Amy's Story-Anorexia

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Amy's Story-Anorexia

Newspaper article

By: Amy

Date: 2002

Source: "Amy's Story-Anorexia." Girl's Life. Baltimore: Monarch Avalon, February-March, 2002.

About the Author: Amy is a young woman from East Lansing, Michigan, who describes her experience of anorexia and her recovery in therapy at the Renfrew Center in Philadelphia, which is dedicated to the treatment of people with eating disorders and depression. She is a talented artist who has exhibited and sold paintings. Amy won a scholarship to Savannah College of Art and Design, but had to give up her place because of her illness. Amy attended Michigan State University and hopes to eventually return to art school.

INTRODUCTION

Anorexia nervosa is an eating disorder involving severe food restriction. The German psychiatrist Hilde Bruch, who moved to the United States in the 1930s, began to raise awareness of the condition with her classic text Eating Disorders: Obesity, Anorexia Nervosa and the Person Within written in 1973. Before this, the disorder tended to go unrecognized. However, anorexia probably has a long history. The medieval mystics believed that self-starvation would bring them closer to God. One notable example was St. Catherine of Siena (1347–1380) who was said to have gone without solid food for eight years.

Public awareness of anorexia probably began with the death of the American singer Karen Carpenter in 1983 from heart failure brought on by the condition. After years of self-starvation, for which she would eventually receive treatment, Carpenter weighed 108 pounds when she died. Amy describes that she understood the dangers of anorexia. Indeed, she had hung posters around her school for Eating Disorders Awareness Week. But, as she admits, denial is a hallmark of the condition and recovery is only possible once the individual admits what she is doing to herself.

Amy's story is a confessional that is intended to help other young women who may recognize her experience. Anorexia is a disease that affects primarily young females (whites are affected more often than women of other ethnicities) who are often exposed to tremendous media pressures to be thin. Thus, in the girls' magazine, Amy's story targets the primary correct demographic audience at risk for anorexia.

PRIMARY SOURCE

Anorexia is like you're running down a hill, and all this wind is going through your hair, and it's exciting. But all of a sudden, you're going too fast and start to spiral out of control. You fall. Then you're just sitting on the ground, shocked, with all these bruises.

If you knew me in high school, you'd never think I had any problems. I was the girl who had it all—a near-perfect GPA, the lead in the school play and an editorial position on the school newspaper. I was also involved in several clubs and activities, like Students for Environmental Action, Student Congress and yearbook. I even had a cool boyfriend—everyone in school said we were "the perfect couple."

I'm also a painter. I've won several school and state art awards. My work has been displayed in local galleries, as well as the Art Institute of Chicago. I've even sold some of my paintings for hundreds of dollars.

My friends saw me as a stable, happy-go-lucky girl—the one everyone went to for help with their problems. But I hardly ever talked to my friends about my problems, mainly because I didn't have any—or at least none I could admit.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to do everything under the sun—and be the best at it. If I got a C, I'd be really hard on myself—much harder than my parents were on me. But by fall 2000—the first semester of my senior year—I was totally exhausted and burnt out. In addition to keeping up my GPA and extracurricular activities, I was under a tight deadline to get out numerous art school applications and put together a portfolio of my paintings. My parents made it pretty clear they wanted me to get a scholarship, since paying for college would be a challenge.

Plus, things weren't so great at home. I'd always had a terrible relationship with my dad. I felt like he ignored me most of the time. He could also be pretty scary. He screamed at me for little things, like leaving crumbs on the kitchen counter after making a snack. I'd tell him when he hurt my feelings, but he'd just walk away and slam the door. On top of it all, he and my mom were fighting a lot, too.

But the thing is, I didn't want to burden my friends with my family problems because most of their parents are divorced. I felt lame complaining about my bickering parents—at least they were still together.

It was hard to be at school and even harder to be at home. As a result, I began eating less. I'd be too upset to eat at home because my parents were always bickering at the dining room table. I didn't eat much outside the house either because I was rushing around all the time. Starving myself wasn't my actual goal at first—just more of a response to everything going on in my life. But I started losing weight.

I didn't even realize I was shedding pounds until my friends and family began telling me how great I looked. Even my dad complimented me, which felt so good. So I made a conscious effort to keep my weight down by only eating low-fat foods. Soon, my clothes got even looser. Then I became vegetarian, also cutting out all foods with chemicals and preservatives. I lost even more. I felt I had finally found something I could completely control—my weight. I could restrict what I ate, how much I ate and when I ate. Even though my life felt crazy, I could do this one thing very well and, initially, I got a high from this accomplishment. I weighed myself all the time. Gaining or losing a single pound determined my mood for the whole day.

