A Bone to Pick

The monster within

This time, my recovery process was much more difficult. 

I have been amenorrheic for the past 3+ years, and this posed a serious risk to not only my bone health and increases my risk of osteoporosis, but also a warning signal that my body was shutting down, one organ system at a time. I had to fix myself and weight restore fast, before even my heart begins to shut down. I felt so brittle, and because I lost a lot of fat and muscle mass, sitting down on non-cushioned surfaces was literally, a pain in the ass. I had hardly any strength to lift things I used to be able to, and I just felt so weak. This part of the recovery process involved a lot of eating, and a lot of pain, both physically and mentally.

Physical:

These changes were awful to watch happen and feel. Upon my return home, I experienced not only the usual weakness of being underweight, but this time I suffered from pitting oedema of my ankles as well. It was such a pain - my ankles were fluid-filled and swelling up so much, bending and walking became a challenge. I couldn't squat, bend down to stretch, or do much really. The fluid in my ankles limited my range of movement, in addition to making it difficult to wear shoes. I gradually increased my intake, for my stomach had shrunk and the gastric wall muscles have atrophied. But despite the slow and steady progress I was determined to maintain, I still had agonising bouts of stomachaches and feelings of indigestion. It was as if all the food I've eaten for that particular meal was lodged in my stomach for hours, causing me to feel perpetually full. I really didn't want to eat 3 full meals at all, but had to force myself to take bite after bite, ignoring the pain that accompanied it. There was also so much bloating and flatulence, which made the act of eating more more difficult. My stomach would feel so distended after each meal, and I felt so sick and nauseous. I felt like vomiting after each meal, my stomach so unaccustomed to so much food again. It gradually got better, but god it was awful.

Mental:

It was hell. As my intake increased, so did my weight. And being aware of the numbers jumping up up up, I would feel an intense sense of panic and distress. The beginning was always the toughest - I would still calculate the amount of carbs/fats etc each food I ate contained. So every time I saw the numbers on the scale, or placed each subsequent spoonful into my mouth, my mind would be screaming inside. It would be shrieking "YOU'RE GAINING WEIGHT STOP IT STOP IT RIGHT NOW! YOU'RE GONNA BE FAT AGAIN! FAT FAT FAT!" like a warning siren. I often felt sick and disgusted with myself at the thought of how much food and calories I've just consumed - I felt like such a fat, piggy glutton - and the idea of purging in my toilet has crossed my mind before. These thoughts were often triggered whenever I ate around others, seeing how small their portions were compared to mine. Inside, I'd be panicking and hyperventilating, thinking of how fat and greedy I must appear compared to them.

Majority of the time, my rational self won out and I just kept eating and eating, be it fatty salmon or bowls of rice. But the times when it got drowned out, the monster in me lashed out. I would beg and bargain with my mom to just let me be, give me just one day off, one meal even. My mother was brave and adamant in her fight for me, so refused my requests. I am so ashamed to say that I screamed such terrible things at her: telling her she didn't love me or care for me, that she was so unkind. Telling her that she didn't understand what I was going through, that she was no better than my brother or my father in being patient. I was hysterical and half-crazed during those moments, it was as if I was possessed by some demon. I would be so hell-bent on begging her to let me eat less, to let me have one relapse, that I threatened her with self-harm and to kill myself. I was selfish and I didn't care, not one iota, about anyone else. As long as I got my way, that was my end goal. 

During those moments, I was truly and unrecognisably monstrous. I didn't give two hoots about what my mother would feel upon hearing those poisonous words spewing forth from me, didn't care that I would hurt her at all. To hell with everyone else! But, the scariest and most shameful part is that I let myself become that monster - I didn't put up much of a fight to control it. Knowing that this monster dwells within me, that I am capable of such unthinkable awfulness, disgusts me. I was, and still am, disgusted with myself.