Authors: Kathryn Hansen
For four months, my urges had nearly gone away even though I had faced many stressors during that span—albeit nothing major, but still, there was the emotional roller coaster of starting a new relationship with Greg, the tension of my internship and of living with my parents again. But through it all, I'd rarely binged. The whole experience was remarkable, yet very confusing and unsettling to me.
I realized that maybe there was something going on within my brain that generated my urges to binge, something that Topamax had somehow temporarily suppressed. I began to think that maybe my eating disorder was all in my head, or more accurately, all in my brain—not the result of my upbringing or my personal weaknesses at all. I knew this was an important insight, but I wasn't quite sure at the time how it could help me recover. All I knew then was that I wouldn't return to therapy. After seeing that I could stop binge eating without it, I just didn't see the point. Therapy had not helped me with binge eating thus far, so I figured I couldn't do much worse on my own.
I stopped taking the medication at the end of November 2003, and I promised myself I would never reenter a therapist's office for help with my eating disorder. This time, I kept my promise.
8
: Some Things Change, Some Remain the Same
S
hortly after I stopped taking Topamax and vowed never to return to therapy, I made another very important decision in my life. I decided to move to a new city, 1,500 miles away from home, with Greg. He'd landed a good job in Phoenix, and I would go with him, take classes at the university there, and eventually attain a master's degree in religious studies. Although I wasn't exactly sure what I'd do with such a degree, the subject interested me greatly. I thought that the move and new academic goals would help me focus attention away from my struggles with food.
There was one big problem, however. I wondered how I would face Greg daily when I was binge eating so much. Living far apart as we had been, it had been easy for me to hide my bulimia; but I knew if we lived together, there would be nowhere for me to hide. I was afraid Greg could never love me as a bulimic, so only a few weeks before I was to move, I called him on the phone to tell him I was reconsidering. I told him that we might have begun our relationship under false pretenses, because I'd been taking Topamax then and was temporarily uncontrolled by my eating disorder. I told him I thought I had to get well before we could live together.
Greg was supportive and understanding from the moment I told him about my eating problem. He urged me to move in with him despite my doubts, saying we'd get through it together. He said he didn't care how much I weighed or how much I ate, he'd still love me. I was reluctant to believe him, feeling altogether unlovable while my behavior was so out of control. So I was just going to tell him that my decision was final, that our plans were off, but I couldn't get the words out. I clutched the phone and started to cry, and my crying turned into sobbing, and I couldn't speak for a few minutes. It hurt that my eating disorder was again stripping me of opportunities, ruining any hope I had for a normal life. As I was sobbing, trying to spit out
I can't move,
something else came out instead: "I love you." A few weeks later, at the beginning of January 2004, I packed my bags and drove from Louisiana to Arizona to be with him.
BACK IN FRONT OF THE PANTRY
My dad drove with me. We took our time, stopped at a few landmarks and one very odd western museum. I'll always remember those two days with him. Ever since I stopped running in college, I felt my relationship with my father had changed. He was also a runner until a severe hip injury stopped him, and I know he loved it when I became serious about the sport. We were always close, but running seemed to draw us closer. He'd ride his bike with me while I ran around our hometown, and even in silence, we had a connection on the road. Now, driving westward, there he was at my side again, still supporting me in the biggest decision of my adult life thus far, even though I knew he didn't want me to move away and certainly didn't agree with me moving in with a man prior to marriage.
We stopped in New Mexico for the night after our first day of driving, and after he went to bed, one of my urges to binge got the best of me and I ate many of our snacks for the next day's drive. I knew I couldn't eat everything or he would notice, so I managed some semblance of control. I had to find a way to undo the damage of the mini-binge, so I woke up the next morning an hour before him to quietly do exercises in our small hotel room. I was in the shower by the time he woke up, my sweaty clothes tucked away in my bag. We got on the road again, and within hours, we had crossed the Arizona state line.
My dad took a picture of me by the welcome sign. I still have that photo of me, on the side of the highway, wearing my baggy sweatshirt to hide the previous night's binge. It had been hard enough hiding the extent of my bulimia from my parents all those years, from my dad on just this two-day journey; I again worried about how in the world I was going to deal with the daily reality of it while living with Greg.
