Do you believe in Miracles?

     I found myself sitting in the same orange painted room with the purple exam table that I had been sitting in every week since I had made my dedication to my recovery nearly three months before. Every week we would celebrate my small victories like my blood pressure stabilizing , maintaining weight, or increasing my tube feeds (I was on them because of a disease not the anorexia). I had the love of my life beside me every time unknowing that in just a few short weeks he would propose to me. My crawl from the bottom was very hard full of a million breakdowns, but each time the sun found a way through the clouds. On this day she didn't walk in the room with her usual happy attitude....it was bad news.
     As she sat down in front of us as usual her face had an almost forced smile on it. She began to explain that though my anorexia was officially stable the disease I had called gastroparesis was progressing, and though I was following all her orders with my future husband keeping a very supportive eye on me. I had said that one of the happiest things about finally getting myself on the right track and falling in love was that I would actually get to be that perfect wife and mother I always dreamed to be...her next words would be the most crushing I had heard since the phone call telling me my mother had died. My organs were becoming damaged and we were having trouble keeping my nutrition stable...I was twenty three years old and there would be no baby for me, my body was 'incapable of supporting a pregnancy'.
     It was heartbreaking and I tried so hard to make the best of it, to focus on the fact that I would be a step mom to three awesome kids. I was put on birth control as a precaution to eliminate any chance that it could happen because a pregnancy would kill me. I took it as I was directed as. my health kept getting worse. It was a little easier for Josh because he already had three little ones who were so amazing, But I knew how hard it was for him to know how broken my heart was. I had to be started on IV nutrition, which only solidified  everything they said about me not ever having a baby. I was twenty three years old, and told I couldn't do the one thing I always dreamed, that a woman is suppose to be able to be. The anorexia had destroyed my time in college, taken away my music scholarships, and destroyed relationships with my loved ones and now this new disease was going to stop me from doing the one thing I had left to hold onto...being mommy.
     The months passed by and I became a step mom to those three beautiful babies, attempted to move on from the news that still haunted me. I was still able to hold onto a strong recovery and battle the disease that was trying to destroy me. Strangely it was a phone call on the morning of Mother's day 2010 that began a string of events that would change me forever. It was the chief of the emergency room calling to have me come in because I had developed a line infection leading to sepsis. I would be admitted on high dose antibiotics for a week and continue them at home for a month. Josh asked the doc if the IV antibiotics would cause my pills to fail and was told that I would never get pregnant in this condition.
     The month went by and the infection was cleared, my port had been damaged too badly to leave in so they removed it and placed a PICC for TPN. It was mid-July when I went to the doctor for my usual exam to check on my TPN and all that. I told her I had been feeling horrible lately, constantly nauseous and horrible headaches. She kind of laughed saying I am always sick to my stomach, part of the disease, but I insisted that smells generally didn't cause me to throw up like I had the morning before when Josh was cooking eggs for the kids. She kept saying there is no way, but she would add a pregnancy test to my array of orders. When I left I honestly didn't expect to hear anything because I had just come to terms with the fact I could never carry a baby.
     I had quite literally just walked into our empty apartment and before I could even sit down my phone went off. The voice on the other end of the line was that of my usually calm doctor yelling, "you're pregnant, it can't even be possible, but you are pregnant. I have already called the high risk docs to figure out a plan". With that she quickly hung up and I was left in a state of shock, refusing to tell Josh why I was so freaked out until he got home from running errands. He literally opened the door in mid sentence saying, "what is wrong"? thinking I was going back to the hospital. His first response was "get the f**k out of here", and then went in search of a pregnancy test. We watched together as two blue lines appeared on the stick. I had the impossible growing inside of me, we were having a baby.
     That first appointment at the OB we were surrounded by experts all saying one thing, "You cannot have this baby, the only option is to terminate the pregnancy". I do not think I have ever been so angry in my entire life, the one dream I had during my whole life was to be a mom, months before they had ripped it away from me, and now they wanted me to kill this little miracle growing inside of me. It even went as far as them trying to convince Josh that he would probably lose his not only his wife but his unborn child too. It was probably one of the most angry times of my life hearing them repeat over and over that I should kill my baby, the baby they told me would never exist anyway. After almost three hours I walked out, too fed up to hear another word. It was made clear that I was going to have this baby even if I had to die to do it.
     Every week meant another doc's appointment, another concerned lecture, and to make things worse at ten weeks my routine pelvic exam had yielded precancerous cells requiring a special procedure to make sure I did not have cervical cancer. We were blessed to find out that everything came back negative, but on that same day we were informed that the following week we would be pulling my central line, stopping TPN, and I would go in for surgery for another jejunostomy for tube feedings. An abdominal surgery on someone who is 12 weeks surgery is incredibly risky for baby, and there were no other options because another infection would kill us. During our pre-op appointment a nurse told me as if it were nothing that they weren't doing my surgery at the Women's and Children's hospital because there was no way to save the fetus in a crisis. It was an obvious fact that I didn't need to hear on top of everything else. Thank God she was wrong, the surgeon and the team took very good care of us, and he came through the surgery perfectly.
     When I came  home from the surgery I was very sick and in so much pain that they had to administer pain medications for me to even tolerate anything through the tube. I was placed on bed rest for the remainder of my pregnancy. Every night I would pray for another good day, another night of him kicking me in the ribs, the bladder, it didn't matter because he was still alive. I would cry and cry through the painful tube feeds, and fought the docs on upping the pain medication because I didn't want my baby in the NICU withdrawing because of me. Despite the ultra sounds once a weeks and NSTs twice a week the news was still uncertain. We were always told to prepare for a NICU baby because I couldn't gain weight, there was no way he could be a normal weight, and he was going to have to withdraw from the pain meds I was being given. Every time he would be still because he was trying to sleep I would mess with my belly until he woke up, panicking that I had lost him.
     On February 17, 2011, 38 wks and 2 days, having made it to full term defying everything the professionals had said we went in for our normal ultrasound and NST. It was 9:15 and there I was smiling with my pregnant belly uncovered with jelly all over it waiting to see my baby boy. It didn't take long  before the tech couldn't hide the look on her face, Josh squeezed my hand before anyone had a chance to say anything. My baby who had fought for so long to make it this far wasn't moving, wouldn't practice breathe despite being buzzed repeatedly by the tech. The only signs of life he had was a heartbeat, and things had just become critical. I was tucked into a bed, IV started, monitor on less than an hour later with doctors surrounding me laying out what would happen. If there wasn't improvement in the next few minutes I would go in for a crash section under general anesthesia, but if he improved I would be delivered around noon when my OB could get there.
     At 12:00 pm I walked under my own steam into the OR where a spinal block was done, catheter was placed, and I was draped and prepped for surgery. It was surreal and terrifying that I was about to be a mother, Josh stood and held my hand letting me know what was going on the whole time. At 12:34 pm I heard the first cries of my beautiful son, and held my breath for whatever bad news they were about to tell me. I expected to have them rush my son off to the NICU without even seeing him, but in a matter of minutes my husband walked over carrying a little bundled wrapped in those hospital baby blankets with a little blue and pink cap on his head. They placed him on my chest (keeping a good hold on him since I was still numb and being operated on) and I was staring into the eyes of the most beautiful gift I had ever been given. After months of scaring the crap out of us, telling us the most horrible things we were about to face our son was born weighing in at 6lbs 10oz 19 inches long, an APGAR of 9, and not an ounce of narcotic in his system. We would spend three days in the hospital together, not one of them in the NICU or ICU.
     My son is the reason why I never give up hope, why I hold faith not in science but in my beliefs. My son is a miracle, there is no other way to describe it. Doctor after Doctor came into my hospital room and said flat out that we had been given a miracle because there was no reason things should have gone this well, there was no explanation as to why he had not even a trace of the narcotics I had been on my whole pregnancy in his blood. Holding him in my arms remains the most amazing thing I have ever done to date, and everyday he reminds me why I fight, why I don't give into the pain of the disease I have, or why I can't allow that old monster in the cob webs of my mind back out. Miracles can and do happen, you have to trust your heart. I couldn't imagine a life without this little boy asleep next to me right now, and that is what the doctors had told us to do. They were right about the pregnancy causing my illness to get worse, but I wouldn't change it if I could. You don't let a miracle go, and no matter what happens to me in this life I know that I have been given this gift that is so precious that all the pain and tragedy are somehow worth it. My son is a piece of me, who will stay here once I am long gone telling stories of his mommy, and knowing that his mommy made the choice to give him life even if it meant giving her own because she knew he was going to do amazing things.

