,' the little voice inside my mind says. 'This is all your fault.'

She comes in and tells me to step on the scale. I hug my body tightly and place my right foot and then left foot on top of the metal square that has been my enemy for far too long now.

“103.6,” she says as she writes it down.

“Stand against the wall, 5’6". And that tells me you’re underweight,” she sighs. “Doesn’t surprise me,” she mumbled under her breath.

'I’m anorexic,' the thought runs through my head like a sprinter dashing through the finish line.

“Sit on the table.” I do as she says and another lady comes into the already tight room. She sorts through my clothes, looking for something, anything that would get me into trouble. Whether it be keys or even a piece of gum. “All clear,” she says.

They stick me with a needle and steal some blood from my aching body. My blood pressure is checked, and I peed in a cup. “What more do they want from me?” I think.

March 27: 12:10 AM

“You’re in support,” a girl behind me says, “I’ll show you where.”

I follow her into the dining room and in a separate room blocked off from the others.

“You’ll get used to it newbie,” somebody else says.

On the table are trays already prepared with slips of white papers each containing our name and the items on our tray, down to the packet of salt and pepper.

I recognized Erin and Marielle’s names.

A large black women, Miss. Renee, maybe 60, sits at the table next to the seven of us in support. “Take all the wrappers and lids off then raise your hands,” she demands. I do as we are told. In front of me is a tortilla wrap, a scoop of chicken salad, four carrots, two sticks of celery, a tablespoon of ranch, a container of fruit on the bottom, Dannon yogurt, strawberry flavored, a cup of orange juice, a cup of water and finally an Oreo cookie bar for dessert.

“It’s your first day. You guys are so lucky because whatever you don’t finish doesn’t count against you,” says Ariana, a spunky, thin girl sitting across from me.

“Don’t encourage such behavior!” Yells Miss Renee.

I look across the room, Erin’s plate is clear.

A tear runs down the left side of my face and I don’t finish my meal.

March 27: 1:01 PM

Back in the small waiting room, I see my parents and sister. I let out a sigh of relief and walk over to them (because, ya know, running is over exercise).

“How was it?” they asked me.

“Fine,” I say back.

Another woman walks up to us, her name is Jess she tells us, and she’s the education coordinator. She will be contacting my school and helping me catch up on all the work I will be missing. She takes us up to her room. It has two long white tables in the middle and seven computers scattered around the room along with a bookshelf and her computer and desk. She asks me simple questions, like what classes I am in and what kind of student I am. Nothing spectacular. It’s after lunch and I just ate a lot of food that I am not used to. I really don’t care what this lady is saying. I hate school.

March 27: 1:30 PM

Right on time. The medical practitioner comes out to get me. She’s an eccentric woman named Christine. I leave my parents behind and go behind the front desk again to the hospital-like room. She gives me a physical, checks the normal stuff and asks me more questions. 'I Iove answering all these,' I think to myself sarcastically. She finishes up not speaking much and walks me back to my family.

March 27: 2:06 PM

One more minute and I thought I was going to crawl out of my skin. This is the moment I have been waiting for since we got the schedule...move-in. My dad and sister each carry one of my suitcases, I carry my backpack and hold my pillow tightly against my chest. A lady walks us down the pathway to what is called the “Pink House.” “This is where the adolescents stay,” she told us as she unlocked the door. She took us up a flight of steps and into a hallway with four dorm style rooms on the right and three rooms and a large living room on the left side. She led us down the hall and to the second door on the right. We walked in and to my surprise, there was Marielle sitting on the bed closest to the window. She had marked her territory. “Can you and your father take a step outside while I search Michaela’s bags?” she asked my roommate. She poked around my bags, pulling out razors, tweezers, nail clippers, checking to see if my mouthwash was alcohol free, telling me I could not have my cover-up because there was a built-in mirror. “You can use these items on sharps day. It’s every Tuesday and Friday, 5:00-6:00 AM, just check in at the nurse’s station and they’ll mark off what you take,” said the lady. She leaves my family and I to get me settled in the little room with a connecting bathroom. My mom makes my bed, my sister unpacks my clothes, I hang them in the closet, and my dad, well he goes to the end of the hall to take a nap in the living room. “Typical,” I think. After about a half hour, we have everything in it’s place and I’m satisfied with my room for the next few weeks. My mom snaps a quick picture of me and my sister before we say our goodbyes. She’s still in college so she has to go back to school. I hug my sister the tightest I ever have. “I’ll come break you out sometime,” she whispers in my ear. I laugh as the tears stream down my face. “I’ll call you,” I say. “I’ll answer,” she says. We hug one last time and tell each other that we love them.

