Suck It Up, Buttercup.

It’s almost been a year without my Mom. They say grieving has no timeline. But man, people sure know how to make you feel like it’s time to suck it up when it hits 6 months, a year.
This last year has been full of grieving and empty of resolve. Full of grieving for the physical loss of our mom. Full of grieving for the mental loss of our mom long ago, even when we didn’t realize that’s what was happening at the time. Full of grieving and longing for the love she didn’t show and now never will.. grieving for what never was and what never will be. Grieving over the fact that my Mom never had peace, that she suffered physically her entire childhood then mentally the rest of her life.
Most of what I’ve come to understand about my mom and her mental illness, has been only been discovered in the last year and a half… the understanding that how she acted was not who she was in her heart. She had a mental illness and did not see things as they were. I wish that just simply knowing she did not mean the hurtful things she said and did was enough to make the hurt go away. But there seems to be something permanently damaging about hearing  your Mom say that she hates you… that she hopes she dies and that it will be your fault when she does… that you betrayed her by letting the medical team save her after her heart attack… that you deserved the miscarriage you had when you were 19. Logically, I’m able to separate those hurtful things from her heart but it’s not enough to let the emotional pain go. I’ve been so terrified to ride the emotional pain to try to get through it, because having these types of feelings and hurts regarding your own mom makes you feel guilty. But, I can’t keep ignoring it. I want so badly to remember a good memory… to be able to choose what I share with my daughter and have plenty of good to share with her. I don’t want to ever run out of stories that are appropriate to share with her. But, I know there will be a time when I’ve shared all I can share with her… there will be a time I run out of positives.
It will be a year on Valentines Day. And although I will inwardly roll my eyes at anyone who says “It’s been a year. It’s time to move on”, I have to dive in to this. It has to get ugly before it’s going to get better.

 

The Grief That Isn’t Talked About

*Disclaimer: To be honest, I don’t feel comfortable sharing all of these details. I started writing for my own healing and to work through my emotions. But I made a post on one of my Mommy’s Groups on Facebook about this and TWENTY SEVEN people private messaged me to tell me they had been through something similar. I don’t want anything in this post to sound disrespectful to my mom. I want it to be factual, though, so some things in this post are intense. I hope that by sharing such a personal and private story, someone will read this and be encouraged in knowing they are not alone. I’m not claiming to have it all figured out, because I don’t. But I know that in time I will heal and I was encouraged by speaking with people who have been in my situation and have managed to find healing and closure.

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There is so much I feel like I want and need to write about after the recent death of my Mom with whom I had an extremely difficult relationship. She was emotionally/mentally abusive and had serious mental illnesses. On and off my whole life, I was manipulated by her and after her heart attack a couple years ago, things really came to a tipping point. Let me give you some background info.

She had her first heart attack two years ago and then a triple bypass, then another heart attack and many other complications along the way. They said she needed a transplant then shortly after deemed her too weak to undergo a transplant surgery. Even before those health issues, she was emotionally abusive. The abuse had significantly intensified since then and basically for the last year and a half she seemed to totally have it out for me. Some days she claimed I never visited her at the hospital (false, I basically lived there for 2 months). She constantly sent messages saying I hated her, that she hated me, that I’m worthless, that I’m the reason for her health condition, that I should have let her die, that she wants to kill herself, that she hopes I find her dead body, that I’m going to ruin my 8 month old daughter’s life, that I’m a liar because I had an eating disorder, that I deserved the miscarriage/ectopic pregnancy I had when I was 19, etc. 

For a while I did everything I could to try to get her to see things as they really are. I would reply by saying “I’m sorry that you aren’t seeing things as they are, please remember I love you.” To begging her to get therapy, to long messages recounting what actually happened in an effort to get her to remember clearly, etc. I started recognizing different personalities she seemed to have from violent, to pleading, to bitter.