The Defining Power Fear Holds...IF WE LET IT

     The dictionary defines fear as "a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid". There isn't a person or even animal on this planet that hasn't felt that exact description of fear, felt their heartbeat quicken, the sweat bead down their forehead, and that immediate need to run. Things that cause this feeling can be as simple as a spider landing on your arm to the bone crushing fear that happens when we face losing someone we love more than life itself. There is nothing wrong with being afraid, fear is a normal reaction. It is the power we give the fear that will decide whether we allow it to define us.
     I lived in fear for many years, and even still today hold fears inside my heart. Years ago I gave my fears the power to control everything from my appearance, my actions towards and around others, and control my thoughts. I was terrified how the world would see me so I hid from it, I wore what the television said I should, followed every trend around, afraid to express my own feelings towards anything. That fear that constantly left me feeling like I was failing my mother, my family. Pain fueled my fears, pain that become too much for me to bear on my own anymore.
     I had to find a way to hide my fear, protect me from the pain it would cause, so I starved, I purged, I cut my body, and I watched every night as my own tears poured down my arms unable to let them come down my eyes, showing my weakness, allowing the fear a place to take hold. My protector became my anorexia, my razor blade and I threw all my trust into every lie that was whispered into my head playing off my own fears. If I looked thin not only would everyone at school think I was cool, but I might just be enough for her, enough for her to put down the bottle, to stop the screaming, and bruises that came every night. If I bled enough no words, no bruises, nothing could hurt me...I didn't need to cry, I controlled my pain, controlled my fear...I controlled it all.
     Even when my secret lover everyone called a demon was given a name, Anorexia Nervosa to all around me, when everyone told me they loved me I didn't have to starve, didn't have to bleed I couldn't stop, I could risk the pain. Though I couldn't see it I was defined and driven insane by my fears. I was driven even deeper into hiding, not only did I have to keep control of the so many rules I had given myself, allowed to be whispered into my head..."is the number up...fat cow you deserve pain, purge, bleed, ask for my forgiveness to keep my protection". When confronted by those around me it was simple...smile, stick to the lies I had practiced so many times in the mirrors, the mirrors that I had learned to look at people who loved me and hold back the tears and the desperate need to fall at their feet begging for the help they desperately longed to give me. My fear sent me running deeper and deeper inside myself engulfing me, ruling me, allowing my demons to consume me from the inside out, and keeping that hand pulled tightly back I so desperately longed to reach out.
      Years of being trapped alone with such horrible things racing through my head keeping all the love that God and everyone tried to pour into me out caused me a fear to even breathe. I believed that lie screaming in my head that I was no one, the wrongs in the world were on me, that bottle that eventually took my mom from me was on me, the bruises and harsh words of troubled parents was on me, a man taking me without my permission was on me, and I had to die to make it right. I poured bottles of pills inside and bled so much out of me that night that I thought it was over. Despite the yelling EMTs, the tubes, wires, alarms sounding everywhere, when the darkness hit I thought I was gone.
       I learned a whole new fear when I opened my eyes and saw the light shining inside that intensive care room. My new fear was leaving this world like this, to go believing the lies that had set up some evil shop in my head, some demon that had made herself my only love, to have the last memories I leave on this planet of a person defined by fear covered in cuts and starving away. It was a very long battle out of that place, and the fear pulled me down many times with more lies about how I would never make it out. I could no longer live like that, my fear now was being nothing to this world. I didn't want to be a dark spot in the Picture of our world the Lord paints, I longed to leave a spot of light no matter how small. That is why I write these blogs, I spent time sharing my story with others in the same place because I spent so many years trapped by my fear driven to hurt myself, and no one should feel those things, no one should feel that darkness...that loneliness. That is why I will never silence until my body no longer allows.
      I am twenty eight years old and believe me even in my recovery I hold fears still. I fear I will not be the wife I should be to my husband, the mother my beautiful three year old deserves, and I fear this disease that is trying to tear me from this world will win before I can make my little spark of light in the Lord's painting. I fear the pain that comes with this disease eating my organs, the surgeries, the grim doctor's looks, and the time I will have to take the organs of another, a gift I fear I do not deserve. There are days when I fear the end, fear the time that I will have to say goodbye, the last time I will feel my beautiful baby cuddled up next to me as I sing him to sleep, that my last words will not be enough to show them how much I loved them. I use to fear the darkness, but in my heart I know there is no darkness because the stars will guide me to His eternal light, and I remember that every time the darkness finds it's way in again.
      My point is that I still have fears, but they do not define me. It isn't about never being afraid, that is an impossible feat, it is about knowing that fear only has power when you allow it to. You decide whether to believe in the fear or the faith to overcome whatever you are facing. If you are not a believer than I speak of the faith in yourself because we should all have it believers or not. Be the spark of light in the painting of this world, no matter how small.

An Unlikely Rescue

     This time five years ago I wasn't even alive, I was spending every minute of my existence trying to end myself. I had just been released from the hospital after nearly succeeding at overdosing, and was in no way intending to keep on going. Twenty three years old and I had nothing to live for.
     It was the beginning of July when the man who is now my husband stumbled into my dark existence. Despite the copious amounts of drugs I was pushing into my tube everyday to not feel anything I remember the first day I met him. He came over to see my roommate and there I was sitting on the futon playing Metallica Guitar Hero, and believe me I didn't look hot or anything, just shorts, t-shirt, and ratty pony tail in my usual fashion. For some reason he immediately started talking to me, and managed to get me to go swimming, which is something I didn't do because of the usual cuts all over my arms and legs and the fact that my anorexia made me very uncomfortable in bathing suits. Little did I know that day would be the first of my long battle back to the living.
     Josh and I become friends immediately, but I was still a long way from realizing what was going on. I still wanted to die, spent my days starved, bloodied, and drugged up on whatever death cocktail I could get the pill pushing psych doc to write. It was Fourth of July when things came to a head. Josh had gone to a party only to come home to find out I had locked myself in my room and wouldn't let anyone in. Needless to say he broke into the room to find me laying there needing stitches and looking high as a kite. He called the ambulance and when they wouldn't let him ride along he followed in a bike with no breaks, and he sat with me in the ER never leaving my side even when the urge for nicotine was taking over. That night was the night I realized that maybe there was still a part of me that wanted to live. And when I say live, I mean truly live...free of anorexia, razor blades, tons of pills. I consider that Fourth of July to be my official recovery date, it was the beginning of me actually fighting for my life instead of trying to throw it away.
     To say that the days following that night were easy would be a lie, but for some reason Josh believed in me despite only knowing me a couple of weeks. He took over my medications as I slowly got off the death cocktail the doctor had me on, he sat with me while I tried to eat and run tube feeds, and he helped me through those horrible moments when he would find me hiding in a corner clutching whatever sharp object I could get my hands on trying to resist the tingle on my arms that had only ever been cured by spilling my own blood. He would tell me I was beautiful even when I was yelling and trying to push him away like I had a habit of doing, but no matter what venom I spewed towards him he never abandoned me. He was there when I was hospitalized for more surgery and given a grim prognosis, and it was in his arms as he held me in my hospital bed that I realized I loved him. It almost scared me how much I loved him because I had made it a common practice to not allow myself close to anyone because I always lost them, but there was no stopping the connection I had with him. He remains the first and only man I have ever loved.
     Josh fell in love with me when I was a mess and stayed with me even when it became apparent that our road would not be easy. He has known from day one that I am sick and will only get sicker, and the fact that he could lose me at a young age, yet he has remained devoted. I don't know what it is but being with him makes me whole, in his arms I can't even imagine going back to my anorexia or picking up a blade. I have spent so many years so afraid, yet with him I know that he will protect me, and fight for me when I don't have the strength to fight for myself. He is not only my husband, but the father of my child, and full time home care nurse. He can hook up IVs and tube feeds without even waking me up, he has carried me to the bathroom when I was too weak to walk, held me while I threw up in a bucket, cleaned up my vomit, and does it all without complaining. I often find myself baffled why he loves me, how he can tell me I am beautiful when I am laying in a hospital bed with my hair all ratty venting stomach contents into a bag.
     It isn't news to anyone that we have had our struggles, just like he stuck with me through my anorexia and self harm I stood by him when he slipped into a bottle. We have had so many hard times, but despite the best efforts of some to keep us apart we have survived. They all said that we would never last, our love wasn't strong enough to survive all that it has, but it has only grown stronger. Even now when people are trying to keep us apart we stand with each other because we are soul mates.  I use to scoff when I heard people say that, but now that I have experienced it there is only one way to explain it...it is like Josh and I apart our demons find their way in and we are quickly pulled back down into the darkness, but together we are whole and our love balances everything out and gives us strength to face what life throws at us. Together we have the most beautiful little boy who we love more than life.
     I made the choice to recover, but if it weren't for the support and love from Josh I never would have made that choice. I believe that God brought us together for a reason...to save each other. Those who have known me for years, and knew me before Josh can tell you how very different I am today. Most of those friends will tell you that five years ago they all waited to hear that I was dead, and now I fight everyday for my life, to be here for my son and my husband. Josh saw life in me when I thought I was already dead, he made me smile when I thought it was impossible, no matter how much I pushed him away he would never leave, and it is his love and devotion that gave me the courage to change, the hope that I could actually live rather than just exist. I am blessed to have a husband who made the choice to stay with me and love me even when I didn't have it in me to love myself.
     They say that you can't recover for anyone but yourself, which is true, but you can't leave out the impact of having someone that truly loves and believes in you around while you fight to recover. I honestly can't remember who said this right now, but it is a quote that has reigned true in my life, "Human beings can overcome the most difficult of circumstances if we are not forced to stand alone". Having someone stand next to you even when you try to push them away and remind you that they love you and that no matter what they aren't going to abandon you, it sparks something inside of you that I can't even describe. If I were so worthless and doomed to die then why would he take the time to stand beside me and fight for my life? To Josh I was more than just anorexic or a cutter, he saw me as someone I thought was dead, he saw me as Andrea, just Andrea without adding anything else. It was like I was suddenly not defined by my demons, and slowly but surely my smiles became real, my laughter louder, and the dark cloud that was over me was suddenly broken up to allow the light in. My husband is the unsung hero in my story and continues to inspire me everyday to keep fighting.