For a month or so, everyone kept complimenting me. But before long, my clothes were like sacks. By spring, jeans that fit perfectly in the fall were hanging off my hips. My mother told me I looked too skinny and that she was worried about how much weight I had lost. My friends said the same thing.

But, rather than admitting there was a problem, I lied. I told everyone—my family, my friends, even my boyfriend—that I'd lost weight because of this winter flu I couldn't shake. Of course, the reason I was sick was because I hadn't eaten much in four months. But I assured everyone I was fine. I made a special effort to eat snacks around friends and family, pretending it was no big deal. Then I'd eat nothing else for the rest of the day.

Looking back, I can't believe I was such a liar. I'd always been a terrible liar, never able to keep a straight face. But I quickly became a master of deception because I didn't want to give up my food restrictions. That's the only thing I felt I could count on.

What's weird is that I grew up totally aware of the dangers of anorexia. My mom taught me all the warning signs of eating disorders and how important it is to have a good body image. I read magazine articles and saw TV shows about eating disorders. I remember watching a movie in health class about the dangers of anorexia. I even hung warning posters around school during Eating Disorder Awareness Week. But I never connected my own weight loss to anorexia. Denial, of course, is a symptom of the disease.

By second semester of my senior year, I had totally stopped listening to my body's signals. I ignored my grumbling belly and hunger pangs. I was exhausted from not having enough nutrients in my body. I barely had enough energy to dance (I love to dance) or do my artwork. It all just felt like it took too much effort. I was always freezing cold because my body lacked the necessary fat to keep me warm. People thought I wore heavy layers to hide my body, but it was mostly because I was just so darn cold!

I knew the calorie count of practically everything, and would typically only have an apple and some water for each meal. A voice in my head kept telling me the less food I let touch my lips, the more stable and safe I would be.

But my body was far from safe. My friends and family kept telling me I was too skinny, but no one could force me to eat. And, to be honest, it made me feel powerful that I could ignore their pleas and starve myself.

It got to a point that I couldn't even pretend to be happy anymore. While I was rehearsing for the school play, I got really sick and had to see a doctor. Both he and the nurses told me I was too thin, but I lied and told them I was going to gain the weight back. "Not a problem," I told them.

Having an eating disorder is so lonely—losing weight is the only thing that really matters. I forgot all about my passions and interests, friends and family. All I had was the ability to make myself sicker.

Still, I scored a scholarship to the Savannah College of Art and Design and went despite my parents' concerns about my health. By this time, I was only 90-some pounds. Even as my bones poked out from under my skin, I could not admit to anyone—including myself—how incredibly sick I was. I couldn't concentrate on lectures. I couldn't remember a thing I had read moments after reading it. Just climbing a set of stairs made my heart race. I was always exhausted. I didn't even want to paint—the reason I had worked so hard to attend Savannah in the first place.

I cried myself to sleep each night, wanting to get better but knowing I was in way over my head. When I would finally doze off, I believed there was a chance I wouldn't wake up in the morning.

One afternoon, while riding the local bus in Savannah, a stranger told me I'd better start taking care of myself. That was the moment I totally broke down. I knew I needed help. I told my parents to come get me. I felt like the ultimate failure.

As I packed, I found a photo of myself at age 15, before the disorder. I was taking classes at an art institute in Chicago, and I was with two friends in the picture. I was covered in paint, and I was glowing because I was so happy—I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted. I suddenly realized how unfamiliar those feelings of joy had become to me. I wanted them back. I wanted to live.

My parents brought me home and took me to The Renfrew Center in Philadelphia, a national institute dedicated to educating and treating people with eating disorders and depression. The morning I left for Renfrew, I stood shaking in the shower. I made a bargain with God. I promised to love life again if he would help me get through this.

Those first days at the center were incredibly painful. I had spent so much time lying to myself and everyone else. Then, all of a sudden, I was forced to be honest. I had to see a therapist every other day and open up about my sickness for the first time. I knew I had to be truthful because I had reached a point where I could really understand how bad off I was. I wanted to change.

I spent a lot of time in group therapy, too. I'd talk about how lonely and upsetting the past year had been. Confiding in the other patients helped me begin to heal. It was like we'd known each other forever. We'd all been through so many of the same experiences. It was like having a bunch of sisters who unconditionally loved me. I finally felt comfortable asking for help. I could say, "I'm having a rough day. Could you help me?" and these girls would hug me without any questions.

