Starving For Help

Chapter One

         As days flew by, I could feel myself slipping deeper into a state of depression. I had to get this weight off of me. I stepped on the scale for the first time since my last pregnancy. 5 months postpartum. I thought to myself. I have to be at least 10 pounds lighter. I opened my eyes and glanced down at the horrifying numbers blinking up at my fat face. 168 lbs. I hadn't lost anything! I felt so disgusting. I will never forget that number for as long as I live. It haunted me for a long time.

Tears submerged my eyes later that night, as I was looking through old photos of my tiny, 16 year old self. I was smiling in every picture. I looked so happy. Probably because I was a size 5 and not a size 15. I'm still unsure if I was more upset about how skinny I used to be, or was I upset about how I got that way? I knew I couldn't return to that lifestyle. Could I? I was bulimic for a year until I forced myself to recover when I discovered I was pregnant at 17. I could never be selfish enough to deprive my unborn child of a healthy life.

I remember how hard it was like it was yesterday. Trying to fight the urge to run to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat, after consuming just 1 bite of toast for breakfast. I was so obsessed with my eating disorder. I knew I couldn't keep it a secret for too long if I didn't come up with a story. So that's what I did. My mother had taken me to several stomach specialists all over the state. They each ran different tests on me. None of them could figure out why I would be throwing up everything I eat; or why it lasted for months and months. My tests were all coming back negative for everything. Eventually, they just called it Acid Reflux. My mom bought it. At least she said she did, anyway. I always had a strong feeling that she knew all along. She just didn't want to have to face it. So, she did what she did best. She ignored it and moved on. My son's father didn't even know the truth until a few years later. I had gotten extremely good at pretending. I would have said anything to hide my painful truth.

At first, I would exercise every night for at least 2 hours. Eventually it got so addictive, it became more like every morning, afternoon, and night. Still- no one questioned me. My mom would watch me run laps around the backyard at night. She would walk in on me in my bedroom, doing sit ups and push ups. I never used to exercise before my ED, so I don't know why it didn't raise a red flag for her. Although, at the time I was glad that it didn't. I had gone from a size 9 to a size 5 in just 2 months. I had lost 30 lbs. and I still couldn't quit. I knew I was getting bad. My hair started falling out and thinning. My teeth were starting to stain and they became very sensitive from stomach acid taking off enamel every time I would puke. I was always cold and my throat had a constant burning sensation that I could never make disappear. My body was always sore and there was never a time that I didn't feel exhausted and weak. Sometimes I would run so many laps that I literally felt out of control of my own body. I couldn't stop myself until I was close to collapsing.

Somehow, no matter how awful my ED made me feel, I still couldn't give it up on my own. I didn't even want to. My son probably saved my life that year. He'll never know it. But I always will.