Surviving

     I had the word "SURVIVOR" permanently etched in black on my right calf years ago, before I even truly understood the meaning of the world. At the time I was in the midst of my hundredth attempt to recover from my anorexia, something in reality I was years away from. I had just turned 23 and thought the world had handed me the hardest cards it could...growing up with an alcoholic mom and absent father, not able to go to school, constant stream of hospitals full of tubes making me eat and not bleed, being raped, mom dying, being homeless...to highlight a few. I still very young and very stupid, I hadn't survived anything, surviving requires pulling yourself up out of rumble and moving on...I had merely kept breathing.
     It was only a few months after I got that epic word inscribed into my flesh that I became the exact opposite of a survivor...a coward. It had all become too much for my brain to hold, I was being told what to do from all directions, told what to believe from all directions, and I believed in nothing for myself. The world had won and I wanted out of this game for good, so needless to say this "SURVIVOR" pushed three bottles worth of very powerful pills down my feeding tube into my small intestine, and stopped breathing in the ambulance to the hospital. I didn't wake up the next morning because of a will I had to live, I woke up because a friend, a team of ICU docs, and God forced me to keep going. I was a stubborn toddler during that time of my life, having to be watched all the time because the first chance I got I was slicing my flesh as deep as possible and pushing lethal doses of the meds that were suppose to be helping me into my body. I didn't wake up everyday and bravely try to take it on, I woke up and stomped my feet spewing venom on anyone or anything that tried to help me, all the while crying how I couldn't do it anymore. I had my own hypocrisy staring up at me from my own flesh, and I was too far gone to even know it.
     Anyone who knew me during that time of my life will tell you that I am a completely different person, even now in some dark times I am not that girl from nearly five years ago. I don't just mean my behaviors are different because sometimes they aren't, I mean that I literally look and talk like a different person. A friend told me back then when you looked into my eyes there was nothing there, when you spoke to me it was obvious I didn't care to hear you, and really the only thing that made me alive was the fact that I had a pulse (which was debatable at times). I literally don't remember whole weeks from those times, meeting people, and doing things. I spent my time medicating, cutting, and restricting. By that time I had already been diagnosed with the gastroparesis and was physically becoming as much of a mess as I was emotionally. If you think I was worthy of the title "SURVIVOR" at that time I am going to have to call bullshit because you are either lying or stupid. It really is okay to admit the truth because I know it, I was a shell waiting for a chance to off myself, or praying whatever God I thought I believed in a the time would end it all...I wasn't even a person anymore.
     It was during those days that I met the man who become the father of my child and husband. He somehow saw past all the crap and found that somewhere inside that shell there was a person who was trying to survive, and he reached in and ripped her out. Seriously, best way to describe it because he brought a fire to my eyes, to my heart that I hadn't had in years. He didn't go away when I threw as much venom on him as I could...everyone else had retreated before even coming close to that. He would push, I would push back, and he would push harder until he got what he wanted...emotion from me. I had been running on autopilot for so long that I really didn't know how to feel anything, feelings scared me, which is why I always bled, starved, puked, or swallowed them away. Suddenly, I was alive and I could feel everything...it sucked, but a necessary event. Once I came back to life it was time for the decision that only I could make, Josh did the CPR and shocked my heart, but you can't will a person to fight if they don't want to. It was at that moment I made the decision to survive no matter what was thrown at me...no more pills to numb me from reality, no more existing...time to be what I thought I had been that day at the tattoo shop...a "SUVIVOR".
     Making that decision has gotten me to where I am today. Suffering has continued to be a very real part of my life, and I have felt that darkness emerge in me again, that need to give in. Josh and I have been through more together in five years than most couples will see in their lives, and we are both still going. I no longer allow the world or people tell me what I believe...I know where I stand with God, and it is personal. The years with Josh have taught me that the will to survive is the most important thing, and God built Josh for survival, who showed me I was built for it too. We have been kicked down as far as we thought we could go and then kicked again, yet here we stand. We have been the target of monsters set to kill us, and yet no matter how deep the wound we rise back to our feet bleeding, but surviving together. Things will never be easy for us, Josh and I were dealt the same hand full of dark cards, but the thing is I can accept my fate now. My suffering and tragedies have all had purpose, my survival has a purpose, and I understand that now.
      For me, most of my suffering has been used to teach me how to help others, but all of it has been for my son. Between Josh and I we have been through enough for ten lifetimes and learned a lot, but most of all we have survived. Our son was a miracle, ask anyone, all the doctors will tell you it was never suppose to happen and him and I were never going to survive. They painted a very bad picture of my child's entry to this world, an even worse picture for the nine months leading up to it, I would need surgery, bed rest, pain medication to tolerate the nutrition being pumped into my gut, and my son would be born weak and addicted, if not dead. They were right about the surgeries, the bed rest, the meds, the horrible pain I felt for those nine months, but they underestimated the will I had to survive and the will that both my husband and I had given to our son to survive anything. Despite the predictions of tragedy written in my file by all the "experts" we both survived those nine months and he was born not only strong, but completely free of any medications in his system. He did not spend one day in the NICU, let alone the weeks they had predicted. That little boy might be one of the most hard headed, strong willed children on the planet, but he is also the strongest kid I know, and I am certain that God has used all the tough times Josh and I have survived and continue to survive to prepare that tiny miracle for something in his life.
     You must earn the right to be called a "SURVIVOR" because simply still breathing after a tragedy does not mean anything. It is surprisingly easy to retreat inside yourself and give up, to will yourself dead because once you believe yourself dead than it is only a matter of time before you flat line for good. There have been plenty of times during these years, esp the last few months that I have felt like being done, willing myself to the land of the dead and waiting for my physical body to follow. There have been days and even weeks that I have essentially give up over the last months, but then I remember that I have lost the right to make that decision, I must live true to the ink in my leg because it isn't about me, none of this is about me. I have this little boy that looks at me everyday and depends on me to grab his little hand and lead him forward in life, to protect him from the real life monsters of this world until he can learn to survive on his own. There is nothing easy about surviving, absolutely nothing. When people say, "At least you survived"...I want to rip their heads off, no one wants to survive horrifying things, not meaning they don't want to be alive, meaning no one wants to go through it, who wakes up and wants to be raped, be sick, be broke, the list goes on and on...no one. And, there are people in this world who will never go through anything close to what I have been through and people who have gone through things I couldn't even imagine. When I tell people I am surviving that isn't something I want pity for, it is something I think we deserve respect for. Do not ever let anyone make you feel weak for being a survivor because earning that title meaning that you have seen hell and managed to claw your way out of it despite being pulled back down millions of times. Survival is a choice because you can always decide to let whatever happened to you swallow you whole rather than come through it...make the choice to survive because you deserve it.
   