At Renfrew, we were forced to finish everything on our plates. We were weighed every morning to make sure we were gaining weight. If not, we were switched to a meal plan with even more food. I wanted to eat, but I couldn't. My body wasn't used to eating, and it was incredibly difficult. Food came back up my throat right after I swallowed.

My meal plan was increased again and again until I was up to 4,000 calories a day. The food shocked my system. I had no idea how much internal damage I had done to my body. All of my organs—heart, brain, liver—were starving.

But I forced myself to eat and, gradually, was able to keep food down. I kept at it and, much to my surprise, I felt better once my body accepted the food. I smiled for the first time in a year and even joked with the other girls. I=remembered what joy felt like.

Patients' families were required to get counseling, too. It was time for my family to deal with our issues. After a particularly rough therapy session, my father said to me, "You don't have to be sick for me to notice you," and asked me to forgive him. He was crying, and I realized I wanted to forgive him. That was huge. I also realized that, in many ways, my anorexia was an attempt to find out if my family, friends, and boyfriend would still love me even if I weren't perfect. As it turns out, starving myself was a calculated way for me to get attention without asking for it.

After three weeks at Renfrew (the average stay), I returned home. I now have my own nutritionist and a meal plan I follow to make sure my weight stays stable. Once a week, I go to both a family therapist and my own therapist. Eating still isn't easy, especially since my body was so messed up that I had to eat tons of food to gain even a few pounds. But it helps that I stay in close touch with my friends from the center, and we exchange letters of inspiration.

It's around Christmas now, and I've been in recovery for three months. I know I have a long way to go. Anorexia doesn't just go away. That's why experts refer to "recovery" rather than a "cure." The truth is, 40 percent of anorexics relapse within four years.

I got so used to seeing my body a certain way that sometimes I get anxious about gaining weight. But I'm trying to change the way I look at the added pounds. Rather than thinking, "I'm gaining weight," or "getting fat," I think "I deserve to take up space and make a place for myself."

Physically, I'm pretty lucky. My vital signs are good. I sleep soundly and feel calm. However, I do worry that I have done permanent damage to my body. My menstrual cycle stopped during my weight loss. I just got it back but the doctors don't know if I'll be able to have kids. I really want children, so not having them is a sad and scary thought.

I'm taking small steps toward my future. I'm attending Michigan State University next semester rather than going back to Savannah. I don't want any major changes in my life while I'm trying to get healthier. But, I do hope to eventually transfer back into an art school. At Renfrew, I was painting again, mostly as a form of therapy. And now that I am eating, my energy is back, as well as my desire to create.

Not all of my old high school friends stuck by me, but my closest friends have. They are thrilled I'm in treatment. I feel terrible for all the lies and for shutting them out. As for my boyfriend, he supported me even at my worst, and I consider him my best friend.

My dad and I are still working on our relationship. He deals with his own issues in therapy, and it helps him better relate to me. We hang out at coffee shops, museums or CD stores. I never thought I'd say this, but I enjoy spending time with him. We make time daily to share our concerns.

So far, my life has not turned out at all as I expected. But I'm tons stronger than I thought I was. And I know it's OK, even necessary, to ask for help when you're struggling. So many girls with eating disorders are caretakers; pretending things are fine in their own lives. But if you are suffering, you have to admit things aren't fine. You owe it to yourself to be honest and to be your best.

SIGNIFICANCE

There are aspects to Amy's story which will be very familiar to health professionals dealing with anorexia. Her weight falls below 100 pounds due to chronic self-starvation. It is usual for those with anorexia to fall below eighty-five percent of their ideal body weight. She is always cold, tired, and hungry (it is not true that anorexics do not feel hunger). Anorexia can lead to organ failure from the stress of starvation, and mortality rates are up to twenty percent. Amy may not have suffered permanent damage, but she is worried about infertility, which is a common complication of the condition.

Losing weight makes Amy feel confident and in control of her surroundings. This is a common feature among anorexics. A disturbed body image, where she still sees herself as overweight even though she becomes thinner, is also common. People with anorexia are often talented, high achieving perfectionists, like Amy. However, lack of self esteem is a problem, and there are often family tensions and conflicts present.

Therapy, both family and individual, is often helpful to an anorexic, along with a careful re-feeding program under direct medical supervision. However, relapse rates can be as high as forty percent within four years, which is why recovering anorexics need continuing medical and psychiatric therapy. It is interesting that anorexia is far more common in Western cultures where fashion models, pop stars, and actresses are often very thin. These famous women are often seen as role models by impressionable girls. What makes the issue even more complex is that many Western-developed nations are also battling the problem of obesity, and publicity is often directed at methods of combating overeating.