FCYU-Feature Story

Finding My Way Home
Getting help for my eating disorder has been a long journey

By Aquellah M.

The first time I remember having issues with eating was after a comment my dad made. I forget how old I was but I remember his words like it was yesterday. He said, “If you keep eating like that you will end up looking like your mother.”

To me, that meant I’d end up fat and couch-bound with no one to love me. At the time, my father was sexually abusing me and my mother was letting it happen. When my dad made that comment I felt like he was a fortune teller. He was reading my future and my body was his concern.

After that I changed my eating habits in lots of small ways. I began to limit the amount I would place on my plate compared to my mom. Sometimes I would skip meals, and it was around this time that I had my first few laxatives.

When I was 13 I lost a lot of weight. I began to go out for daily runs, and I started to do a lot of sit-ups and push-ups, even lifting phone books to reduce the fat in my arms. At first, I was just trying to stop my depression about what was going on at home.

Controlling my weight gave me some stability. If my mom started her speech about me stealing her husband away, I couldn’t speak back because of my fear of being punished by her and then by my dad. But I’d go into my room and do sit-ups or spit out my food. It was like getting back at them both. Only they didn’t notice I was deteriorating.

When I finally told my godmother about the abuse, my sister and I were put in foster care.

My Secret

My struggles with eating went up and down for the next couple years. I’d eat for a few days, then go on what I called my fasting period. At times I had a normal appetite. But when certain fatty foods were placed in front of me, I’d say to myself, “Think of how many calories you’re about to eat,” or, “Look at the amount your sister has on her plate. You’re going to be the fat twin.” I wanted and needed to keep myself the slender one, the one who might not be as smart but who has the better body, the most self-discipline.

Moving from one home to the next made it easy to cover up what I was doing. No one took the time out to notice what was going on, and somehow I enjoyed that. My eating disorder was a secret I could keep to myself.

In Charge of My Body

When I was 16 I moved to a group home and my eating disorder became full-blown. I think it was the freedom of making my own plate of food. I could put any amount I wanted on the plate and no one could say anything.

I started to count calories whenever I had the chance. Restricting myself to 500 calories a day or less was like a treat. Later I could burn off all the fat that I put on in a day, plus one pound more. I had started bingeing and purging (eating a lot and then throwing it up) and abusing laxatives. I used diet pills when I wanted to. No one knew anything. I was in charge of what went into my body and how it was going to come out.

I didn’t think what I was doing was a problem. Controlling my weight was my only chance to hold on to something that felt real. I needed to feel alive.

This went on for a few years, until I moved in with Yolanda, my current foster mom. Yolanda’s love and support from the day I walked into her home helped me feel like it was OK to tell her anything. I had never told anyone about my eating disorder, but I told Yolanda.

Time for a Change

After a few months of living with her, I wanted, for the very first time in four years, to get some real help for my problem. I hated to see and hear Yolanda’s concerns about my deteriorating health. I wasn’t used to someone noticing what I was doing to my body. When she said it was time that I got some help that I should have gotten a while ago, I said to myself, “It’s time for a change.”

I started going to group therapy, hoping it would make me feel more comfortable communicating with others about what I was struggling with. At the group leader’s suggestion, I started to see a nutritional therapist.

We set up some goals for my first week, like if I skipped a meal I would have a small snack instead. I would also have to try to cut back on exercise and purging.

I knew that would be really hard for me. After just one small meal I’d see myself in the mirror weighing in at 250 pounds, and I’d do about 400 sit-ups in my bed. I was abusing laxatives daily. I’d run in place in the shower and sleep with plastic bags wrapped around my thighs to burn off extra calories. I even ate Ajax to help curb my appetite.

Trying Hard

As I tried to slow this behavior down, I began to clean like a maniac and worry about my calories all the time. I was afraid to go into the supermarket. I thought I would get fat just from looking at all the food.

I tried some coping skills, like this technique my therapist taught me: When you are having a rough time, you imagine a stream, and every leaf that goes by has a feeling that you feel on it. The stream washes your feelings away. This helped me when I ate. I thought of how every bite was being washed away.

Some other things that helped were drawing pictures, rollerblading and shopping. I’d give myself a reward each time I went an entire day without criticizing my body or skipping a meal.