The Monster

     Another night she finds herself alone in the dark again fighting all the things that keep running in her head. Every noise keeps the girl on edge despite the TV or music playing to distract, every creek of the old house causes her to freeze...the monster has come back. She knows logically he is gone, but the memories never fade. When the sun is out she can hide it, she can smile, had the fears that are constantly knocking her back down, but when the darkness comes she begins to crumble.
     It has been nearly a year since the nightmare began and the girl can barely look in the mirror. In her eyes she is to blame, why didn't she see the truth before it happened, why didn't she fight harder, why did it so long before got help to plan her escape, and the "whys" just keep stacking up. That pathetic girl in the mirror deserves the punishment that was wrongly given, an innocent sits in a concrete hell while the monster roams freely to devour more girls just like her. If only she hadn't been such a broken person when the monster emerged the nightmare could have been avoided. The monster craves the bruised and broken...targets easily consumed. Her reflection shows her what no one else can see and she hates it.
    The girl lays still in her bed as the hours tick by fighting the exhaustion begging her to sleep. Sleep has become torture to her, when she closes her eyes the monster is in control again. In her dreams she fights to escape, to push the monster away, but no matter how much she fights the monster consumes her. Her screams eventually being her back to reality, her heart is racing as her eyes rip open leaving her in pure terror until she realizes she was dreaming. Chemically induced sleep only makes the dreams worse, fighting to get back to reality becomes hell...the medicine won't allow her to wake. Staying awake is her only hope to stave off the monster coming back to consume more pieces of her. Asleep every detail of her imprisonment is relived in vivid detail, all the ways the monster fed on her all the fears of not knowing what would happen next.
     Her home has become both a prison and a sanctuary, everywhere she looks she can only see the places and ways the monster broke her, where it slowly chipped pieces of her away, breaking her like you would a dog. It was the monster's plan from the beginning...to seek out the damaged prey, lure her in with a mask of kindness, begin slowly breaking her down until she obeys, and eventually the mask rips off and the monster has it's prey under total control...she is obedient fearing the punishments that will be handed down if she strays. As she looks around the room all the signs of the monster's plan are more obvious than ever, how could she have missed them? Despite being her prison the girl's home is the only place she feels safe. When she ventures outside all she can think about is seeing the monster, every aisle she turns down at the grocery store her heart quickens thinking this will be the time she sees it standing there. People think she is fine, she smiles and makes jokes, but they will never understand how she feels...how it all comes a part as the sun sets.
     She wonders if it will ever stop, if one day the monster will no longer rule her dreams, if she can ever be free from this, will she ever stop hating that girl staring back at her from the mirror? She feels trapped in her own body running on autopilot to keep everyone happy yet still falling short. No matter how many times she is told it isn't her fault she can't let it go, people just trying to make her feel better...she allowed the monster into her life. Everyday she has to push herself through, going through the motions hoping that someday she will be ok. Her protector won't abandon her no matter how much pain she has caused him, when she spews venomous words to push him away he refuses to budge. She longs to be better for him, to stop jumping when moves to hold her. She can't understand why he loves her after what she did while under the rule of the monster, how he can even touch her. She prays someday she will be whole again, she knows there will always be visible cracks where she was pieced back together showing the world that even though she was broken she was strong enough to pick up the pieces. She longs to prove to the monster that it no longer owns her, so for now she takes the days and nights seconds at a time just trying to survive.

Seven Years Ago Today

     Seven years ago today my life changed, in a matter of minutes I was torn to pieces in every way a woman can be. A man (a boy really at 20) who I trusted, who I thought loved me, respected me ripped away what was suppose to be mine to give away to my husband. What was only a few minutes seemed to go on for an eternity, and no matter how much I fought or yelled I couldn't win. I remember running to the bathroom and without thinking turning the shower on as hot as I could tolerate it touching my skin. I spent so long curled up on the floor of that shower that the water went cold, I was in a lot of pain and I watched my own blood wash down the drain as he knocked on the bathroom door asking if I were okay. My nightmare had just come true and the hardest part was that he wouldn't leave, I remember thinking if I came out of that bathroom with him still there he would do it again. After awhile I guess he got the picture and left, and I managed to move from the bathroom floor to my bedroom floor.
     It is hard to even put words to what I was like after that, I stopped being human almost. I had already been struggling with my anorexia and self harm for years at this point, but had never truly given up on life like I did after this happened. I was convinced it was my fault, I broke the rules by letting him in the house, I should have said no more firmly, fought harder...I was disgusting. For the next couple weeks I spent most of my time on my bedroom floor cut up, starved, and swallowing handfuls of meds hoping to not wake up the next morning. My parents didn't really notice, not even the fact that I had stopped sleeping in my bed. My skin was very raw because every time I showered I would try to scrub what I thought was his filth off of me. I stopped taking in what little food and fluids I allowed myself at the time because I wanted to be empty, the thought of anything in me, even nourishment made me sick. It was a very, very dark time and I'm not entirely certain how I even survived at all.
     I slammed hard into my rock bottom, once my doctor found out what happened he immediately hospitalized me under suicide watch...I thought there was no point to even fight anymore, I wanted to die. They had to hold me down to put a feeding tube down my nose to get me some much needed nutrition. It took days of my doctor and two specific friends to help me through, to make me realize that I really didn't want to die. During the process of getting a protection order and filing charges I lived in a Women's Shelter, where I met some amazing women and saw some really awful things. For a month my life revolved around what was going to happen to him, I helped the police, went to court, had to relive what he did over and over, and in the end the prosecutor did not charge him despite having him admit what he did...there would be no justice.
     For over a year after the rape I was a mess, I went absolutely nuts, and what worse I couldn't see how nuts I was. I lost respect for myself, accepted what thought was love from places love didn't exist, I hurt myself, destroyed my body, pushed everyone who gave a crap about me as far away as possible. My mom died a few months after I was raped which only made me more insane. My close friends were telling me how out of control I was and I refused to see it, kept screaming to whoever would listen that I was fine. I ignored the nightmares, pretended I wasn't scared every time I left the house, and the list goes on forever. Before I knew it I was so far gone that I couldn't hide the hate I had for myself, there weren't enough drugs, razors, or no level of restricting that would make me better again. I was so angry, so hurt, and my solution was death. I overdosed my way to the intensive care unit, completely blessed to be alive. Once you slam into the bottom there are two choices...the slow climb back to the top or you just give up completely.
     Two and a half years after that guy broke me I finally made the steps to put myself back together. Believe me when I say it was very slow and full of set backs. I met the man who is now my husband during that slow climb and left the bad place I was in. The old me tried to push him away though, I told my husband I was no good for him, too damaged, and begged him to leave me...he never did. The fact is it takes ten times as long to put yourself back together than it does to fall apart, and boy did I fall apart. It has taken years to accept what happened, to know that it wasn't my fault, and to forgive him for hurting me. Forgiving him has been the most healing part for me because by holding onto the hate I had for him was only allowing me to continue to hate myself. The fact is that I am still here and I survive that event, I came out the other side.
      Today has been seven years, and there are times when the memory is fresh, when I wake up screaming from nightmares, but I've made it through. I am not ashamed of what I went through, I am proud that I survived, and happy to have a loving husband and toddler today. The rape could have ended me, it has ended better women than me, but today is no longer a day of sorrow for me rather a day that I can boldly say I took back my life. If you have been a victim of rape please know that you did nothing wrong, and no matter what lies your brain or abuser told you I can promise you that you are strong. Everyday you get up and face the day you are strong, you are surviving a horrible event, and life will get better. Putting yourself back together, taking your life back is not easy, but it is worth it in the end. He only has power over you if you give it to him, you couldn't stop him from hurting you, but you can stop him from owning your life. I believe in God, I believe that even though he has gotten away with his crime on Earth he will face a different judge someday to explain what he did. Try to let go of the hate because in the end it is only hurting you. He will never earn forgiveness if that is what you are waiting for, you just have to give it, and accept the forgiveness for yourself as well because even though you did nothing wrong you keep beating yourself up, and you don't deserve it. I never thought I could get through this day without a razor or self medicating, but I am. This is my life and I refuse to give that man power over me anymore...today is the day I take my life back, not the day I was a victim.

,

     Before the door closes her mask is already starting to fade, every second seemingly melting away faster and faster threatening to leave her exposed to the world. They think she is doing so well, she has moved on from the damage he did to her months earlier, she is smiling, taking set backs in stride, she is no longer the broken child of the past. Yet they still don't see, even now the dark that flicks in her eyes, only for a moment you can see that she is still in pain, still more afraid than ever...the girl is not okay, maybe has never been okay.
     Now she finds herself trying to beat the night, to be stronger than that voice in her head that is telling her she is nothing, she deserves pain, more pain than anyone else. She avoids any surface that might show her reflection, the reflection of a weak girl, the girl that she hates more than anyone else, more than the man that destroyed her. No one knows how much she hates herself, how much she wants to punish herself for her so many weaknesses, for causing pain to everyone who makes the mistake of caring about her. For some reason she burns every bridge that has miraculously been left up for her, pushing her arms out as far as possible trying to keep everyone away for what she believes to be their own good. How did she get here again?
     Most days it is too much to face the world, she locks the door, keeps the blinds drawn hurting too much to even look at the sun. There are moments when her own breath hurts worse than the years of self abuse she use to pour out on herself. There is no quick fix, no pill that makes it all go away, all there is left is to feel it...feel every searing pain that she has to so she can take one step forward. Too much time pretending and shoving the pain down farther and father thinking it could be controlled. The only way to move on is to feel it, to let it bleed, let it hurt down to the core of your being, and realize that you can survive it. She is surviving, a moment at a time, some days even that can feel like an eternity. She has shutout the handful of people that truly long to stand beside her even when she is broken.
     The sad fact is that it is so easy to fall apart, so easy to let the dark overtake her. It takes all she has to fight, to keep those mended cracks barely together. Every second seems like too ?much, like it will all shatter to the floor once again, and the girl wants so badly to give up in some moments, to let the pain claim her, to give those precious few that care the permission to give up on her. But, there is something inside of her that wants nothing more than to keep going, prays with every fiber of her being that those precious few don't give up on her because they remind her that maybe there is more to think about herself than hate. Just maybe if they don't hate her she doesn't have to hate herself so much.
     She finds herself crying alone in the dark praying for one more chance to climb out of this, to not let everyone down. She prays for the courage to reach out instead of shatter, instead of implode. Has she destroyed everything, pushed them all too far? She isn't strong like she thought, she is terrified, and all there is left is the prayer that she hasn't destroyed it all.

