Saturday, July 19, 2014

Fairytales

They tell me that I'll never be able to race again. I tend to believe them. Aside from the anxiety piece surrounding competition, there's the fact that I'm quite slow and out of shape now. I don't know if I have it in me to train myself into a deadly weapon again.

But I'm not satisfied. I'm not satisfied with this civilian life I'm living. There's no excitement and little to look forward to. Goals are gigantic and long term and reaching them seems like an endless exercise in monotony. I crave the adrenalin and I miss the pain. I miss feeling cleansed after an event, completely detoxed of all the shit that had been brewing inside of me. I can't find that feeling anywhere now. The shit just builds and builds and it has absolutely no place to go.

Is it any wonder that I lose my mind periodically and hurt myself so that I can get a taste of the pain and the adrenalin that I so crave? I think it makes perfect sense.

I'm terrified to go back to that life though. I'm not the same person I used to be and I can't do the things that I once did. That person is dead and gone away now. I am all that remains. And I am less, so much less, than the person I used to be. At least in all the ways that I care about at the moment. I've grown in so many new ways and I've made leaps and bounds in areas of my life once neglected by my passion for competition but I don't care about any of that right now. Right now I would gladly trade all of that progress for a good strong set of legs and a race date on the calendar

The world was much smaller then, but at least I was successful in it. I feel like I have so far to go in civilian life before I can claim something approaching success and I don't know if I have the patience to see the journey through.

I'm feeling discouraged today. I binged the night before last and the experience shook me to my core. It's been such a long time since I lost control like that and feeling powerless over food once again was frightening. I don't want to lose what I've worked so hard to achieve over the last two years because I would have nothing to fall back on if my recovery were gone. I can't go back to my racing life. I can't go back to my eating disorder life. My only option it seems, is to move forward with my new life, whatever that may look like.

And I couldn't help but compensate for my binge with restricting yesterday. It was eerily familiar to find myself cutting out calories at each of my meals because of the guilt and shame I felt over my loss of control the night before. For the first time in a long time I felt that I had no choice, as if one act necessarily leads to the next because there can be no other chain of events. I know this isn't true. I've eaten more than I felt comfortable with before and picked up and moved right along in a healthy direction the following day. I know that I'm capable of it but I just couldn't bring myself to do it yesterday. I felt that I had to take the easy way out and today I'm feeling discouraged and low and certainly no less guilty because now I have to contend with the guilt of restricting as well as the guilt brought on by binging.

Was it really a binge though? My dietitian might encourage me to think of it as having just eaten a little more than normal but I felt a loss of control just like I used to and I was using the same all or nothing thinking that led to so many insane nights of puking my guts out in a past life. It doesn't matter. What's done is done and all that matters now is that I get back on track as soon as possible. Hiccups happen. Recovery moves up, down, backward, and forward. I just like to believe that my recovery is somehow unique, terminally unique in fact, and that it will move only forward and up, never down or backward. But that's not really how this works, is it?

I know the answer to that question as well as any of you but I also know my tendency to develop habits which become rituals and addictions which I can't seem to give up without clinical intervention. I'm not going down that road again so in my eyes it's best to just avoid the slip ups in the first place. If only, if only. If only it were that easy and I could simply decide to do well all of the time. Wouldn't I? Wouldn't we all?

I'd like to believe that we would but I know I've been in places before where I wanted to do nothing more than burn my life down and piss on the ashes. I'm not there now, thank god. No, now I'm actually trying to build a life for myself that is worth living and I will reluctantly accept the fact that I will stumble along the way from time to time. Reluctantly.

But I accept, that is the key. I accept that my recovery is not perfect because I have come to accept that perfection absolutely does not exist. It's scary to accept that the thing that I have tried to be for so long isn't actually real but my fear makes this fact no less true and beyond the fear there is hope that I can strive to be a human-being one day, beautiful and perfectly imperfect in every way.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

I'm Not Dead, I Only Dress That Way

Where did that sprightly young fellow with so much to say run off to? Oh, him? He's dead. He died years ago, locked away in some god-forsaken mental institution while he was trying to fix himself. He couldn't take it anymore, he went crazy, and eventually he died. Some say he died of a broken heart. Others say the loneliness became too overwhelming for him and one morning he just decided not to wake up, as if it were nothing more than a choice, as if he simply saw no point to going on one more miserable, lonely day and when it came time to open his eyes, he simply chose to go on sleeping. Forever.

His body lives on. It walks, it talks, sometimes it even smiles or laughs. But there's nothing left inside. Nothing sprightly nor bright in any case. His chest is filled with only the darkness of regret and his mind is a prison which holds the familiar comforts of anxiety, fear, and hatred. He has no secrets anymore. His body and all that it has done in the years since he died, is laid open for the world to see; vulnerable and exposed to the cruel wind of judgement.

