As told to Claire Peck.
I just want to thank my good high school friend, Jessica Brodsky, for having the courage to allow me to share her inspirational story. We are all so proud of how far you have come and are so excited to see what the future has in store for you. We love you!
The past six years have been a whirlwind. Tears, rage, yelling, smiling, laughing, fear, nerves. This week, however, is a time of reflection. NEDA week has always held a special place in my heart, and this year it holds more significance than it ever has. This is the first year that I feel completely, once and for all, separated from my Eating Disorder. I am proud that I am able to reflect on the past, and be excited for my future. It wasn’t always like this, and it wasn’t by any means easy.
Restricting my food intake was a slow process. It began in its early stages when I was fourteen, but didn’t truly hit its peak until I was sixteen, a sophomore in high school. Every morsel that entered my mouth was entered in a chart. I tracked every calorie, every gram of fat, every ounce of sugar, exactly. At the end of the day, a number was given, and I was told whether I ‘failed’ or ‘succeeded’ for that day, whether or not I stayed within my calorie limit for the day.
I should probably mention here, that I was a three-season runner, a sport that consumed my entire life, so every calorie I ate, I burned off, and then some. I made sure of it. If I didn’t, I would return home to the basement gym and keep going, because that food could not stay in my body.
Jess (right) with her teammates at a track meet.
It’s hard to explain an Eating Disorder to someone who has never had one before, but it is an all consuming disorder. Every morning, I dreaded waking up because it meant breakfast would be waiting; so I would try and sleep in as much as possible to ‘accidentally’ miss the meal. My mom knew better, so I would sit down, a half of a bowl of cheerios in front of me, and I would eat it, feeling each individual morsel expand my thighs slowly.
After the agony of breakfast was finally over, it was time to pack my lunch, a meal I had down to a science. Two rice cakes, a thin layer of peanut butter to please my mom’s need for protein in my meals, and a 100-calorie bag of almonds – unsalted and raw of course. Then it was time to spring upstairs and see what the damage breakfast caused was – I would step on the scale and of course no number was ever low enough. I would anxiously go downstairs and dread the thought of lunch because it meant more food in my stomach, more weight on my body, and more calories on my chart. School would come and go, and the comments at lunch would swirl about how I never ate cookies, or anything unhealthy for that matter. I loved it. Being thin gave me an identity, it gave me a purpose, and it made me stand out from the crowd.
Finally it came time for practice, a time where I could push my malnourished body to the limit, and burn off all of those heinous calories that I was forced to consume earlier. I would run upwards of eight miles per day, any less and I would have to finish the run at home. After my run, I would put my workout into my chart, so I can make sure I track every burned calorie.
The worst part of my day, and I meant worst, was family dinner. There was no hiding that, no restricting. The whole family was watching and there was no getting out of it. I would take a small portion, and eat, as slowly as possible, cutting food into nearly invisible pieces, hoping my parents wouldn’t notice.
You’re probably wondering why no one was saying anything at this point, and well, people said things to me all the time but what I have learned is that you can speak to a person with an Eating Disorder about how they need to get help until they are blue in the face, but until they hit their absolute rock bottom, they won’t. But this didn’t stop my friends and parents from begging and pleading with me to simply eat a piece of my own birthday cake, or have a French fry or two with dinner. Finally, the day came where I got an ultimatum from my best friend – you tell your mom you need help, or I will.
That night, I cried and cried and finally worked up the courage to tell my mom everything. That’s when the tornado of doctors began.
My first therapist lasted about as long as the list of food I ate that day, so we moved on from her. The next stop was a hospital program, where I was officially diagnosed. The words filled me with pride as though I have received the ultimate badge of honor – Anorexia Nervosa Purging Type, Exercise Addiction, Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder. The list of “accomplishments” seemed never-ending. I loved it, but what came next made me fear for my day-to-day activities I called a life. My doctor told me I was going to be admitted into a day program in the hospital, since my behaviors didn’t seem too severe (yes, I took this as a challenge to get even more sick).
I began my day program on July 16, 2013 a couple months before I was to begin my senior year of high school. For six weeks, I sat in a chair, ate, and talked about why when a piece of pizza was put in front of me I wanted to curl into a ball and die. I graduated from this program in August, and went on with my life, with a false sense of liberation from my “illness”.
Jess (right) at Semi Formal, March 2014.
I immediately got back into running, though my body could barely handle walking up a flight or two of stairs. I was blessed that nothing serious happened to me, but I guess lucky was the better word to use. My heart rate was dangerously low, and eventually my eating habits and heart rate caught up to me, and by April of senior year, my doctor pulled me from school. I was still naïve enough to believe that there was nothing wrong with me, that I would be fine and that I am not in any danger, though the facts told me otherwise. I walked into a room with my physician, two therapists, and my parents – my worst nightmare. As the intervention progressed, it felt like an attack, going around in a circle telling me I needed help and all the things I was doing wrong. At the end came my sentencing, a more intense program in the hospital, a Partial Hospitalization Program. So where as most eighteen year olds picture their senior prom, field day, and the laid back no worries attitude, I was forced to scarf down yet more pieces of hospital pizza, endless glasses of chocolate milk, and close to my own weight in bacon. I know it sounds fun being ‘forced’ to eat those things, but I promise you imagine your worst fear in the world and multiply it by ten. That’s what it feels like to someone with Anorexia when even a piece of lettuce is placed in our presence.