When I was 8 months pregnant and having complications I told her that unless she could talk to me with respect, I was not going to reply to any more of her messages- that it wasn’t helping our relationship when I partake in those conversations, however calmly I tried to do so, and that I wasn’t going to validate her accusations by defending myself against things that were literally SO off the wall that I don’t know where they came from. I sent her a long message about how I love her but I need to take care of my health and now my daughter’s. I made it a point to tell her I have not lost hope that she will get better, and so will our relationship, and that I love her. I told her that I want her in my life and all I need from her is for her to act respectfully and lovingly towards me.

She responded by blocking my number, email, Facebook, etc. She even took down every picture of me in her house, told my brother he wasn’t allowed to talk to me or about me, etc. Right before Christmas, my brother decided to take a break from being at her house and stay at my dad’s for a while. On Christmas Eve she broke in to my dad’s house (where my husband and I are also living in the apartment). She wouldn’t leave and eventually just sat out on the front porch smoking and crying. Then on Christmas morning we were woken up by a loud knock on the door and this time it was my step dad.

I’ve known that the bottom line is that my mom had a mental illness and it was not my mom who was speaking to me that way. But it’s pretty hard to not take those things personal, even knowing that. I know that deep down, the real her was in there somewhere but it just seemed like I would never speak to that person again. I felt like I had already lost her.

Anyway, the last month or so I had let her see my daughter occasionally when it seemed like she was having a particularly lucid day. But that was not often. I was always afraid to bring my daughter over because I have found out that my mom’s mood changed so fast that I never knew if she would still be okay by the time I got to her house after a check up phone call. Most of the time, she was polite but cold towards me.

The weekend before she died, she told me she was in the hospital, but wouldn’t tell me why. She had lied to me about being in ICU before so I called the hospital and they told me there was no one there by that name. Turns out she had just requested that her info not be shared. I felt kind of shady for having to call and double check but, I did it because she has used that as a manipulation technique before.

Anyway, we found out that weekend that on top of being extremely weak physically from her heart condition, she had cancer in her stomach, liver and pancreas. They said it was inoperable. That Monday they did a biopsy. On Tuesday they hadn’t gotten the results back yet but spoke about the option of placing a tube to drain, to help with comfort and possibly give her more time. The biopsy came back on Wednesday and they asked me to think about hospice locations. Then on Thursday they told me that they wouldn’t release a patient to hospice if death was imminent. Up until Friday afternoon, my mom was walking around talking (even if it was in an agitated manner.) Throughout the week, she was having delusions and was extremely agitated. She was walking around yelling at people who weren’t there and taking off her oxygen and taking out her IV. The nurses tried all week to get her “comfortable” (aka sedated enough that she wasn’t so agitated and violent.) They weren’t really ever able to succeed in doing so. The physical process of dying often causes people to have delusions, so for someone who already has mental health issues it’s even more extreme. On Friday afternoon, I left to go get my aunt from the airport and when I got back, they said they had made her NPO, so she was no longer able to take anything by mouth. When I got back on Saturday morning, I could tell that she wasn’t going to live past the weekend.

We told the nurses they could put the catheter in, which was something my mom HATED in previous hospital stays. But the alternative was not something that would have let her keep her dignity. She hadn’t been awake all day but when they started turning her to put the catheter in, she woke up and started arguing with them. After some back and forth, the nurse finally said, “I’m going to be frank with you. You are dying.” There was a moment of silence and then my mom looked over at me as I was crying the hardest I have ever cried. When she looked at me, I could see in her eyes that it was HER talking. She asked why I was crying, if she said something wrong and that she was sorry for whatever she said. I assured her that she didn’t say anything wrong. She looked at the nurse then back at me, and with utter terror in her eyes, she said “Why is this happening so fast?” I don’t remember what I said. After another moment of silence, she asked “So I’m never getting out of this bed again?” I said “No, Mom. But we’re all here and we love you so much.” I told the nurse to go get my brother who had stepped out while they put the catheter in. If she was lucid he needed to be there too. But in the 20 seconds it took for him to get back to the room, she was already gone again. That was her last lucid moment. I can not get that image out of my mind. I see it in my dreams almost every night and it’s in my mind all day long. I have a sick feeling in my stomach when I think about how terrified she was.