Worn

My prayers are wearing thin
Yeah I'm worn
Even before the day begins
Yeah I'm worn
I've lost my will to fight
I'm worn
So heaven come and flood my eyes
Let me see redemption wins
Let me know the struggle ends
That you can mend a heart that's frail and torn
I want to know a song can rise from the ashes of a broken life
And all that's dead inside can be reborn
Yes, all that's dead inside will be reborn
Though I'm worn
Yeah I'm worn
 

 

      Those are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs by the band Tenth Avenue North called "Worn". I found that song very randomly one night when I was desperately YouTubing trying to get through a moment when I wanted to give up and turn back to my old ways. I clicked on the title of the song unsure what to expect and the lyrics immediately had my heart. In that moment I had lost all hope and wanted nothing more than to give up, my husband was ripped away from us, and suddenly I am raising our son alone unsure when my family will be back together again. It was the beginning of, what is now a five month journey that has tested my recovery, my strength, and my faith.

       There have been many times in these last five months, like when my grandmother died that I raised up my hands and my tears screaming at God, asking for answers, wanting to know why I was suffering, what did I do for this to all keep happening? I came dangerously close to losing my hope more than once, dangerously close to giving in and letting my demons take me. I never thought it was possible to feel so worn out, worn down both physically and emotionally. I related so much to the lyric "I'm worn even before the day begins" because I would lay in bed so often with my eyes closed tight afraid to open them because the thought of just opening my eyes and facing the light left me worn down and exhausted. Even now, five months later I have those moments when I have to ask for God's strength and reach for every bit of strength I have to get up and face another day without my family together.

       I sat in a room today with three men who've never met me, who've never met Josh, and they get to decide when it is best for my family to be whole again all based on what they've read on a piece of paper. I had to sit next to my husband and allow a man to tear him down, to say things to him that implied he was a bad man, a bad father, and a bad husband. I wanted nothing more than to stand up and scream that he is the love of my life, that he is so much more than what the paper says, and sure he has made mistakes, but if they took the time to listen they would realize that he has one of the biggest hearts I know. I had to remain silent, and when it was my turn to speak for him I almost lost it. I almost shouted that they had no idea what I was going through, what my son was going through without my husband, that my family is broken, that I have felt broken without him. I had to fit five years of our love into less than five minutes to answer the question, "What can you do to support him when he comes home"? It was the toughest interview I've ever been to and it wasn't even my own, and now all I can do is pray.

     I've learned so much in the last five months without him, I had to learn that I can survive on my own, and I can do it without returning to the broken girl I was five years ago. I have had my moments, and I know I've fallen apart, but though I am so worn in every since of the word right now I am still here and I am still fighting. Part of that is because I am a mommy, being a mommy has changed my heart in so many ways because it isn't about me anymore, it isn't about Josh, it is about my lil firefly. These last five months have been hell, losing Josh, becoming a single mom, losing my grandma, having to send my Firefly to stay with God parents, and facing a major surgery that left me in the hospital for over twenty days without my husband there with me...I think about so many nights when I thought I wouldn't get through. I've cried more tears in these months than I have in my entire twenty eight years on this earth, and will prob continue crying until my family is whole again.

      When my world fell apart on November 19, when they took my husband away from us I didn't think I would make it through the night let alone five months worth of nights. I am here, I am bruised, broken, and worn yet here I stand with hope and faith that this dark time is almost over, that my family will be back together soon. There were times when I wanted to blame God, but He has shown me so much in this time, shown me that I have more strength inside of me than I thought possible. It is a struggle everyday, but I can honestly say that most days I don't think cutting or starving as an option. I have found the ability to cry real tears rather than bloody ones, and though it hurts to breakdown like that, to weep, to feel all the pain of the situation come over me and not hide behind a razor or the number on the scale is very new to me. I've learned to be alone with myself, something I could not do five years ago. I believe that this situation broke me in a lot of ways, but like the song says "let me know a song can rise from a broken life"...I believe that through my brokenness is evident there is good rising out of it, I have learned so much from the suffering these last five months have brought. I don't know when this is going to be over, I pray everyday that it will end soon, but I know that I can get through this even when my brain screams at me that I can't.

     It is really easy when the suffering comes to get lost in the bad, to allow that worn feeling to take hold ad consume you. The thing is that through the suffering you are growing, and you just may find out that you are stronger than you ever thought possible. You never really know your true strength until you are faced with a situation that seems impossible. My days are far from easy, but I sit here and think about five months ago when I was sure I could NEVER make it this long, and yet here I am...I am still going, still fighting everyday, facing one day at a time, and I believe that we all have the potential to do it. Even when you are worn and your prayers are running out you can get through it, I believe in my heart the darkness and the pain cannot last forever.



Tough Times and Recovery

     Some people think that because I preach recovery and strength that I have forgotten the darkness that my life was, but to be honest it is still here. I am in one of the darkest periods of my life right now, and it takes everything I have in me to get out of bed everyday...to keep up the fight. I can preach the good stuff, I can tell you what you need to do and how life can get better, but I've promised on this blog not to lie. The fact is that no matter how much you fight in life bad things happen and you have to decide if that bad is enough to take away everything you've worked for, everyday you didn't starve, purge, cut, swallow those pills, or whatever your vice is.
     It isn't a shock that I have had a rough time since this summer, but very few know the details. I will not share some things because I'm not ready, but in July a monster made his way into my home attempting to break up my family. For three weeks he used threats against my child to keep me captive in my own house. I had thought that I had seen evil, that I had been through hell, but realized that I hadn't seen anything until those three weeks. He took over my Facebook, my computer, my phone, and any other contact with the outside world. People ask why I didn't say anything...fear...for my son and for myself. I was obedient to avoid punishment. I learned what hell was during those three weeks, that monster broke me in more ways than I ever thought possible, and the only thing that kept me going was my son.
     It was three weeks before good friends and my now husband were able to get him away. The whole ordeal ended with me spending the next week in the hospital because the stress had caused my GP to flare to the point that I couldn't tolerate anything, they had to run tons of electrolytes, antibiotics, and kept me pretty out of it on pain meds. I was so messed up from that monster that when my husband came home he couldn't even touch me without permission, I slept curled up in a chair with him next to me on the floor when I woke up screaming. No one had a clue any of this went on, we got through it together and thought we were on the road to healing.
     The lies that man spread ended with the man I love sitting in a prison with his probation revoked away from this family. I have been a single mom since November, been more alone than I can even put to words. I have been running on the strength I get from being a mommy because he needs me more than ever at this point. I thought I could handle this as long as things didn't get worse...they got worse.
     In the beginning of Feb I lost the woman who I loved more than anything, who sat on the phone with me for hours every night to a stroke. The only person besides my mother, who I lost years ago that I know loved me despite all my screw ups and wicked things I have said or done in my youth. It broke my heart in more ways that I can possibly tell you, and then a few days later I find myself laying in a hospital bed with my son going off to stay with friends until I get better. I had to have a major surgery that still has left me in bed unable to do much despite being home now. I have found myself in the darkest part of my life, feeling completely alone despite having people around me.
      Am I strong...no, I fall on my knees every night crying, begging God to take my pain away and I fight those old urges to starve and bleed more than ever. Being in recovery hasn't some how made my life easier or stopped the suffering that can come in life. I fight tooth and nail to get through the day and even harder through the night. I have a handful of people who I know I can turn to when I can't make it on my own anymore, but it is still hard. I have to make the decision the fight to keep myself going despite the pain, knowing that it got better before and it will get better again. The tough times don't go away because you are in recovery, sometimes things are worse than you ever thought they could be. I never thought I could be here, never thought I could survive the things that have happened in the last eight months, and I'm here. I fight everyday and the nights seem impossible, but I'm here and I'm nourished as much as my sick body will allow, and despite the countless times I have held razors in my hands I haven't broken my flesh. I've learned that sometimes the suffering has to happen for some reason, and at the end of the day I have the choice to destroy myself or fight for what I have. When you look at might life it might not be much, but it is mine and it is more than I deserve, and I will fight for it no matter what it takes.
     When the tough times hit you get the choice, I'm not saying you can't fall apart because I do all the time, but you can go back to the eating disorder, the pills, the razor, the bottle, or whatever and they aren't going to help you. They don't make the pain go away, they mask it for a minute and you find yourself back in the same situation you were in before. Recovery is hard, it is hard on the first day and it is hard on the six hundredth day. I wish I could tell you that it will just go away and life will be rainbows and butterflies, but in my experience it doesn't, you have to learn to find your happiness where the Lord gives it to you, and sometimes it is in the smallest moments. At the end of the day you can fight or give in, either way it is your choice, not your circumstance.

