They Are the Reason

There was a distinct period of time between when I agreed to go to in-patient treatment, and physically getting on a plane and entering the facility. For several weeks, I kept my therapist and my husband at bay with what I told them was “due diligence”. As long as I was researching different programs, there was no one pressuring me to take the next step. I could have stayed forever in this state of limbo, where part of me was committed to going, and the other part would have to be dragged there kicking and screaming.

The conversations with each intake specialist at each treatment center were the same. They wanted an abridged version of my time spent on earth battling a disease that never seemed to want to go away.  By now I knew the timeline by heart; how the eating disorder ebbed and flowed, sometimes lying dormant in the wings, but never truly exiting the theater. I could recite it in under fifteen minutes. Then I would tell them that I’d consider their program (knowing all along that I had no intention of making a commitment), and they would say “let us know if you have any questions”.

I expected more of the same when I made the call to a small, Tennessee-based program and spoke to a woman named Ashley. When she finished her line of questioning, she said, “Do you think you could be here by Monday?” in a soft voice with an oddly comforting, eastern Tennessee twang.

“You think that I need to start there in four days? What if the doctors read my information and say that I don’t need to be in your program?” I responded, laughing in disbelief.    

There was a distinct change in her tone when she answered me; from clinical to humane, even empathetic. “They won’t say that. I’ve been doing this a long time.  Before I got this job, I was a patient here. You have been engaging in a pattern of behaviors on and off for 25 years that are symptomatic of a severe eating disorder. And from what you’ve told me, this most recent episode with the disease has been so profuse that your therapist and family members are afraid you may not come out of it.”

Hearing the way that Ashley summarized the timeline of my issues was sobering, but as I began to indulge in thoughts of actually moving forward with this, the reality of next steps pressed down on my chest. Paralyzed by doubt, the eating disorder voice raged inside of my head, mocking me for even considering such a choice. I wished that this were simple; that I was sick with something that I wasn’t responsible for creating, and there would be no questions and no guilt when it came time to treat the illness. But I could not make this decision based on the threat of how the disease might eventually affect my health; I needed something more concrete.

“I can’t leave my kids. They are only 6 and 8.  I’ve never left them for more than a few days, and they need me here.” 

It was the best excuse I had for staying, but it was a half-truth. They needed me, yes, but I didn’t know how to function without them. I got out of bed in the morning for the sole reason of being their mother because nothing else brought me joy. They were the only reason that I had not sunk further into the dark abyss of grief and depression over the last few years. A sliver of me stayed if only to prevent them from suffering a loss of their own.

“That is why you have to leave your kids. You can’t continue to neglect yourself and put all of your energy into everyone else. You are pouring from an empty cup. It’s only going to get worse.”

She wasn’t the first person to say this to me; and as much as I hated to admit it, I could feel myself slipping away from them because of the eating disorder. I had no energy, no light, no time that I would not have preferred to be sleeping. Even though they were young, they knew the difference between having a mother who was truly present in their lives, and one that was white knuckling through each day.

Suddenly I knew that my chances for true rehabilitation lay somewhere between the intense hatred I had for myself, and the immeasurable love I felt for my children. I did not care about what happened to me, but I would never forgive myself if I let this disease hurt them. I clung to that thought and a vision of their faces as I struggled to ignore the feelings of sheer panic and battled the urge to end the call. I heard myself saying, “I can be there a week from Monday,” knowing that I finally found a concrete, irrefutable reason to get better.

Authentically Yours,