In my next post, I’m going to write about our failed attempt at taking her off life support later that day and her last hours of life. If you’ve read this far, thank you.

Never Ending Process

In my last post, I briefly talked about my recovery journey with ED. Eating disorders where restriction is involved are divided in to the subsections of anorexia nervosa, bulimia nervosa and ED-NOS (eating disorder not otherwise specified). They are all extremely dangerous. Most people know about these, but there’s one form that isn’t as widely talked about. Laxative abuse. It causes an imbalance in electrolytes and minerals needed for your organs, nerves and muscles to function. Aside from being excruciatingly painful, it causes severe dehydration leading to blurry vision, fainting, kidney damage, and even permanent colon damage or colon cancer. After I miraculously stopped purging after EVERYTHING I ate, I began abusing laxatives. At first, I took the laxatives occasionally because my digestive track needed help getting back in to the swing of things. But that quickly spiraled in to just another way to damage my body and control my weight. (Which is actually a myth, because everything you lose is water weight so it just goes right back on.) When I was abusing laxatives, which I did until the day I found out I was pregnant, I thought I was cured of my eating disorder. I’m finding out a lot about “being cured” and the recovery process. There are things I have learned, and have to remind myself of often. There are things I wish people understood.

1- Recovery is not achieved by ceasing to restrict or purge. The thoughts are there long after you’ve stopped acting on them.

2- The thoughts are louder than any other voice, in your head or the real world. They demand to be heard.

3- Weight is not an indication of recovery.

4- Eating disorders turn you in to a liar. You lie about the eating disorder, you lie about being at the gym losing calories you never even consumed, you lie to cover up your other lies and soon you have to lie about the smallest things in order to keep up your lifestyle. 

5- It is not about vanity and it’s not for attention. (When I did some research on my own about recovery, I came across several blogs by people who bragged about their eating disorder and even gave advice on how to have an eating disorder. It really aggravated me. Anyone who has an eating disorder has a disease, and I had to remind myself of that. Even those who seem GLAD they have an eating disorder are indeed struggling with something.)

6- You don’t see yourself the way others do. Especially, for me at least, when you’re in the recovery process. I’m guilty of thinking to myself that my husband is lying when he gives me compliments. It’s one of those things I have to actively remind myself to snap out of. 

7- Diets are dangerous. Even deciding to eat healthier is dangerous. Even one “no” to a guilty pleasure or favorite food can open a door into a room which there is no easy escape.

8- Having people close to you who are intense about diets and exercising makes you sad, jealous, angry, hurt, left out and singled out. Whether they want to lose weight or just be healthier, hearing people talk about their diets is a trigger for a lot of emotions. 

9- Shame comes at you from many angles. I feel shame for having had an eating disorder. I feel shame that I struggle with the thoughts. I feel shame that no one knows how I think about it. I feel shame that I don’t feel comfortable talking about it. I feel shame that my own husband can never understand how bad it truly was. I feel shame for being loved by people who shouldn’t have to deal with me having this problem. 

10- Even if you’re ashamed to talk about it, you HAVE to.

11- Having a daughter is scary and adds a whole new level to the shame and worry. I never, EVER want my daughter to see me talking down to myself, being extreme with weight management or anything having to do with ED. At the same time, having a daughter adds a whole new intensity of wanting to keep from relapsing.

The list goes on and on. But for now, I’ll leave you with those.

Another thought I keep having, is all the different feelings people have about baby weight. Some women wear it proudly because it gave their baby life, is proof of their baby, etc. Others can’t wait to get it off as soon as the baby is born. Some are afraid to change their diet or exercise because they’re nursing and it can mess with milk supply. I have all those thoughts on any given day, but thoughts from ED are always louder. 

 

 

Let’s get right in to it.