     To those who do not know, the month of February is National Eating Disorder Awareness month. In the past I have done a lot of blogs, videos, Facebook status updates, and used any other outlet to spread awareness about eating disorders and how difficult it is to get treatment paid for and overcome the disease. I've spoken about how the number on the scale doesn't represent the severity of the illness, how a person who looks okay on the outside could be dying on the inside. I've written about how not eating, purging, binging, over exercise, and other behaviors someone with an ED uses are the symptoms of a much deeper problem. This year I've spent most of the month in the hospital recovering from a major surgery, unsure if I had it in me to even write anything at all until the most horrific type of anorexia walked into my hospital room behind her mommy. I was face to face with a child anorexic.
     I have known this little girl almost her whole life, her mom and I have been close friends for years, seeing each other through some very terrible times. For as long as I have known this child she has always been so full of life and smiles. My favorite memoires of her are when she was first toddling around in her little sun dresses, finding joy in the smallest things a sunny day can offer us. She was never really fussy, always content to go on adventures with her mother and me. In her world she didn't see the tragedy all around, she thought she was beautiful in two different shoes, mismatched clothes, and a princess tiara. She did all of this despite being sick with epilepsy, despite being hospitalized and feeling yucky all the time, and it was all with a smile and never a pity party. When I saw her the other day there was no more spark, no more pure smile, and my heart broke. The healthy seven year old I had seen only months before was now bones. How does a seven year old learn to hate her own body, learn to be afraid of gaining weight, and even learn calories?
     It was just before the schools broke for Thanksgiving break when my friend went to pick up her daughter just like every other day expecting to find her waiting with excitement to tell her mommy about her day. What she found instead was her little girl sobbing because a little boy, who had been her best friend/lunch buddy had told her he could no longer have lunch with her or be her friend because she was too fat, and that boys weren't suppose to hang out with fat girls. This little boy is another seven year old, he had to learn that fat=bad from somewhere, and he learned it from our society's obsession on weight, a war on obesity that allows schools to preach at the top of their lungs about good and bad food, to teach kids that the number on the scale is what defines health, which is totally untrue, and that being fat is the most horrible thing you can be.
    

     After waiting seven days in this hospital bed I am finally having the major surgery we've been waiting for months on I find myself terrified. My labs have stabilized, my heart looks strong, and I am essentially stable at this point. I sat here today as they went through it with me, how it was going to be major, they are going to make a midline incision, and it was going to take a long time. They assured me that everything would be okay, and reminded me that this will be a tough recovery. I am generally fine going into surgery, I don't lose sleep over it, and I don't find myself up blogging about my anxiety the night before...here I am.
     I think it is a combination of things that have me sitting here at 12:30 unable to sleep despite the IV medication pouring into me. The fact that Josh isn't here is messing with me, he has always been there to hold me and kiss me before they take me back to that OR, and he reminds me that everything is going to be okay. The fact that I don't have that is scary, scared that I will never see him again. Then there is the fact that I don't have my lil man, I haven't held him in my arms in seven days, and it is breaking my heart. I know that I couldn't have found a better place for him to stay while I recover from this surgery, or two people I trust more. I know that he is being loved on and encouraged while he is away from me the next few weeks. It doesn't change the fact that I feel like part of me is missing, and my fear since the day I found out that I had him inside my belly was that I would die before he ever got to know me as his mommy...it is heartbreaking. The icing on this anxiety cake is that fact that I lost my grandma, the only blood relative I have left that loved me, that looked at me and saw more than just the trash that the rest of them see. She was the only woman left on that side of the family that was still alive...my mom died, great grandma died, and now my grandma dies. All I can think is "I'm next", and I'm so scared.
     Being here away from Josh and our lil man makes me feel like my heart is somewhere else, it reminds me how I need them. They are the glue that holds me together, that gives me the courage to fight through everyday, to fight through the anorexic thoughts that try to break in everyday, fight through the urges to go back to a blade, and most of all to fight this disease and all the pain it brings. I can't even fathom not waking up from that surgery, not holding my baby ever again, or seeing my husband. I know that it is going to be okay, but there is always that little piece that scares the hell out of me. I'm so scared, I've never been this scared going into a surgery before.
     Being away from Josh, having to send Damien away for me to have surgery, and grandma dying really just made things weigh on me. I feel like I can't breathe some days, and I want to fall apart and cry until I can't cry anymore. It seems like all my life I think things are going to be okay and then the other shoe drops and it is another tragedy, more pain. God gave me such a wonderful gift when he gave me lil man and I spend all my time wondering when that shoe is going to drop. I just want to see my son grow, so the most awful thing that I can think of is He takes me away from him for good, and this surgery scares the crap out of me. can't even type anymore, I'm just going to pray and hope that my next update is after this surgery is finally over and done with.