Once we arrived in Phoenix, my dad stayed a few days for some sightseeing, then Greg and I brought him to the airport. I hugged him goodbye, and then he walked toward airport security. He turned around one more time, and I could see the tears welled up in his eyes. I waved bravely and held tight to Greg's hand. As my dad walked out of sight down the terminal, Greg hugged me for a long time as I cried too.
Then my new life began. Greg never pitied me for my eating problems, as others had done, but he showed support and love whether I was or wasn't doing well with my binge eating. I thought that perhaps having a friend, ally, and lover in him would help my urges go away, but I kept binge eating, even as our love and friendship grew stronger. Greg wasn't the healthiest eater, and he kept a lot of my favorite binge foods in our apartment: sweet cereal, cookies, doughnuts. Just like I'd done to Julia, I stole his food. Of course he said I could eat any of his food that I wanted, but
binge
eating his food was stealing in my mind. It was wasteful, indulgent, and selfish.
I replaced his food as quickly as possible, and I told him not to stop buying what he liked on account of me—that never worked anyway. Even in the absence of easily accessible binge food, I still got it one way or another. I remember feeling so guilty because I often wished he would leave the apartment or go to sleep so I could satisfy my urges to binge. When I binged while he was sleeping, I felt too ashamed afterward to get into bed, so I would sleep on the floor. Often in the middle of those nights, I'd wake up to find him sleeping next to me on the floor. At the time, this bothered me because I felt so disgusting and unworthy of affection; but now I can appreciate this show of unconditional love.
Greg and I really didn't talk much about my eating disorder; he didn't want to be intrusive, and I didn't want to discuss it. I'd done enough of that in therapy. I knew he would always be there to listen, but I was burned out on the whole situation. I wanted to move on, but I remained stuck. Although I didn't intend it, my eating disorder hurt Greg often. I cancelled several dinner dates because I had binged that day and no longer felt like going to a restaurant. I cancelled weekend plans—to go shopping, sightseeing, hiking, take a road trip—because I had to work out for hours on end to purge.
At times, Greg took this as an affront to him, as if I'd rather binge than be with him. That was certainly the case when my urges were present; but otherwise, it was not true, and I hated that I made him feel that way. But even when he was hurt, he didn't get angry or ridicule me, as another guy had done in college. I had a brief relationship with a guy named David during my senior year, and I decided to open up to him about my eating problems. It usually just made me feel foolish, but my therapists were encouraging me to confide in people I trusted, to garner their support in my recovery efforts, so I heeded their recommendation. When I told David, he asked sarcastically, "So you'd rather eat chocolate cake than be with me?"
Despite his insensitivity, David was right. Yes, when my urges to binge hit, I certainly would have chosen to eat cake over hanging out with him. Likewise, when my urges were present in that small apartment with Greg, I longed to leave him so I could eat the way I wanted to. No relationship, no other form of fulfillment, ever satisfied my urges to binge once they hit, and nothing else—besides the temporary relief I got from Topamax—seemed to be able to stop those urges from coming in the first place.
MARRIAGE
Even though I loved Greg, loved living in our new city, and loved my graduate school studies, it all became too much to handle. I couldn't keep up with my coursework, my part-time job caring for a man with cerebral palsy, and my relationship while I was binge eating four times a week and spending six to seven hours at the gym on days after binges. Something had to give, so I dropped out of my classes in March 2004, less than three months into the semester, feeling like a failure again for letting my eating disorder get in the way of my future plans.
I felt lost when it came to my career direction. I had gone from wanting to be a publicist for a band to possibly wanting to be a teacher of world religions, and there were countless other ideas in between, none of which I felt capable of pursuing while bulimic. I had this pervasive idea in my head that once I recovered from bulimia, I'd figure everything out. Then I'd be able to choose and pursue a meaningful career, get married, and have children.
A therapist had once suggested that I used the eating disorder as an excuse to stay stagnant and not pursue goals. The theory was that I was afraid to fail, so I used my binge eating and purging to avoid trying. If I could always blame my lack of success on my eating disorder, then I'd never have to bear the ego hit of failure. I don't believe this was true. I blamed my eating disorder for my failures, not to avoid feeling personally inadequate, but because my eating disorder made me feel personally inadequate.