People have tried to get close to this walking, talking, smiling corpse and some have even begun to fall in love with it but before too long, and upon closer inspection, they come to realize that there is really nothing left inside this hollow shell of a boy worth loving. And they disappear. They disappear just like everyone disappears because that is the natural rhythm of things when it comes to dealing with someone who is no longer really alive. You notice them, might find them intriguing, unique in a way that you can't help but be attracted to, and so you approach with caution. When you move in close, you find that this lifeless body has a story that is beautifully tragic and before you know what's happening, you find yourself moving in closer than you know is safe. You can't help it though. This mysterious creature, still moving through the world though there is no life left inside, captivates you with its charm and its obscure sort of tattered perfection that seems so wrong that it very well might be right. You don't feel sorry for this creature, but you feel something for it, perhaps a longing for it to be whole again, a desire for it to rise from the ashes of a life burned to the ground and grow and blossom into something bright and radiant once more. It is this longing that gets you involved, that tricks you into believing that there may be hope in saving this lost soul and it is only after you have given everything that you know how to give that you realize the dead cannot be brought back to life. You abandon ship, just like so many before you, when the hollow boy is at his most vulnerable, when even he is beginning to believe that there is a chance at a new life, a happy life, a full life; and the ship comes apart at the seams and sinks straight to the bottom of the ocean night after bloody night all alone in the dim light of a lonely bathroom someplace in L.A. The shell of the boy who once lived so carefree in the light of a world free from illness simply collapses in on itself and some of the damage can never be repaired. And you have no choice but to get away, to get out with what is left of your own sanity still intact, but you don't move on quickly, because you find that you can't. You find yourself feeling changed by the impact of this corpse on your pretty little life and try as you might, you can't seem to put the thought of him down, not entirely. You feel that you know more about yourself now than ever before and you quietly thank the hollow boy for his contribution to your wholeness. You smile at the thought of having come so close to something so destructive and living to tell the tale. You smile, and he burns. Each and every night he digs his own grave and buries himself in the earth where he belongs but each morning his body rises and fights on through the pain of being so lifeless and empty in a world full of living, breathing, smiling things. And so it goes.

It goes because it must. It goes because there are pieces of the boy that once lived here still lingering in this corpse. Determination and stubbornness can't be killed just once, they must die again and again before they are gone completely and they live on long after the heart has stopped beating. So the body remains. The body rises each morning and greets the day with hesitation and fear at what evil things might be waiting out there beyond the protection of the sheets. The body puts on a smile and greets the living things as though it were one of the same species and some fall for the trick and open their wallets and hand over their credit cards and their trust to this fraud, to this faker, to this thief. He's stealing your smiles and your happiness so that he might impersonate you tomorrow, so that he might try on your skin for a day and see how it feels to be complete once more. But it won't last. By the end of the day, his smile has grown weary and your skin is beginning to get itchy and uncomfortable. So, he throws the smile in the trash on his way out the door and slips out of your skin to bathe as the creature he was always meant to be, beneath the dim glow of the moon.

Does the body miss the soul that once dwelt there? Of course it does. The soul is missed dearly and the body has gone in search of wholeness in any number of places where one might find such things but all too often this search has only led to another intrigued passerby who will eventually realize that there is no life left behind these eyes and so begins the cycle of destruction all over again. The boy is dead. Accept it and move on. He's not coming back and I don't expect him to. But I can't help but believe that someone something like him might come to inhabit this body that sits before you now. He will be older and wiser than the boy ever was. He will have learned by now how to keep himself safe. He will have learned to trust and to love once again. And he will be here to stay. He will not abandon this life just when the body needs him most. The search will continue every single day because the body knows not what else to do for it cannot continue to function as an empty vessel in this world so full of life. This beautiful boy will be found eventually and body and soul will unite to create the portrait of something truly complete for the first time in its life. On that day there will be a smile stretched across the face of this body, once so lifeless; and that smile, will be real.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

10 liters

There was a point in my life not so very long ago when I spent over $400 a month on diet soda. Most of that was Diet Pepsi. They should have been paying me to advertise. I couldn’t be found at any point throughout the day without a can or a bottle wrapped tightly in my fingers. I drank it with breakfast, drank it for lunch, and guzzled still more with dinner. I woke up in the middle of the night to drink it sometimes for Christ’s sake. Add in the $75 I spent every month on Trident gum and I could nearly have paid for my rent.

