healing is not linear - A Memoir by Frances Edelstein

Chapter 7: Back to School Again & Anxiety

Trigger warnings: self-deprecation, negative body image, eating disorder thoughts, defecation, forced eating, describing anxiety

A week or so after staying at home and recovering, making sure I didn't move too much, I went back to school. I was less nervous than last time, because I was used to having to explain why I wasn't in school the year before. People asked where I've been, and I would tell them malnourishment, but they all pretty much knew I was anorexic, whether it was rumors or just putting the pieces together. No one judged me for it, or even really brought it up after the first day; the only time someone said something after the first day was actually senior year, way after my hospitalizations, when someone asked, "Weren't you that girl that had that thing in her nose?" it was pretty embarrassing, but I just said "Yes and now I'm much better," and dropped it. I'm pretty sure the guy had some sort of mental disability, so I didn't take it too personally.

I would leave school and eat with my mom in the car every afternoon. I wasn't ready to eat on my own yet, and I really enjoyed her company. Writing this makes me realize how much she sacrificed for me during this time, and ever since. She literally had an Excel sheet of what I ate every day, how many calories the meal was, and it was even color-coded! She constantly thinks of her family first, then worries about herself. She is truly an amazing woman, and I hope I make her proud. I know I do, actually, because she never fails to tell me every chance she gets of how cool I am, haha! Anyway, we'd eat together, and then I'd go back to the rest of my classes. And, you guessed it! Since I am eating so much and my body wasn't used to that, I had to go to the bathroom a lot. My body seemed to be on a timer, and I had to go the same time every day. I didn't want to go in the same classes every day though, because the teachers would think I'm skipping, so I tried to wait, but most times it was just too difficult. No one ever said anything to me about it, but I was always afraid an authority figure would, as if they care about my pooping habits.

As time went on, my mom would let me choose "this or that" like if I'd rather have orange juice or milk. Sometimes even that would overwhelm me, and I would start wondering which had less calories, but after a long time, I started listening to what I was in the mood for. It was a great idea to slowly introduce myself to choice again, without having to choose an entire meal plan all at once. After a while, I was even allowed to choose between meals on the menus when we went out to eat, which felt really empowering!

I felt bad for being so stressed at meals sometimes, but my mom made a good point. She said recovering alcoholics have tons of stress when they're in a situation with alcohol, and that may not be every day. With me, I had to face food at least four times a day (three meals, one snack). She wasn't saying that I had it worse than alcoholics, of course, but her analogy was extremely helpful to me. I was recovery, and facing my fear multiple times a day, every day, and realizing that made me feel much better. I didn't feel like I was just "ridiculous," "crazy," or "overdramatic" anymore.

I liked going to parties, but before the hospital, they stressed me out more than anything. Sometimes I would eat only a couple crackers and then eat a full, lighter meal at home by myself. I started going to neighbor's parties again, and even though I was stressed and thinking way too much about the food around me, I enjoyed socializing and the company of others. Having a support system is so very important. Sometimes I still get stressed at parties now because I was recently diagnosed with lactose intolerance, which will be talked about more near the end of this memoir, but wondering what I am able to have and what will hurt my stomach can be stressful, let alone someone who has a history of an unhealthy relationship with food.

Anyway, into the summertime of that year I was still thinking about food a lot, even if it didn't stress me out, it was still on my mind—when my next meal would be, what I could pick (I could pick a good amount of my food by this point—and by the next school year I could pick everything on my own unless I asked for advice), and stuff like that. What really broke the cycle of me constantly thinking about food was when my favorite French teacher called the house to tell us that she was leaving the school. They haven't been treating her right, and she decided to leave. "My job is to teach, not to be a lunch monitor," she said to us. I totally understood, and I was so angry they treated her that way. I emailed the staff at the high school about how terrible they were being, and it was a very good distraction, thank goodness. She's at a great school district now, and seems to be très heureuse. I still talk to her now and again, and I'm so glad she found a school that respects her passion and hard work. 

Once my disordered thoughts around eating started to dissipate, another problem came up: anxiety. Of course I couldn't just have a healthy mind, of course there had to be another problem. It made me angry that I had another thing to have to heal now. First, my relationship with food, now my anxiety. It was so annoying, but thankfully the psychologist that treated me for my eating disorder outpatient that I have been seeing also deals with anxiety. She told me that it was completely normal for another mental health problem to arise once the prior was treated; your brain is so focused on the one problem, that it blocks out all the other mental health problems until the first is taken care of. I understood this, but it still made me feel angry and broken. I hated feeling like I was broken, like everyone else was happier than me, like I could never truly be happy and calm and normal. I went to the psychologist once a week for a while, until I thought it was getting manageable. The psychiatrist prescribed me medication that I thought was helping, and I had gotten better so everything seemed good. It took me at least three medications to find the right one, though, so please don't try to be discouraged if you haven't seen the positive effects of your medication yet; there are many different kinds to try, and not everyone has the same reaction. When I was going to see her, though, I would get very upset, most of my anxieties over fearing I was a bad, spoiled person. I thought that I was the meanest person in the world, and that I didn't deserve happiness. I also had panic attacks over going up stairs, exercising, and eating still, which made sense. whenever I would start getting a panic attack, I would get ridiculously hot and sweaty, to the point where it was embarrassing. I felt so out of shape and gross since going up the stairs would make me so sweaty. I realize now, though, that the exercise wasn't the problem, the thought of it was what was making me sweaty and out of breath. My heart would be quite literally pounding, and I would breathe as hard as someone just finishing a run. So I went from being a person who was always cold to a person that was always hot.

Therapy definitely helped me for when I was there, and I'm actually looking for another therapist now. I got too old for CHOP, and I think it would help me to talk to someone else again. I would feel like a weight was lifted after I got all my tears out, and my mom and I would always go to Shake Shack afterwards, and boy were those sandwiches and milkshakes good! By this point, I was openly saying when I thought something tasted good, and I loved the tradition my mom and I had.

During this time, maybe before I got better with food, my family and I had to go to a funeral for my uncle's relative. I didn't know her that well, but the funeral really impacted me. From where I was sitting, I couldn't see her picture, and she was cremated, so there was no coffin. Seeing my family crying, mourning for a woman they lost, that I couldn't see, made me think Oh my God this could have been me. My family surrounding me, all incredibly upset, made me think about how it would have been if I had died when I was fifteen. I still think of this every now and again, and it's pretty incredible to think about it. I could have been long gone by now, my family grieving forever, my friends confused as to what happened, and ultimately deeply saddened by the loss. I never would be able to be a tattoo artist, I wouldn't have my own business, I wouldn't have been able to fall in love, I wouldn't be able to have a family and see my children grow, I wouldn't have been able to endlessly thank my family for all their love, and I never would have been able to share my story, with all you beautiful people, and I think that's one of the reasons why I'm here. I want to make my life meaningful, I want to impact lives, I want to help you, your loved ones, strangers, anyone that needs it. I'm no therapist, but I care deeply about every single person that is struggling, and if you feel helpless, just please try to remember you are not alone, that you will do great things, and that there are reasons why you are here. I love you all. Keep on living, gorgeous.