When I found out I was pregnant, I felt a lot of emotions. Fear. Joy. Excitement. Nervousness. Unpreparedness. You name it. But I also felt a sense of utter relief. For the previous 2 years, I had been battling an eating disorder. If you would have asked me at the time, I would have told you I had beaten my eating disorder. But in reality I had just channeled it away from restricting/binging/purging and into abusing laxatives. I felt relieved that I was free of obsessing about weight and food, at least for the next 9 months. I knew immediately I could NOT continue depriving myself while I was growing a baby. And thank God, I never once even considered doing so while I was pregnant. I know there are expecting mothers who do not have it so easy. Oh, but there were occasional thoughts of, “I can indulge in this craving now and make up for it after I have the baby by picking up where I left off.” But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to 2012.

I started dating B in the spring before my 20th birthday. My past relationships never ended well. He was a gentleman and his family was nice and they cared about me too. I was living with my mom who was not (and has never really been) in the best mental state. She lived through a series of traumatic events in her life that she did not, and has not, dealt with. This resulted in her being seemingly incapable of building me up the way a typical mother would. She would occasionally compliment me, but shortly after it was back to manipulating me and making uncalled for comments- my weight included. In general it was such an unhealthy environment to be living in. So soon after B and I started dating I basically moved in with him and his roommate. Not long after, I found out I was pregnant. I told him while balling my eyes out and he was nothing but supportive. He hugged me and told me everything would be okay. He was shaking, but he was determined to stand up and be strong for us both. We immediately told our parents and I reluctantly decided to just be excited about it because after all, I had a strong support system between him, his family and my family. About a week later, I started bleeding. The doctor took a blood test and decided my HCG levels weren’t rising appropriately and told me I would miscarry in the near future. I took off work. I sat at home bleeding and waiting. Crying. Bleeding. Waiting. At my next blood check a couple days later, nothing had happened  and my HCG levels were still rising at an irregular rate so they did an ultrasound. They discovered there was nothing in my uterus which led them to believe it was “probably” an ectopic pregnancy meaning the egg had implanted in my fallopian tubes instead of my uterus, but there was, unfortunately, no way to know for sure. The doctor told me they would be giving me a dose of methotrexate that would help the pregnancy “dissolve naturally” and speed up the miscarriage process. They gave me a shot in both butt cheeks and sent me on my way. Crying. Bleeding. Waiting. The methotrexate itself was hell in a vile. It made me feel so sick. I kept going to my blood checks every 2 days and the HCG levels were still rising at a slow rate, meaning the pregnancy was still continuing but not in a healthy way. She decided to try another dose of hell in a vile and, again, sent me home to wait. Waiting, bleeding, crying and laying in the fetal position in pain for days. My mom convinced me to go out to lunch one day and while we were there, I got the call that it was time to do an emergency surgery. I was to be at the hospital at 5 a.m. My whole family came and waited in the waiting room. They had me write out my interpretation of the procedure they were about to do. “You are going to take my baby.” They made me sign a paper allowing them to dispose of the fetus. They wheeled me back to the operating room as I cried and trembled. It was an excruciatingly painful, heartbreaking roller coaster that I prayed would halt. I woke up and didn’t know what was happening but I knew my baby was not there anymore. They sent me on my way with pictures of the fetus from the procedure.

B and I decided that although we had been dating only a short time, no other potential boyfriend/girlfriend would ever understand what we had been through and decided to move in together. I cried every day on the way to work and the way home for weeks. I only talked to B about it, I felt ashamed to talk about it with my family whom I felt I had let down by getting pregnant in the first place. Slowly I got back to my day to day routine and could make it a full day without crying. But I had not dealt with it, I only got better at hiding the pain and shame. I should have talked to my family. I should have talked to someone.