March 27: 3:26 PM

My parents have to leave at five...I never want that minute to strike on the clock. In the meantime my mom and I just lay on my bed holding each other. Of course, I will be seeing her the next day during visiting hours, 2:00-5:00 on weekends and 7:00-8:30 on weekdays, and then the following weekend for family therapy. But I have never left my mom for five nights and that was for a mission trip that I cried every night of. How am I going to spend 38 nights here without my mom or dad to tell me they love me or give me a kiss goodnight. So, in the next hour and 44 minutes, I hug my mom the tightest she can bear.

March 27: 4:57 PM

“I DON’T WANT YOU TO LEAVE!” I cry out, terrified. “We will see you tomorrow,” they reassure me. “I love you so much.” “We love you too Toot.” We all cry and hug and say I love you’s and cry and hug some more. And then...I’m left by myself. Dinner is at six. So I go and sit in the small waiting room and cry until dinner.

March 27: 6:00 PM

I trudge into the dining room and find my name amongst the sea of white slips in the support room. Pizza. I despise pizza. I cannot eat pizza. I did not eat the pizza. Dinner flew by and I am not quite sure who said what, because the only thing I was focused in was that greasy piece of dough and cheese sitting in front of my staring up at me from my blue tray.

March 27: 7:00 PM

All the residents and a counselor cram into a larger dining room for MST. Meal support therapy, I learn later. “Who here can recite the rules of MST for me?” questions the counselor I have not learned the name of yet. A girl raises her hand and proudly states, “No talk of sex, drugs, alcohol, weight, calories, numbers, meal plans. If you talk about a food, relate it to a feeling. Check in with yourself before you check in with others. No side conversations and enjoy your MST.”

“What...,” I think to myself.

We talk about how the meal was and how to cope with urges to use symptoms all without saying something triggering. MST is supposed to help you and give you support after meals, because for people with eating disorders, those are the hardest times of the day. I sit next to Erin and we both don’t say a word.

March 27: 7:45-8:30 PM

Everybody gathers in the upstairs common room for evening group, where we go over the lessons we learned that day. Being new, I didn’t learn anything so I just sat there and picked at my fraying sleeve until we were dismissed.

March 27: 9:01 PM

It’s optional snack time unless you are mandatory, which I will be soon, but since it’s my first day, I obviously don’t go. So I sit in the waiting room again. We can’t go to the pink house until the counselor who will be with us for the night and all the girls have taken their meds and are accounted for. I didn’t take meds at night so I just waited for all the other girls. Well apparently everybody has to take calcium at night, which I was uninformed, so everybody was ready...except me. The nurses call me to take this small pill, seven minutes after every resident did. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I manage to say through my crying and heavy breathing. 'It’s going to happen right here, right now. You are making a fool of yourself. If you let this happen on your first night, you will have to harm yourself,' my mind was swirling and I wasn’t thinking clearly. The only thing on my mind right now is the need to feel something, anything. So, I swallow the pill that the nurse held in front of me for 23 seconds, and I start digging my nails into my wrist under my grey sweater. I manage to make it back to the Pink House and up into the bathroom of Marielle and I’s small room. I am in there for nine minutes having an anxiety attack before I walk to my bed. “Are you alright?” Marielle asks me. I shake my head and crawl into a ball, not even bothering to change my clothes or brush my teeth. I don’t even take out my newly purchased phone card that I will use to tell my mom and dad goodnight. I grab my journal and in scratchy handwriting I write. Three minutes after, I’m falling asleep. My eyes sore from crying and my heart heavy, I doze into a restless slumber.

March 27, 2015, was the first day I went into residential treatment for my eating disorder. Looking back, it was a pretty crappy day. But the next day when I woke up, I told myself, “I am going to recover. Not only for my friends and family, but for myself.” In the next 37 days I was there, I discovered things about myself that I have never known before. I’m really funny and outgoing but my depression and anxiety hide that from the outside world. But that is another story for another day.

Fifty pounds later, I am living. I am breathing. I am healthy again. I am studying to be a psychologist.

I am only 18 years old. I don’t have much experience, but in the short years I have been living, I learned some valuable lessons. When life gives you lemons, you have to pucker up and drink the lemonade regardless of the calories. I believe recovery is possible.