     I haven't written in a long time because I've been dealing with my own family tragedy right now, the woman who made me everything good I am today is slipping out of this world. My grandma had a stroke Monday night, and she no longer has any brain activity, so the doctors tell us that she is leaving us. I've haven't had the energy to write anything up lifting because I don't feel very uplifted right now. I am facing the most difficult time since my recovery began five years ago, and I'm doing it without behaviors. I have learned that I am stronger than I could have ever thought even in the moments that I feel weak, that those old voices are screaming in my head, and I want to disappear. I've learned to combat the lies, to fight the disease that still lurks in the corners of my mind, and I think that is something to be proud of.
     Even with all that said, I didn't think that I had anything to really say to anyone until I saw the newest winner of that ridiculous show, "The Biggest Loser"...I suddenly felt like I had a lot to say. If you are a fan of the show, you probably aren't going to like my opinion or this blog, so I'm giving you the heads up now and saving you the time it would take for you to read it.
     I was scrolling through Facebook the other day and a picture of the newest winner of "The Biggest Loser" popped up. She was standing there smiling after losing a hundred and fifty five pounds and winning two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, but what struck me most was how sick this woman looked. She had started this contest overweight and hoping to gain some more health, and at some point she found that health and continued to become unhealthy in the other direction. Looking at her it was obvious that she was unwell, even seeing the other contestants and coaches congratulating her they couldn't hide the concern on their faces. My question is simple, why didn't anyone step in when she started heading in the wrong direction. The staff for the show has even made comments admitted that she is underweight at this point, yet she is being rewarded for becoming too thin and malnourished. What kind of message are we sending to the viewers and other contestants who made a lot of progress in their weight loss and remained healthy.
     When this show started I wasn't the biggest fan, but I did think they were doing something good for people who really did need the help to lose weight and get healthy. So many of the contestants were dangerously obese and facing the very serious medical problems that come from being obese such as diabetes, heart attacks, breathing problems, and a number of other life threatening issues. So often people suffering from obesity can't find the encouragement they need to get themselves eating healthier and working out, and they really need someone pushing them when things get tough and they want to give up. I'm sure that it is a very difficult struggle and they deserve to live a life that doesn't have to revolve around their weight or allowing their weight to limit them from certain experiences. I admired that this show was trying to help people who might not have gotten the help, and also that they encouraged weight loss through diet and exercise rather than quick fixes and surgeries. It was emotional to watch these people fight to get their lives back, to work so hard to make sure that they could get healthy and watch their kids grow up, or even set a good example for their loved ones. I've read stories where the contestant took what they learned in the show and took it home to their families, they helped their kids make healthier food choices and get up off the couch, and just make the whole family healthier and seemingly closer. I respected that part of the show.
     Now that I've given the positive things I believe the show has accomplished there are still a lot of things that I just find incredibly inappropriate. I know that some of the contestants were a little lazy when it came time to push through all the work outs, but some of the "coaching" was essentially just screaming at them, and when you are already struggling with emotional problems getting yelled at and criticized really doesn't help to build up the confidence that I think was the goal. I've also read that the contestants were told to eat no more than 1200 calories on camera and once off they were told by the coaches to not consume more than nine hundred, which causes the body to go into starvation mode. Starvation mode is a bad thing no matter what weight you are, and add on the amount of exercise these people were doing that puts a lot of danger on already strained organs. Everything was focused on the weigh in and how much weight they lost, there were punishments for the teams who didn't lose enough weight, which caused rivalries between team members. I just don't think that a person's health and life should be turned into a game full of drama, there was so much gossip and overall nastiness between these people even on the same team when the focus should have been on getting healthy. It was like the overall goal of helping people get healthy went away at some point, and as viewers, we didn't tune in to see how they were progressing, we tuned in to pick our favorites, and gossip about the other contestants. I really feel little need to bring up the fact that these people weren't really losing weight to get healthy, they wanted to win the money, which makes you wonder what motivation will they have to keep the weight off?
     Back to the current winner. Since I don't watch the show I had to do some reading and watching old videos to figure out her story, and where she came from. She started out like the rest of the contestants and needed to lose some weight to get healthy, and she worked her butt off. Every show you could see that she was putting her all into losing weight, but at some point things shifted. When she walked out on the show's finale the look on most people's faces was completely shock. After losing 155 lbs she was officially underweight, which is the first time in the history of the show that someone has become clinically underweight. Even knowing she was unhealthy and out of a safe weight range she was still crowned the winner of the show. Not only am I shocked that none of the doctors who were supposedly looking out for the people on the show never stepped in, but I am shocked about the message that is being sent out to viewers, esp the younger viewers.
     In the beginning she was an overweight 24 year old young woman who really needed help to get her life back under control and get healthy. She worked hard and made huge progress, and was looking great, then there was the finale. When that girl walked out I would never have even guess she was only twenty four years old, I would have added at least ten years to that age by looking at her face. She lost 60% of her body weight in four months, over a hundred pounds in four months...NOT HEALTHY! It made me sick as they cheered and congratulated this girl when she won, pretending not to even see how sick she was. That is telling all the younger people watching that it is better to be sickly thin than overweight, that being "fat" is the absolute worst thing you can be on the planet. I read comments posted on videos and articles about this girl and people said things like, "at least she isn't disgusting anymore", "I hope people saying she is too thing doesn't cause her to get fat again", and the list goes on. Everything we are teaching on this show is only going to feed into the problems we are already facing with the rise of eating disorders and bullying.
     By spending so much time talking and focusing on obesity, making weight loss competitions on television, reality shows about teens going to boarding schools for fat kids to lose weight, and much more we are translating to kids that there is absolutely something wrong and disgusting about an overweight person, they are less than everyone else. Is it really a shock that they are terrorized at school by other kids? When you give them impression that a person's self worth lies in what size jeans they wear you are making them a target for bullying. Have you seen overweight kids walking with their heads down, not having any friends to hang out with, and hating themselves? That self hatred just feeds the problem...isolates them and they turn to eating. Yes, they do need to get healthy, but they need to understand that their weight does not reflect who they are as human beings. By perpetuating this belief that being "fat" is the most awful thing in the world that causes other kids to go hard core in the opposite direction, causes them to be terrified of gaining weight, and the next thing you know you have a kid in the hospital with an eating disorder. IT HAS TO STOP!
     I agree that it is important to get healthy, we have to teach the right ways to take care of ourselves. Moderation and physical activity is the best way to control all of this. We can't teach that there are good foods and bad foods because that is the same black and white thinking you will find when dealing with anorexia or other eating disorders. I will never forget when my step son came home and told me he couldn't have a cookie because it was "bad" and he would get "fat". I was twenty four years old when he told me that and just beginning to be stable in my recovery and it set me off. I spent the next hour explaining to him that he can absolutely have a cookie or even two, he just couldn't eat a box of cookies. Then I had to explain that it is okay to have unhealthy food every once in awhile as long as it isn't all the time, there is nothing wrong with ordering a pizza every once in awhile. We talked about how to stay healthy we had to go outside and play and not sit and just watch movies and play video games. Why can't we talk to kids like that, they aren't stupid, and they are capable of understanding what moderation is?
    I'm so tired of everything revolving around weight, tired of seeing at all over television, tired of diet adds, and so tired of hearing the first thing people say when they describe someone is "they are fat". I refuse to be a number anymore, I refuse to let a pair of jeans define me, and I refuse to support TV that allows someone to become sick for ratings. Someone saw how unhealthy that young woman was becoming, and said nothing. The funny thing is that if she were thin and started to gain weight someone would have spoken up before she put on twenty pounds, yet when you see a twenty four year old girl wasting away in front of you there is nothing to say, you reward them with a huge sum of money. I can't believe this.

Recovery is a Choice

     I know this might make me sound like a jerk, but one thing I've learned through the last five years recovering from my eating disorder is that RECOVERY IS A CHOICE. Believe me, in the depths of my obsession I would tell the doctors, family, and friends that they didn't understand, this wasn't my fault, I couldn't stop..."I'm sick". The truth is I was sick, very sick. Developing and eating disorder is NOT a choice, it is a disease that kills without prejudice. I never once sat down and said, "I think I want to be anorexic" or "I am going to throw up from now on". Developing the disease is absolutely not a choice, but overcoming it is.
     I spent years playing the "victim", I sat in hospital beds being nourished by a tube down my nose and hydrated by an IV in my arm, content that this was out of my control. I was in my first treatment center as a teenager, I was there because my parents wanted me there, and though the whole team tried to help me I wasn't ready to help myself. I ate to get out, I learned what to say, how to smile, and how to work the system. I was a walking, talking eating disorder there was nothing else on my mind except my eating disorder. Whenever they put me in the hospital I turned into a toddler, arguing about everything, refusing food, turning my tube feeds off, exercising, and having full blown meltdowns that resembled temper tantrums my son throws at three. I can't tell you how many times I would fold my arms across my chest and say, "You can't make me"!
     Everyone told me that I was the only one who could fix this, and I would scoff telling them that I couldn't do it. Part of me wanted to be fixed, I wanted them to cure me without me actually having to put forth any effort. My doctor was an amazing, very caring man who began taking care of me when I was 19 and at college. I put this poor man through the ringer for three years, every week he saw me, and every week I was worse. He kept me alive when I couldn't or wouldn't keep myself alive. One day he came in to my hospital room and flat out said, "If I am the only one that cares about you getting better I might as well just send you over to adult psych, and you can spend your life as a "chronic anorexic". I started crying hysterically, begging him not to drop me, and he flat out told me if I didn't make an effort he wasn't going to have a choice. I think that was one of the first times I realized that I couldn't shove the responsibility of my recovery/life on everyone else.
     It took me eight years of battling my disorder before I made my mind up that I had to recover. During those years I would half way try recovery, for a couple months I would be "stable", and eat like I was suppose to only for it all to unravel very quickly. Every failure solidified the lie in my head that I was beyond hope, obviously I will never recover. I made excuses, accepted that this was my life, and gave up. The fact is none of that was true, I was terrified of recovery, terrified of not having my eating disorder. My identity became Andrea the anorexic/purger/cutter, so if I gave all that up who would I be?
     When I hit rock bottom after a suicide attempt I realized that I had two options...recovery or death. It was not an overnight metamorphosis by any means, it was a long journey full of set backs. I reached out to my boyfriend (now my husband) and told him that I needed help because on my own I would for sure fail again. His job was to snap me back to reality when the lies started screaming in my head again, when I would fight eating, or try to be sneaky he held me accountable. He didn't fix me, let me make that clear, he supported me as I sought out to fix myself. I had meltdowns, I cried when clothes didn't fit right, I would fall into body checking rituals, and I would journal the horrible thoughts that were racing through my brain. I had to do something I hadn't done in years...be completely honest. For so long it was all smoke in mirrors, the smiles, assurances that I was eating and not purging, not cutting, and the list goes on. I had to learn how to put it all out there, and I had to do the one thing that I had been trying to avoid for years....FEEL. My life revolved around numbers, restricting, purging, cutting, and anything to avoid the real issues behind it all.
     Believe me when I say the ED clung tighter as I fought to beat it, the screaming, and the lies got louder. My skin would crawl, and I would have irrational thoughts that if I ate a piece of toast I could feel my stomach growing. For months you could see the struggle, you couldn't have a conversation with me without seeing me fidget or obsessively hit my hip bones. It took more strength than I thought I had to get through the days, I often took it an hour at a time to not get overwhelmed. It has been five years and I dare not say that I am recovered because I'm not. My recovery is a process, and there are moments when that voice breaks through and I start to panic. The only difference now is that have the ability to realize that what my head is telling me is untrue. I have safety measures in place...I do not know my weight, my doctors do not discuss body size, I do not wear jeans, and my husband will not even acknowledge when I ask questions like, "Do you think I've gained weight"? It is a fight, but a fight that is worth it.
     The only way to beat an eating disorder is finally decide that your life is completely out of control, and realize that you WILL DIE if you don't break free. Believe me I know the voice in your head telling you that you aren't strong enough to do it, or that you can't possibly survive without the protection of your disease. I know how scary it is to accept an identity that doesn't involve being sick. The fact is that you can have the best doctors, the best treatment center, the most supportive friends and family, but if you aren't willing to fight you are never going to get any better. The only person who can make the choice is you. I didn't understand that when I was a teenager, the doctor who diagnosed me with anorexia told me flat out, "I'm not going to argue with you because you are going to win every time, and you are going to be the one dead". As a kid I rolled my eyes, but now I see how right she was. This is a fight, a fight for life...a life that you deserve. You didn't make the choice to develop an eating disorder, but you can make the choice to defeat the eating disorder.