It’s no wonder I was always broke, always living from paycheck to paycheck. With a habit like that it’s tough to keep money in the bank, but it’s also impossible to satisfy your thirst. Nothing sounded as amazing as an ice cold Diet Pepsi at the end of a long ride, or in the middle of a sale at work, or while watching a movie with my girlfriend, or while driving the car, or while walking the dog, or while writing, or while doing any one of a thousand other things that one can do throughout the day.

Do you know how many ounces are in a liter? There are 33.8 fl. ounces in 1 liter. I drank at least 4 liters of Diet Pepsi everyday... At work. Add to that the the 3-4 12 oz cans I would drink with breakfast and the bottomless refills at dinner, followed by more cans while I was winding down and getting ready for bed and the total would hover around 8-10 liters on any given day. You can do the math.

“That stuff will kill you,” they said to me, God only knows how many times. And I suppose that they were right. I suppose that it probably would have killed me eventually but the truth is that I was too stubborn to die just then. The cutting hadn’t killed me. The 24 hour racing hadn’t done me in. I sure as hell wasn’t going to go as a result of soda-pop. But I gladly would have drank it straight to my grave if only they would have let me.

“Why do you drink so much of that shit?” They would ask again and again. Only someone without an eating disorder needs an explanation. I didn’t dare tell them it was because I would need to eat something if I didn’t fill my belly with carbonation and retard my appetite with copious amounts of caffeine. I didn’t dare let on that I needed that “shit” inside of me to function. They all knew it, I’m sure, but I thought that somehow I was hiding my dependency and my sickness by keeping the words from falling out of my mouth.

Don’t we all think we’re that clever when we’re sick though? Do we really expect the world around us not to notice that we’re disappearing? We are people and we’re not invisible despite what we may believe. Someone is always watching, it’s just rare that anyone says anything about the skinny boy who rides his bike five hours and drinks 10 liters of Diet Pepsi every day. And what would be the point in saying something, in making it known how blatantly obvious is was that something was very wrong with that picture? I was not a child anymore. I was an adult, making my own way through the world, just as all of those people noticing me were doing and who were they to try to change the decisions that I was making for myself?

So they said nothing, other than to ask why I drank so much and to let me know that Diet Pepsi was going to kill me, and we went about our lives, each of us ignoring the dying boy who was withering away as the days passed and the summer drew to a close. And that’s all that I really wanted from them at that point in my life. I wanted to be ignored, to be left in peace, to be left to my own devices and to live recklessly in the only way that I knew how. This was my innocent and socially acceptable addiction, something that could bring me what seemed like endless amounts of joy without hurting me too badly. My girlfriend called it my medicine and she bought it for me when I was feeling down. She knew just how to make me feel better.

But in truth, 10 liters of Diet Pepsi every day wasn’t reckless in comparison to a gallon and a half of your favorite flavors of ice cream going down my throat and coming right back up. And when ice cream just wasn’t enough it was cake, and brownies, and cookies, oh my! And how do you know that you really have a problem with Diet Pepsi? Maybe when it’s part of every binge as well. But it was there for a reason. It was always there to stop me before I got too out of control. The stomach can only hold so much, after all. Those were miserable nights. Horrible, lonely, tragic nights. And then the nights weren’t enough any longer and they became miserable days too, days when I would only leave the house to buy food, if you can call it food, and the TV would never leave the cooking channel.

It seemed there was no end to those days and those nights since when I wasn’t so miserable I thought that I was truly happy because I was so beautiful and thin. I believed that happiness could be found at the end of eight lonely hours in the saddle with nothing but a few power bars and water to satisfy my hunger and I sought to find it often. I thought that real satisfaction lay in the bottom of a 1/2 gallon ice cream container so I went searching for it every chance that I got. And beyond that, I knew that real, pure, unadulterated bliss was carved in human flesh by the tip of a razor blade. But this, this I saved for special occasions because this was an addiction not so socially acceptable. This was something that people couldn’t help but open their mouths about, and this was something to which I couldn’t simply respond, “Because I like the bubbles and I’m too healthy to die, so leave me alone.”

Scars need their explanations, and each of them has one too, I’ve just never been comfortable sharing what those explanations might be. Too much shame, too much guilt, too much hatred for myself. If only I were stronger, I would tell myself, then I wouldn’t need to do this to my body. If only, if only... But strength, or will power, has little to do with it after a certain point. I willed myself into a successful professional athlete, you would think that not drinking Diet Pepsi, or eating a healthy diet, or keeping myself away from a box cutter would have been easy in comparison. But despite all of my strength, I couldn’t seem to do any of those things; and for this, more than anything else, I was ashamed of myself.

