The Cost of Control

What was my biggest fear when I lived with an eating disorder?

The easy answer is weight gain. Yes; for someone like me who focused on food, calories, exercise, body fat, and clothing size for 99% of my day, gaining weight was a constant, terrifying threat. But, even if I put on a few pounds, I had the autonomy to engage in familiar, disordered behaviors to combat it. I was in control of this area of my life more than any other, and could restrict, exercise excessively, and force myself to purge without boundaries.

The eating disorder gave me full jurisdiction over this one thing, when I could not seem to control anything that happened outside of it. I was the mastermind that choreographed each hour of each day around when I could perform all of the tasks that made up the eating disorder routine. It was a bad day when someone or something interrupted my ability to carry out these routines. When my husband worked from home in the middle of the day, keeping me from eating my only meal and purging; if we had to go eat a meal in a public place with other people; when I was too sick to go to the gym. The interruptions that forced me to pivot filled me with dread and sent me into a spiral.

Because my biggest fear was not gaining weight; it was giving up control.

That’s why going to therapy once a week didn’t work. It is why an out-patient, online treatment program three times a week didn’t work. I could check the box and appease my family by doing those things, but it did not change or hinder my ability to engage with my eating disorder. Even if I really wanted to stop, (and there were some days when I desired nothing more than some normalcy) I was stuck on a hamster wheel. Something drastic and earth shattering had to happen to create a shock wave big enough to force me to relinquish control.

I had to check myself into in-patient treatment; at a facility 250 miles from home, for an indeterminate amount of time. Into a program that was designed to bring patients back to a childlike state, stripping them of any and all responsibilities, and putting all decisions and any control into the hands of professionals.

A place where every hour of every day was planned for me by someone else.

Where I could not have sharp objects or books with triggering content.

Where I had to keep the bathroom door open while a staff member waited just outside to listen.

Where bedrooms were locked during the day and only used for sleeping.

Where the kitchen and the refrigerator in it were kept under lock and key.

Where exercise was not allowed.

Where a nurse came into my bedroom every night, on the hour to check on me while I slept.

Where I ate meals carefully curated for me by a nutritionist six times each day.

Where if I didn’t finish 98% of the food on my plate, I would have to drink a meal supplement.

Where I had to share the most intimate details of my life with a group of strangers.

Where there was no privacy and everything was supervised.

There was no other answer but to submit and be hopeful that this would be the answer; the cure; the catalyst for change. Somewhere, deep in my brain, barely visible within the deep grooves of neural pathways created over twenty years, there was a version of myself that wanted to recover. But I couldn’t do it at home, where the only one calling the shots was me. I had to go to a place like this to start over; where I could fight for freedom from this oppressive disease without the threat of self-sabotage. It was my biggest fear realized, but handing over the reins was the only chance I had for true recovery.

Authentically Yours,