Around the time I dropped out of grad school, Greg proposed to me. After work one day, he told me to meet him on a nearby mountain we loved to hike. He brought a picnic so we could eat and watch the sunset. This would have been very enjoyable, but I had just finished binge eating. I felt bloated and uncomfortable and couldn't take pleasure in the dinner he'd prepared. I told Greg that I'd binged and that I was sorry I wasn't in a good mood. He reiterated what he'd been telling me all along: that he supported me and that he'd stand by me and help me in any way he could.
Then, to my surprise, as the sun began to set, he got down on one knee at the top of the mountain and pulled out a ring. We'd talked about marriage before, but since we'd known each other for only eight months, it seemed a little premature. Greg is five years older than me, and he was ready for marriage at the time. I was unsure. If I hadn't binged that day, I truly believe I would have said yes. I loved him, and even though we hadn't known each other all that long and I was still young, it felt right. But that day, feeling bloated and worthless, I told him no—or more specifically, "not yet." In my mind, "not yet" meant I needed to wait until after I'd recovered, although I doubted recovery would come anytime soon.
We talked more about marriage over the next month, and he made me realize that recovery wasn't a prerequisite; still, he'd wait until I was ready. To his surprise this time, I made my decision quickly, proposing to him only a month later. We had a civil marriage right away, then six months later, a very small church wedding with only our family present—me wearing dressy pants and a white blouse.
There were practical reasons for our decision to have a nontraditional wedding; however, my eating disorder factored into it as well, as it had factored into most aspects of my life since high school. I didn't feel capable of making it through the traditional process—the pressure of fitting into the perfect dress, of being the center of attention, of all the work required to plan a big wedding.
Shortly before our church ceremony in November 2004, we moved into a new house. As we unloaded boxes, I resolved that I'd change.
I won't binge in this house,
I thought. It wasn't a dorm or an apartment with access to vending machines or workout centers. It was our home, and I'd act like an adult, putting foolish ways behind me in our new life together. But as with all other major changes in my life, it brought the same pattern of binge eating and overexercising.
I didn't understand it—I had everything I could have hoped for. I had even found a job close to our new house as a teacher's assistant in an elementary school special education classroom. The job fit my skills and personality; I found meaning in it; I liked all of my co-workers; and each of the kids I worked with touched my heart and my life. I'd found a small place in the world—with my new husband, our new home, and my new job—and although it wasn't a perfect life, it was a good life.
And yet I kept binge eating. Why couldn't I stop?
THE COPING QUESTION
When I concluded that making major life changes or finding personal fulfillment still wasn't the answer to curing my bulimia, I briefly considered going back to therapy. Maybe my therapists had been right all along, I thought. Maybe I really did need to get to the root psychological causes of my eating disorder; maybe some complex inner need was yet unfulfilled. After all, there were things about my life in Arizona that left me wanting more. I missed my family and friends, and although I talked to my mom on the phone every day, and talked to my dad and sister at least once a week, I still wanted to see them. I didn't have much of a social network outside of work, and anxiety and depression hit me from time to time. So maybe I wasn't as content as I seemed on the surface, and maybe there were some hidden emotional issues causing me to binge? Although my intuition and my experience on Topamax suggested otherwise, I began to slip back into what I'll call the "therapy mind-set"—the belief that I was diseased and somehow needed to binge eat to cope with life.
Most of the time, it sure felt like I needed to binge eat. But no matter how right a binge felt in the moment or shortly afterward, before long I felt that eating had done nothing to satisfy me—as if it were all some kind of dirty trick that I'd been dumb enough to fall for again—and I felt fat, disgusting, and shameful. Then, as always, I felt equally compelled to undo the damage, so I exercised frantically, which always helped a little. Exercise made me feel that I'd showed whoever or whatever pulled that dirty trick on me that I wouldn't let myself become fat without a fight. However, I worried that eventually I wouldn't be able to do this anymore; that I would eventually start to binge without doing anything to compensate. After all, my body was getting tired, and the strenuous exercising was becoming more difficult for me over time.