This is the way that E, a kind writer with a knack for dark humor, described the inpatient psychiatric unit I was in for a week.
So yeah, that happened.
I last wrote about how I was really struggling and overwhelmed with coming back to NYC. What I didn't really mention was that for the past three months, I've been in a huge depressive episode. This got especially bad after I got back from Italy, with my mood dropping and my desire to "do" recovery very, very low.
When I returned, I was struggling even more than I had before I left Denver. I had a couple of events really break me down even more, and by Friday, I hit the lowest low that I've ever experienced.
I want to recognize how truly amazing my treatment team is. I went to therapy on Friday, feeling completely helpless and the idea of seeing Saturday was next to impossible. I just didn't care. I had been struggling from this depressive episode for so long that I no longer cared about my recovery at all, I didn't want to be around anyone, and I truly felt like there was no point.
My therapist is a God-send. I've raved about her before, and I will continue to do so for years to come. She sat with me, and after about 20 minutes, recognized that the state I was in was one that couldn't be managed as an outpatient, at least not for the crisis period I was in. She quickly canceled the rest of her appointments, got me into a cab, and took me directly to the emergency room. She stayed with me there, helped me endure the painful and uncomfortable first hour in the ER and helped me talk with my family, and feel less alone.
I am SO thankful I got myself to therapy, and was honest with how I was feeling. I am so thankful for my therapist and her wonderful soul and the way she always looks out for my wellbeing.
I am thankful that I kept myself safe, even though that meant admitting to the inpatient psychiatric unit for a week.
Being inpatient was different than I expected. I was pretty numb the first two days I was there, crying non-stop and terrified to be there. But, everyone that I met completely changed that, almost immediately. I connected with these other amazing people who helped me feel less alone when I first got there, empathized with how brutal the every-4-hour vital checks for the first 48 hours were, and gave me hope that recovery was possible.
I stayed long enough to safely wean off of several of the meds that have long ago stopped working, and to get a treatment plan into place when for I discharged. I stayed long enough to have 7 of my most incredible friends come to visit me, which warmed my heart and gave me the strength and courage to keep fighting. I stayed long enough to get back to my "baseline"--which is still depressed, but to a point where I can use my skills again.
The first thing I said when I saw my therapist again on Thursday was, "I'm so grateful that I'm here."
And it's the truth. When you are that down, that depressed, that hopeless, there are times where the only hope you have to stop feeling the pain is to stop being here. And even though it's never something I would have expected for myself, I am truly, truly, grateful that I voluntarily signed myself into the hospital to keep myself safe.
Because I am here. I am fighting. It's been the weirdest/toughest/most unexpected week back in NYC, but I'm still here to talk about it.
And there's a part of me that feels ashamed, writing about this, and sharing such a vulnerable part of my life. But if this can help one person for one single moment of their life, it's worth it. From someone who couldn't stand the thought of another hour, let alone another day, I am endlessly thankful that I didn't stop fighting.
I want to share this story because it's scary, and it's tough, but there is absolutely NO shame about asking for more help. I know that in the moment and for the week following, the right level of care was for me to stay in that hospital and put up with the socks and the red tape over the cameras on my phone, and the surprisingly good hospital food?! Because now I'm here.
Please, please, please, if you are struggling, know that asking for help is the BRAVEST THING YOU CAN DO when you feel like this. It sure as fuck won't feel like it at the time, but it is the most courageous act, to take care of yourself by letting others take care of you.
September is the start of Suicide Awareness Month, and I'm glad that I am still here, able to share my story, and that I can #BeThe1To tell you that it's okay to reach out when you're in the darkest of the dark. You will get through it. I'm always here if/when you need someone in your corner. Keep fighting.
If you are struggling, you can text the Crisis Text Line at 741-741. You can reach the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.
After 3 months in Denver, I am returning to New York on Tuesday.
To say I'm feeling conflicted about it would be an understatement. The majority of me is SO excited to be back with my team, my friends, boyfriend, and Tubs. I'm excited to return to a routine, with appointments, classes, and my internship. I also miss NYC like crazy.