Harder than kicking the habit, harder than keeping my food down, and harder still than making it through each day without bleeding all over the bathroom sink, was reaching out for help on that cool morning in October. It seems like a lifetime ago that I sent a text to my mother asking for her help in finding a treatment facility for someone struggling in the ways that I was. She wasn’t blind. She had stood by and watched me fall to pieces as the months had passed but she, like so many others, understood that those were my choices and that her saying something would do little except perhaps push me further into the darkness.

So began the long, slow, grueling process of recovery. And when I say slow, I mean agonizingly slow. Of course, it was only as slow as I made it, and I fought it for over a year before I finally gave up and gave myself to the idea of truly getting better. The right words will get you out of the psych ward, back to your bike and your Diet Pepsi, in 72 hours flat no matter what you’re in for. I lied, I pretended, and eventually I even believed, that I was really on a path to a healthy life until one fateful night in September of the following year sent me back to the psych ward, and this time they refused to let me leave.

The first rule of in-patient eating disorder treatment is: You do not drink diet soda. The second rule of in-patient eating disorder treatment is: You do not drink diet soda. For five weeks I sat at our special table with our special meals prepared from our special menu and I watched the other crazy people, the ones without eating disorders, slurp down their Diet Cokes from frosty 20 oz bottles. It wasn’t Diet Pepsi, but I gladly would have taken a life for even just a sip. I hatched schemes and plotted the ways in which I would steal one of their bottles while no one was looking and hide it until our rooms were unlocked an hour after meal time. Then, I would retreat to my bathroom and I would drink the whole fucking thing in one gulp and cry sweet tears of joy before hiding the evidence and flushing the toilet to make sure the nurses knew I was only taking care of business.

Of course, I never had the guts to turn my plans into reality. But looking back I wonder, what would they have done to punish me? Lock me up? Realistically, they probably would have taken away my walking privileges which were critical in keeping me sane when everything in my world just dared me to lose my shit.

Five weeks wasn’t quite enough for me apparently because the first thing I did when I got out was hit the dollar tree on the corner and buy a Diet Pepsi, and the second thing I did was stop at the CVS a 1/4 mile later and buy another Diet Pepsi. It tasted strange on my tongue at that point but I couldn’t help but feel that I was finally home after a hellish imprisonment behind enemy lines. But there was a catch to my freedom: It would be short lived. In fact, I had less than 24 hours before I was to check in to residential treatment in Los Angeles for god only knew how much longer. I intended to make the most of my time out in the world and for six glorious hours down I-5 I drank until my heart felt content. Nearly, not quite.

I drank Diet Pepsi until the very moment before I walked down the drive way to the house where I was to spend the next 5 weeks of my life. And something amazing happened in that place, something I never would have expected on that morning as I sipped my Diet Pepsi in a Vons parking lot. What? Well, I decided that I had lived for long enough with an eating disorder and that I could be satisfied in knowing that I had been damn good at being sick. I accepted that my life needed to change and I realized that I had every power in the world to leave that house any time I wanted. I saw clearly, not for the first time, that living in the way that I had been living was leading me nowhere and I saw that I had the opportunity to make a lasting change for the better. Knowing that I had the power to make all of the pain of recovery stop at any time was the key. I can endure nearly any amount of punishment so long as I’m the one inflicting it on myself. Put someone else in the driver’s seat and all I can think to do is rebel.

So I embraced the idea of real recovery for the first time and along with that idea, I observed the first two rules of in-patient eating disorder treatment willingly. Believe it or not, when I was granted a three hour pass to leave the house and eat lunch on my own barely a month later, I did not run off and buy a Diet Pepsi nor did I skip my meal and being able to be honest with the treatment team that I had come to trust with my life was a feeling more satisfying than carbonation and caffeine had ever been.

But what now, nearly two years in? I can’t tell you that I haven’t had a Diet Pepsi since November 1st, 2012, but I can tell you that I haven’t consumed more than a single liter on any given day since then and I can also tell you that there are many days like today, when I haven’t had one at all. More importantly, I can tell you that days like today are no more difficult than days when I do choose to have a moment with an old friend. And it is a choice now, a real choice, in a way that it never was back then. I could have chosen to stop in theory, but theories fall short in the real world when addiction is at work. And you’re probably thinking to yourself, who cares? It’s just a Diet Pepsi, what’s the big deal? And if you’re thinking that, you’ve probably never had an eating disorder. And if you’re reading this and you do or have had an eating disorder, I guess the whole point of this story is to tell you that change is possible. Against all odds, and even for those of us going through the worst of times, struggling with the most self-destructive of behaviors, there is still hope.

I know because I am sitting here now, writing these words with a smile on my face, a smile that couldn’t have been forced for anything in the world not so long ago.