Looking the other way

     Have you ever seen something that you knew was wrong, but looked the other way, pretending not to notice? I'm sure we're all guilty of it at some point in life, most of the time it is something small, and you are probably doing the person a favor by not saying anything. But, what about those times when you should say something and don't, is it your responsibility to open your mouth about other people's business?
     If you would have asked me that question ten years ago my answer was simple..."mind your own business". My reasoning was simple, ten years ago I was starving, purging, cutting, and trying to hide the abuse my alcoholic mom was inflicting at home. I didn't want anyone looking closer into anything I was doing because I had to protect my secrets, and I loved my mom and didn't want anyone to think badly of her. At seventeen years old I thought I knew what was best and anyone who tried to tell me different was just trying to cause me problems. My friends approached me first about the scars, about the fact that I was never eating. We were kids, taught from a young age not to be "tattle tales" so they tried to help by not saying anything and telling me I needed to eat, or chasing me around with food. That lasted for a little while before a friend finally looked at me one morning and said, "eat something or I'm going to tell". I rolled my eyes thinking there was no way he was going to rat me out, and even if he did I had myself under control. He made good on his word, first by putting a note under the door of the music office (a note that I slyly conned the choir teacher into believing I had written and needed to get back), so he spoke to our band director face to face. Now, he picked that specific teacher because he had known me for six years and spent a lot of time with me given I devoted every spare second to music. Looking back, I'm happy he picked that teacher because any other teacher would have approached me the wrong way about it and made things worse.
     Now, I would be lying if I said that I wasn't angry after our first hour practice when P told me he needed to talk to me during my independent study unit. My next two hours were spent trying to figure out what I was going to say to cover myself, and anger at my friend for spreading my business around. Now, I got away with it that day...my teacher confronted me about my eating, told me he was going to have my guidance counselor talk to me, and they were going to keep an eye on things. Cutting wasn't brought up, and both my guidance counselor and teachers were going to watch for awhile before jumping on the eating disorder band wagon. I breathed a sigh of relief, and told my friend that I was fine. People needed to stop focusing on everything I did, now everywhere I turned I had eyes watching me around food causing me more stress. I would go home, bad things would happen with my mom, I would feel like I was nothing, and I started cutting more and more. It wasn't just scars on my arms, so I switched to long sleeves and jackets to hide my troubled nights. It worked really well to hide everything, including my weight loss...for awhile.
     It was October when more friends "betrayed me" (which was how I looked at it during that time). They had seen a gash on my arm when my shirt came up while I was playing. When they confronted me I told them the same thing I told everyone, "mind your own business". That night after our practice I saw these two friends standing outside talking to P after practice, they made eye contact for about three seconds...I knew. My fears were confirmed the next day when I was called to the counselor and told to take off my hooded...there I was starved and covered with cuts. I remember she took me down to the band office with P, and I lashed out at first telling them that this was none of their business and they needed to leave me alone. The teacher who was like a dad to me looked at me and said, "We care too much about you to leave you alone". I was angry for a very long time, had to move all the way to Warrenton with my dad, commute to school, I wasn't with my little sister anymore, I was diagnosed with anorexia, and the year of high school that was suppose to be fun and carefree was me being watched every second with threats of hospitals if I didn't eat. I didn't think anyone had a right to stick their nose in my business, but by not looking the other way they saved my life. Because of caring people willing to risk being on the receiving of my anger, possibly losing my friendship spoke up.
     Ten years later I will tell you my answer has changed a hundred percent. In my opinion, if you see someone in a bad situation whether it be addiction, criminal, or some kind of abuse it is your obligation as a human being not to look the other way. I found out after everything in my life went public that there were at least three other teachers that had seen bruises on me, seen fresh cuts, and knew about my "eating difficulties"...not one of them said a word. I spent most of my time with my band directors, so I was very careful to hide everything, but in other classes I wasn't as careful because I figured since I never stood out much they didn't notice. The second both of my band directors found out about my problems they went out of their way to look after me whether it was spending time talking if I looked upset, watching for new cuts, and even buying me food and sitting with me while I ate. There were THREE other teachers who knew from the beginning and looked the other way. By not confronting me I was able to starve myself that much longer, able to lose more weight, able to tear open my skin that many more times, and let me hide the nightmare at home that much longer. I don't blame them, they were minding their own business...most of us go out of our way to look the other way.
     When you see a person covered in bruises obviously caused by someone else, and you don't open your mouth you are only allowing them to be hurt more. When you have a friend who is hurting themselves,  and look the other way you are only allowing them to get worse. Most of the time people say that they don't want to make their friend angry, or even lose the friendship completely. If the person dies you are going to lose that friendship anyway. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't livid when my friends and teachers stuck their nose in my business allowing all my secrets to be exposed. I was angry at my friend when she found me the night I attempted suicide, and called 911. I've screamed at people, told them how they betrayed me, and even cut off communication with them in the past. I can tell you now that I have gone back and thanked all of those people for not looking the other way, for fighting to save me when I didn't want to save myself. I am alive today because people didn't look the other way. I wonder how many people have lost their lives because no one felt the responsibility to speak up? It is amazing the things that can happen if you just take the time to help others. I've heard countless stories over the years of people who were on the brink of suicide, to the point they were holding the gun or the pill bottles, and a friend calls them or stops by, and confronts the person. Sometimes all we need is someone to see us, to acknowledge that they know we aren't okay, and to feel like we aren't so alone. Turning a blind eye only causes more pain and more loss.

Voice of a monster

*I wrote this years ago when I was still very much battling my eating disorder and self harm. I was in and out of hospitals, constantly needing medical intervention to keep myself alive, they had put a surgical feeding tube in hoping to keep me nourished out of the hospital, and I was feeling very defeated. At this point I knew how sick I was, the rose colored glasses that convinced me there wasn't anything wrong had been shattered, and yet I couldn't let the compulsion go.*

     You won't hear my voice or see my shape, you are both blind and deaf to my frigid wrath. My lies will slowly, and quietly creep into your head, convincing you that no could love you the way you are...you need me. The first lie is simple enough, "You are fat", if you believe that then the harder lies will follow, "You are worthless", "A failure", "You deserve pain", and the list goes on and on until the only thing you see in the mirror is an image that you hate. Before you know it, I've convinced you that the only cure to these feelings is for you to disappear...you believe me.
     It will begin very slow and steady. At first, I will allow you the illusion that you are the one in charge, your naivety makes me laugh. We will start by taking away all those foods that you love like chocolate, pizza, and ice cream...they will make you disgusting, stop complaining, you want this! Next, I replace your friends, family, school, work...your life with the need to run, do crunches, sweat until there is nothing left inside you. Your whole day will depend on that tiny needle inside the scale, if it drops you smile and continue your usual torture. If it remains the same, or goes up there will be consequences...there will be pain for your lack of faith and drive.
     How dare you be so weak, how dare you break my rules? Did you think I wouldn't notice you eating and drinking, falling out on runs early? What punishment seems fitting for your failures? You may wretch over the toilet until you bring blood out to prove that you are empty. You could swallow those laxatives you saw at the store, but you have no money...do you dare become a thief to protect what I've given you? You make me sick, you really are the worthless slob everyone thinks you are, and you need a permanent reminder of that. Go to your room, you know exactly where it is hidden, your sharp pain reliever. This time is different though, you need the reminder, once you find that fresh, clean piece of flesh you will carve the word "FAT" into your body. This will be a constant, stinging reminder when you think to defy me again.
     You are beginning to catch on, I see it in your eyes, the pain as you try to fight back against my will...you've realized you belong to me. All that time I let you believe you were the master of all this, ,it was all lies. You fell for my promises of beauty and perfection without a thought for the price I would require in the end. You are hollow, I've carved out everything that use to make you a person, and replaced it with the compulsion to destroy yourself. It wasn't my fingers down your throat, my stomach begging for nourishment, and it wasn't my blood rushing out of your arms. I gave you everything you could possibly want, and now you cry like you didn't know this was going to happen, you didn't think I would take your breath too. No one can help you now, and if you try to reach out I am going to pull you back down. I've given you everything you wanted, how dare you not be grateful?
                                   "Who am I and why do I do this"? That is a simple enough question...My names are anorexia and bulimia, and to put it simply...YOU LET ME!