Now I’ve Done It

“Something is wrong,” I said to my doctor, adamantly. I promised myself I’d be direct with her about my symptoms as I was convinced I had finally done it. I had pushed my body too far, and I had screwed it up.

What is going on?” She asked, distractedly, as she flipped through my thick paper chart. Although I liked her, she always seemed to be in a hurry.

I had been seeing this doctor for twenty years. She was a marathon runner who understood my love/need for exercise. Although she had expressed concern over the years regarding my dwindling body weight, she never did more than offer a few fleeting suggestions like adding coconut oil into my diet. In other words, she didn’t threaten my disease. Perfect.

I did like to cook but in no way did I eat the lasagna, at that time I just felt like I did. (2015)

“How long has this been going on?” She asked, laying me back on the table and poking around my abdomen.

“About three weeks,” I replied. Maybe a little longer.

For most of my adult life, I have disliked my stomach. Over the years, it's been the one area on my body that has received the bulk of my body dissatisfaction focus. A flat stomach day equals a good day, a poochy stomach day is one spent worrying about being “fat.” (Pregnancy was the one time I let that shit go. I was only getting bigger, and even I knew THAT was a good thing.)

But five years ago, despite my hours of daily exercise, I could not alleviate my distended stomach. The constant feeling of fullness that I had spent years trying to avoid was now keeping me constant company like a needy puppy. It didn’t matter what I ate. Even half of a banana would puff up my gut. By the end of each evening, I would be in tears. Bloated and uncomfortable, like I had eaten a bowl of raw cookie dough with a milk chaser instead of a yogurt. I spent weeks downing anti-gas pills, antacid, and every homeopathic tincture in the health food section of the grocery store. I tried eliminating certain foods in case I had developed a food allergy. I bought tampons, convinced it was my body gearing up to get my period after a ten year absence. I took a pregnancy test, or three, thinking I was a medical miracle (because again, no period in ten years). I thought perhaps I had screwed up my metabolism in some way, and now my body was unable to digest food. My daily trips to the scale showed no weight gain, although my pants were tight around the waist. Maybe a tumor? It must be cancer. Right?

Even at my thinnest, I was always aware of my stomach. (Scottsdale, 2015)

Needless to say, when I finally got myself to the doctor that day, I was pretty worked up. Doc, although hurried, took my distress seriously and ordered every test imaginable. After a week of being poked, prodded, and x-rayed, the results were in.

Despite my low weight, there was nothing wrong with me.

Nothing physically anyway.

Burn

“To improve your chances for sustained recovery,"my dietician Gretchen explained, "you will need to eliminate intense physical movement."

"What do you mean? No exercise?" I asked cautiously, trying to stay calm. Although Gretchen and I had just started working together, I could sense where the conversation was going, and I didn't care for it. At all.

“That is the recommended standard of treatment for anorexia," Gretchen proceeded carefully, "it has proven to be a critical part of the recovery process."

"What about walking? And yoga? And doubles tennis?" In my mind these things were activities, not exercise. My anorexic brain was freaking out and headed full force into negotiation mode. What can I get away with here?

"Look, sweetie, I know this is hard to understand right now, and I am not going to tell you what you can and cannot do. Your recovery is your decision. But your body has been working overtime, it needs to heal."

What I didn't realize when I went into treatment is that the years of extreme exercise had worked my body into a hypermetabolic state. It was burning through food like tissue paper in a bonfire.

By 2015 exercise had become like a part-time job, and a typical day would find my emaciated body performing five to six hours of movement.

The healthy part of my brain screamed loud enough, reminding me to get off the court and into the classroom. So grateful I didn’t miss times like this. ( Valentines party 2015)

I might start with an early morning workout at the sports conditioning gym before getting the kids up and going. Then rush off to a cycle or Body Pump class at 24 Hour Fitness after getting the kids off to school. A couple hours of tennis midday followed up with a power walk after dinner. Although the workouts changed day to day, the hours and intensity did not vary much at all.