I was reflecting today on how insane the past year was. I graduated from college last May, had a whirlwind summer, then moved to NYC and started graduate school right away. If I mapped it out, I was in a full blown relapse in my eating disorder from about October-January. And it got really bad.
I spent my entire first semester of grad school sick and engaging in my eating disorder. I didn't have a lot of hope and it felt like the only constant and sure thing in my life.
I spent my entire second semester of grad school in an intensive level of care, working to return my mind and body to stability and health. I had such an amazing level of support, both with meals, and my emotional wellbeing, that I felt like I could conquer everything and relapse was not an option.
I spent my entire summer at home, recovering from major shoulder surgery. I've been out of my element, so to speak, but also surrounded by family who have helped me so much with a difficult recovery. Being around my family has made it easier to abstain from my eating disorder behaviors; when they make breakfast, I eat it. When everyone sits down together for dinner, I join them. The decision making process isn't there for me. So a lot of the anxiety is removed.
So I'm conflicted. I've spent the last year either very sick, in treatment, or surrounded by people who have helped take away a lot of the power of the ED voice by making decisions for me.
Once I go back to New York, I'm starting over again. I'm going to be in a similar situation that I was in last fall, receiving outpatient treatment, and having to work really hard to shut the ED voice down and not relapse again.
I know that I have a much stronger level of recovery now than I did last year at this time. I have a solid support team who communicates with each other regularly, and who work tirelessly to ensure that I stay in recovery.
And yet, I'm terrified.
My eating disorder thrives off of "excuses" and change and freedom are two big triggers for this. It loves to lie to me and tell me that once I'm the one making decisions for my meals again, ED will be back in charge. It loves to give me false excuses of why I can't do the right thing: "You don't have enough time to eat", "You can't eat in class," "It's too expensive to eat out, you'll eat when you get home." All of these excuses trigger restriction and eventual relapse for me. Every single time.
So I'm scared. I'm worried about being back to being more independent and having to tell ED to shut the fuck up whenever he tells me to skip breakfast or forgo buying a snack when I'm out and about. I know that I'm strong enough to make it through the rocky parts of recovery, but I can't help but listen when ED tells me that I wasn't strong enough then, what's the difference now? He likes to remind me that I relapsed once, and therefore it can happen again.
It's going to be a power struggle, that's for sure. And some days it will be easier. I will eat all my meals and feel little guilt, and I'll be okay. And some days it'll be harder and I have to learn to be easy on myself. Struggle is part of the recovery process. No one ever made a full recovery from an eating disorder and said it was easy.
I guess what I'm trying to figure out is what my new "normal" will be. I don't even know what that word means anymore. And I know it can take a while to establish a new routine, a new sense of being in recovery and actually doing it.
I don't know what the next couple of months are going to look like, but one thing is for sure, I'm not letting ED win. I'm going to keep fighting.
I'm SO thrilled to be able to introduce my amazing friend, Etta Eckerstorm as a guest contributor to LivingFreeC. She's an incredible voice and advocate and I am honored to be able to contribute with her in our respective blogs. Her piece is shared below.
You can check out her blog here: https://fearlesslyafraidblog.com/
Just as there should be no black and white thinking when it comes to food (i.e- a food is entirely good or entirely bad), there is certainly no black and white in recovery. One day you are sick and the next you are better. One day you struggle and the next you are fine. Recovery is a marathon, full of hills and valleys and times when you feel like your legs might give out from under you entirely. I am one who believes that full recovery is possible: a life where the rules, rituals, and fears surrounding food seem to be part of a different life entirely.
But if I am being honest with myself, painfully honest, I am not in that spot yet.
But oh, have I liked to pretend that I am.
Now that I look healthy and can go out to eat with friends and actually take days off from exercise, I let myself think that I am cured, free from the control of disordered thoughts and behaviors.