But of course there were things that just made it difficult to stick to my coping skills and my meal plans. Things like negative thinking (telling myself I’m fat or stupid) and anger about the abuse I’d suffered.

Confused and Alone

I struggled with inner confusion about eating. If I ate this much was I going to look just like my mother or my sister? I’d remember the words of my dad: “If you eat that you will start to look just like your mother.” My thoughts were in limbo. Was I already like her? Did my dad do all of those things to me because of my weight?

I constantly thought about my illness and my past and wondered if there was some kind of connection. Even if there wasn’t, I wanted to be assured that whatever I was feeling was OK. I needed that comfort. I needed a professional to assure me that my eating disorder wasn’t just because of the media or the websites I looked at, that my past traumas still play a huge role in my disorder.

But I couldn’t speak up about the things that were bothering me. “I’m fine,” was the phrase I used to start a conversation and end it. Later, I’d sit by myself and think of the chance I’d had to open up to someone and didn’t. I kept putting up this wall toward anyone who tried to help me, and we never got anywhere.

Back to Square One

All of the attempts I made—the private treatment, the groups—seemed to work for me at the time. But then Ed (as I called my eating disorder) would get the last few words in the decision. It was always back to square one.

I started to have heart problems and I became dehydrated. My hair started to fall out and my teeth became eroded. Yolanda would constantly tell me, “Thin is not in. You look sick in your face.” I guess my mind changed one day while I was outside skating. I started to get some pains in my chest. It freaked me out. I never want to experience that again.

It was time to go inpatient. That was everyone’s decision, all the members of my treatment team. Even me. I felt like it was time to stop the games and beat Ed.

My Chance to Heal

On August 28, 2006 I continued my journey on the path to recovery. I was admitted inpatient to The Renfrew Center in Philadelphia. When I first came to the center I thought, “Wow! This looks a lot like a college.” There was something here that was different from any of my other treatments.

I was surrounded by so many people, mostly women and teenage girls. My first impression was that I wasn’t as small as many of them and that I didn’t need as much help as they did. After a few days I came to see that we were all in the same place in our lives. All of us were struggling with the same disease. Every day was a challenge.

Everyone in treatment was doing a lot of work to get better. People had spent five to even 30 years struggling with this disorder. I started to feel like I didn’t have to hide behind Ed. I could look the disorder in the face and tell it that I needed to take control now. This was my cue. If I was ever going to get my chance to try and start to heal it was going to be there at The Renfrew Center.

Support and Connection from Peers

The days at Renfrew were hard. To most people, meals are not a big deal, but to me they were so huge. During meals everyone was supportive. No talk of calories, past treatment or meal plans was allowed. After meals there was always a support group where I could tell everyone how it went and how I was feeling.

Groups on different topics ran all day. Each one brought me one step closer to healing inside and out. Art was my favorite because I didn’t have to speak much, just put my feelings into art and then explain what I’d created.

I created a doll to represent my inner child. I gave her closure from the abuse and protected her from Ed. I let her speak her story to my therapist through letters. I wrote and she came out. We worked to let her feel love and life. I can never give her back her childhood, but I could give her a hug, and when I told her it wasn’t her fault, the world lifted off of her shoulders.

My therapist at Renfrew played a huge role in my recovery. She saw it as an honor to embark on this journey with me. She taught me techniques to keep me focused and in the moment, like putting my hands in a bowl of ice. It may sound weird, but it helped me keep my body in the present so I would remain mindful of my feelings.

Then there were the residents. Each helped me in a different way, to finish off my last bite or let me be a part of their family activity during visiting hours, so I wouldn’t feel so lonely on the weekends. With their help I was never alone.

What kept us all connected was that we had befriended this disease. We had welcomed it into our lives, and now we had to learn to say goodbye.

Saying Goodbye

On October 20, 2006 I left The Renfrew Center. I think the day before I was discharged was the hardest for me. I had to say goodbye to my therapist, to the young women who had accepted me into their families and to the staff members who helped me through all of the bad nights. What would I do without all of them in my life?

As the car was driving away from the place where I’d spent my five weeks fighting this demon called Ed, all I could do was sit in the backseat and tell myself: “Just do the things you practiced here; you can still beat Ed.” With that in mind I let go of my fear, took a deep breath and turned my head straight to the road ahead of me. I began my journey home.