Flash forward a couple months to Halloween 2012. I worked at an elementary school as a special education para. At the Halloween class party, I ate so much junk food that I felt sick. That was the first day I made myself throw up and it started a horrible thought process. I started “skipping” breakfast by stopping at Sonic to get a Java Chiller Shake (which actually makes no sense, because those have SO many calories.) But in my mind I wasn’t eating food so that was better. I downloaded a calorie counting app and kept track of my calorie intake, which I had set at a maximum of 1200. Anything I ate over 1200 I burned off by spending hours at the gym running on the treadmill. The app subtracted your exercise calories from your food calories and gave you a total for the day. Over a couple of weeks I lowered and lowered my goal number. I was depriving myself of nutrition but at least I was eating… for now. But I quickly added purging in to that equation. So now I was keeping track of my calories (allowing myself only 1200 in food a day), then immediately making myself throw up what I ate, then still burning off as much of those 1200 calories as I could at the gym, even though I hadn’t kept any of tthe food/calories down. I was a mess. I mean, I would literally eat a small container of yogurt then make myself throw it up. And let me tell you, anything dairy, chocolate or spicy is not pleasant to throw up. But did that stop me?

I would disappear in to the bathroom every night after dinner, turn on the exhaust fan for noise, and make myself throw up. When B walked in on my throwing up one night, I started lying. I told him every time I ate, I got sick. He believed me (at first) and did his best to take care of me. Eventually, as you can guess, he caught on and I continued insisting that there was something wrong with my stomach making me sick. When he didn’t believe me, I got mad. Having an eating disorder turned me in to a liar. Not to mention short tempered, erratic and mean. Our relationship suffered because of it, and to add to it I was spending the whole evening at the apartment complex gym. When I didn’t want him to ask questions, I would just take my toothbrush to the gym with me and do it in the gym bathroom. Before I knew it I had gone from 140 to 104 and I was so happy with how I looked. But soon it wasn’t just B that was noticing, it was my family asking if I was okay, my coworkers commenting on my weight- some saying “Wow! You look great!” A couple telling me they were worried about me, to which I replied that I was having health issues making me sick. More lying.

I was not myself. I was constantly angry with B for asking questions and following me around after dinner. B left for a week for a work trip and when he returned, I told him I was moving out. He begged me not to go. Literally, got on his knees and begged. But I did. I moved in with a roommate. I had a bathroom in my room at my new apartment. Perfect.

I had been in my new apartment for a while when one night, I legitimately almost choked and died on my bathroom floor. Somehow my toothbrush slipped from my fingers, and the whole thing was down my throat. I could have died right then and there. I have no idea how I was able to get that toothbrush out but I did. And I decided right then and there it was time to stop.

The next day I told my parents.They already knew, of course. But I was finally owning up to it. My dad and my stepmom helped me find counseling through my insurance. However, I went to one appointment and could not take the girl seriously. She was the tallest, skinniest person I have ever seen and I just didn’t feel like that was a good venue for help. I wasn’t in a place to take advice or help from someone who looked like I wanted to look like. I decided to search the internet for help. I read on the National Eating Disorder Association’s website about all the permanent harm that is caused by bulimia… Heart failure. Personality changes. Brain damage. Brittle bones. Thyroid issues. Rotting teeth. Menstrual cycles stopping. Stomach rupture. Infertility. (It didn’t mention asphyxiation by toothbrush.) I got on my knees and prayed for God to heal me. I woke up the next day and all temptation to make myself purge was gone.

I started taking laxatives because I thought I actually had to. After all, it had been a while since my body had to really digest anything. But soon I discovered that if I took enough laxatives I could eat normal and maintain my low weight. I abused laxatives on and off for about a year and a half. Some times I took only what I needed, but most times I took more than the recommended dose and spent countless nights on the bathroom floor in excruciating pain because of it. In that year and a half, I met Derek (a chef, no less) and we got engaged. Meeting him was hands down the best thing to ever happen to me. I could not ask for a better husband. He deserves a whole post about him. We were married in November of 2014. I found I was pregnant again right before Thanksgiving. It was a shock. We had talked about trying to have kids in a few years, but the doctors had given me the impression that it may be hard to conceive and I think even though they didn’t tell me FOR SURE that I couldn’t conceive, I held on to the negativity and fear. Eventually I just started to believe that it would never happen.

This post was originally going to be about body image post eating disorder/post pregnancy, but it has gotten way too long. So more on that another day…