The reason I was not too big on these programs was because they bred competition. I am a very competitive human, and when a client announced that they threw up the night before, or ran more miles than I did, it only made me want to one up them. So during my time at this program began my self induced vomiting. The first time it happened was after my friend’s birthday. I ate a piece of her cake, went home and jumped in the shower alone (normally, I would be watched by my mom, as instructed by my doctor so she could tell if I threw up or not). Before I knew what I was doing, it happened. I shook in fear as to what I had just done, but felt a strange twinge of accomplishment and pride that didn’t last for more than a few seconds. I got out of the shower to find my mom with a petrified look on her face, one that will brand my memory forever, and I ran into her arms and cried. I told her what I had done and we just sat and cried while she screamed why over and over at no one in particular.
From there, the behaviors only escalated and it showed during my daily weights and vitals. If I never see another bottle of Pedialyte again in my life, it’ll still be too soon. So my team decided to take action, and I was soon shipped off to a residential program in Massachusetts. The only problem was, this means that I was missing prom, I was missing graduation, and I was missing everything that I looked forward too. But at this point I was sick and tired of being sick and tired so May 12, 2014 I packed my bags and, as the song says shipped up to Boston. It was overwhelming walking through those doors, it was organized chaos in there, I can’t truly explain it. I was handed binder after binder, and had consultation after consultation all day. Anything sharp was locked away, and my luggage was checked to make sure I wasn’t bringing in anything dangerous. The first three days were the worst, I was so scared and called my mom crying every day to pick me up. I ate six times a day, went to groups in between, and got weighed when there was time. I was told how much weight I would have to gain and nearly lost my mind at the thought of putting another ounce of weight on my already enlarged body.
Eating Disorders come into play when one wants to numb out or hide other feelings. Since I was re-feeding at this time, those feelings were beginning to come back. At this point in time, I had no idea how to handle them. I was watched when I went to the bathroom, I was watched when I ate, there was no time to restrict or purge, so I turned to self-harm. It was a way for me to numb out the world and focus on physical pain, rather than dealing with the true emotional struggles I was actually having.
It felt like I was being punished – so many of my behaviors were taken away: restricting, purging, exercising, and then they put me on one to one observations, meaning I had to have a staff member with me at all times, even when I slept – so I was forced on the living room couch so the night staff could see me when they were working.
This, ladies and gentlemen, was my rock bottom. My three-year-old Goddaughter came to visit with my cousin, aunt and uncle that weekend and I swore to myself that she would never see me like this again. She deserved more than someone who is wasting away in a treatment facility. She deserved a role model, and I intended to be just that for her.
I can pinpoint the day that I began to see the light through my struggle. My mom came up to visit on a Wednesday, a day I found out I finally moved up in the level system and I could portion my own snacks (it’s the little things). I was really missing home, and my friends with prom being the next week. I was sitting at the piano, trying to learn to play when my mom finally came to the door. As we were talking, the car alarm went off because my brother is bad at surprises. I ran up to him and gave him a huge hug, wiping the tears away from my face. But it didn’t stop there, when I brought my brother inside to show him the song I was practicing, the car alarm went off again and my three best friends darted across the front lawn. At this point, I was inconsolable as I embraced them.
Jess (middle left) and her best friends that suprised her in Boston, Summer 2014.
This was the point in my recovery where I learned that I didn’t need to be thin to be loved; I didn’t need something to make me stand out. My friends loved me, for simply being me. They drove five hours to see me, not my eating disorder. Those two days with my friends were the best of my year, and to this day the turning point in my journey. I knew that there was something special about me that they loved just me and just me was enough. Period.
From there, I was determined. I moved up in levels, gained some exercise privileges back, and threw myself into therapy. It was the hardest thing I had to do, but I knew I needed to do it. I was tired of seeing my parents in pain, I was tired of seeing my friends in pain, I was tired of my brother being embarrassed to have people over with me in the house, but most importantly, I was tired of being in pain.
On June 26th, 2014, I graduated, and moved to a step down, daily commuter program in New York. The transition from the cushy residential program to being more on my own was hard, but I made the most of it and graduated with enough time to get to my dream school in the fall – University of Maryland.
Over this past summer, I had a small relapse, which resulted in me taking a semester off. This was the best thing I could have done for myself. It allowed me to take my time to reflect on the real reasons I wanted to recover – not to go to school, not for others, but for me. I attended therapy three times a week as well as group and bi-weekly doctors visits to make sure my stats were all good. The support from my friends and family was incredible. As soon as my school friends heard I wasn’t coming back, they all came over for a simple movie night to make me feel like I was still a part of the family.
Now, sitting in my bed, in College Park, reflecting on my journey, I feel incredible. I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be, and I got here the way I was meant to. I feel eternally blessed every single day to have the friends and family that I do, because without them I would not be where I am today. There was a time in my life where my eating disorder was my best friend, my only friend, and the only thing I cared about. Now, some of my fondest college memories include 3am fried chicken and late night Cold Stone with my best friends.
Jess (middle left) at University of Maryland, College Park.
Someone told me in residential treatment that I could not go to college and have an eating disorder, I had to choose one or the other. Today, I am proud to say I was able to choose college, choose health, choose happiness, and most importantly, life. This NEDA week, I am looking forward to the life that I am blessed to live, and I thank my lucky stars every day to have found the courage to change, the courage to jump and trust that everything will be okay; I just had to have the will to fight.