I knew it was a lot. I worried if other people became aware of how much I was exercising, it might raise red flags (well, more red flags). So, I was careful. The folks at the sports conditioning gym who were headed to work after class, had no clue I was off to another gym for more. And, the crew at 24 Hour Fitness had no idea I had already completed an intense workout earlier that morning. Many of the women I played tennis with exercised a lot too, in addition to their time on the court, which allowed me to silently justify my own workout schedule. See they do it too. Even so, I wasn't precisely advertising to my teammates the two and a half hours of cardio I had already knocked out. It was a carefully orchestrated schedule that allowed me to continue with my routine while avoiding the scrutiny of others.

With my friend Lori on one of our many “walk and talks.” An activity I did (and do) enjoy. Always. ( 2015)

And I wasn't enjoying any of it.

I was tired, my hip joints were sore, my muscles stiff, and I felt dehydrated. I often felt I was going through the motions, merely logging in minutes of exercise just ….because. Sadly, tennis, my true love, actually suffered. I developed bad habits, shortcuts to conserve energy on the court. Above all else, I felt shameful, like I was doing something wrong. I knew better. But the little voice in my head spurred me on, tempting me to continue:

It's not too much.

You can scale back at anytime.

Other people exercise as much as you do.

You worked hard to get physically fit.

It helps manage your stress.

You need it.

Addictions can be very convincing. I did need it and without it, I feared I would fall apart.

Caved

When my oldest son Dylan was in fifth grade, he begged me for a cell phone. BEGGED me.

D: I’ve got to have one.

Me: You don’t “got” to have anything but food and water.

D: Everyone else has one.

Me: Everyone? Really?

D: You don’t understand!

Me: Oh, I understand perfectly, you are too young.

D: Why are you being so mean?

Me: I’m your mother, that’s why.

D: I won’t ask for anything else ever again.

Me: Really? No Nike’s, no later curfew, no car?

D: My life will be over if I don’t get one. OVER!

Me: That too bad because I’ve really grown fond of you over the past decade.

Every day, round and round for a year. And, by the beginning of sixth grade, Dylan got his way. He wore me down, and despite my steadfast resolve on the issue, regrettably, I caved. I’ve seen the top of his head more than the whites of his eyes ever since.

Anorexia can be like a persistent teen. Relentless. And by the beginning of 2015, almost ten years into my eating disorder, I was getting weary of fighting it. My healthy Sherri brain was tirelessly trying to find my way back to a healthy mind and body. Still, my undernourished anorexic brain was a fierce competitor. And when the disease felt threatened, it wasn’t afraid to play dirty.

Yep, everything is just FINE. (2015)

You will get fat.

You will become lazy.

You will not be as athletic.

You will fail as a health coach.

People will think you are a fraud.

You will lose control. Of everything.

Look, you can’t even gain ten pounds.

It wore me down and, regrettably, I caved. And instead of calling in backup, I gave up.

I surrendered to who I had become, instead of fighting for who I wanted to be.

I’m thin, it’s just the way my body is. I weigh my food, but at least I’m eating. I spend hours a day working out, and I’m in better shape than most women my age. So I’m not being social, I’m an introvert anyway.

I put my energy back into proving to myself and those around me that I was perfectly fine and I did what any compulsive, underweight, irrational, undernourished person should do.

I joined a gym. A third one to be precise.

Even when no gym was available, I was always on the move. Here, workout ready, in between Dylan’s lacrosse games. ( Palm Springs 2015)

This was not just any gym, it was one geared towards sports performance. Well known around town amongst high school athletes, it emphasized individualized coaching that pushed clients to their edge with sprints, hurdles, tire slams, and power cleans. After months of watching my son Dylan train; his strength improving, and his speed increasing, I knew I wanted that too. A stronger body, the adrenaline rush of an intense workout, the challenge. I signed up for the adult program. I told myself it would help me gain muscle. I was confident it would make me a better tennis player and, as a bonus, I convinced myself I wasn’t just doing mindless exercise, I was doing something to improve my body. Which, had I been able to adequately feed myself, may have been true.

But I wasn’t feeding my body I was feeding the disease, making it stronger, and harder than ever to fight.