But I am stuck in the gray zone. The quasi recovered zone, if you will. The place where you are no longer at your sickest, so therefore your eating disorder tells you that you are fine. Good enough. No need to hit the next mile marker in recovery. Hold on to just enough of the rules to feel like I am still “in control,” can still micromanage my body, when the hard truth is, my eating disorder still hasn’t left me entirely.
It’s a dangerous place, this gray zone. It’s easy to pretend as though everything is fine. When you suddenly look healthier or no longer order the salad without dressing at every meal, it can seem like you have made enough progress. But what others don’t see is the internal battle that is alive and well.
The way you will stand in front of the mirror each morning, pinching the extra curves, and then deciding not to pack that extra snack in your bag.
The way you still seek out the healthier options on the menu, when all you really want is to order the burger and fries and eat the whole thing without a second thought.
The way you only take “rest days” when you know you will be active in others ways, so that it turns into only a less intense day of exercise.
The way you still try and avoid eating super late at night or ignore the hunger pains an hour before eating dinner, because you feel like you don’t deserve to listen to your body, now that it is “larger.”
The way you let the fact that your friends decided to skip a meal, or the fact that you woke up late, become an excuse to also skip a meal.
You eat all your meals, but on hard days, maybe eat just a little less. You have reached a healthier weight, but still want it to be just a bit lower. Not the lowest. Maybe just a few more pounds. But that’s how it started in the first place, right?
It can be harder to ask for help in this stage than when you were at your sickest. It’s easy to be in denial. These subtle rules aren’t that harmful, noticeable, or that big of a deal. They give you the illusion of control that so many of us desperately crave. And when you think about letting those last few pieces go, you realize that you’re too scared of how your body will change, of how you will cope. And so you place yourself in quasi recovery and cling to these remnants like a child clings to their safety blanket. You are not sick. But not really fine either.
I have let myself stay here for a while now. It has felt safe and comfortable and also so wrong all at once. As I have cheered on others, sent messages of hope and healing, and proclaimed that I have changed completely, I have also been lying to myself. I have certainly come a long way from when I started. And I have changed and grown in numerous ways. But settling for “fine” and “just recovered enough” doesn’t do justice to my journey and my future.
I deserve complete recovery and full healing. Which means I have to keep fighting. Keep pushing to those final mile markers. Until the fear and rules and voices in my head that tell me I have done enough already are gone. I have to be honest with myself, my team, my friends and family who have perhaps forgotten that I ever struggled in the first place. To continue pretending that I am healed is to continue living a lie. To be vulnerable, honest in the cracks and bruises that have yet to heal, that is hard and scary and also what I need now above all.
If you are like me, in this quasi recovered state, I encourage you to walk with me. Be honest- with yourself and those who care. We don’t have to live a life of good enough or fine. We can live a life of complete freedom.
We just have to be brave enough to try.
In January I was supposed to go to Atlanta for a week to visit my best friend, Jordan. I never made it.
As I've spoken about before, November-January were the sickest months of my relapse and I was in a place where I didn't think recovery was possible, at least not for me. I didn't get to go to Atlanta because my treatment team was adamant that I return to a higher level of care. It came with a heavy heart that I cancelled my trip and spent a miserable month fighting with insurance and treatment centers to get myself admitted.
It's been six months since I've been to the Denver airport to fly anywhere.
Today, I'm finally taking my trip to Atlanta and when I walked up to the gate I realized, this was the same gate I was at 6 months ago as I returned to New York and a higher level of care.
6 months ago I used travel as an excuse to restrict and was happy about the delay in my schedule.
Today I bought and ate breakfast and my backpack is full of snacks to keep myself nourished.
6 months ago I sat and cried at the gate that I wasn't "sick enough" to be admitted to a partial hospitalization or residential treatment, because an eating disorder tells you if you're going to recover, you better be the sickest you can be.
Today I'm happily supported by an outpatient team and am so thankful that I didn't have to go to any of those levels of care.
6 months ago all I could think about was that I had failed. I had failed at recovery and I had failed at having an eating disorder.
Today I realize that by recovering, I'm winning and choosing life. The only way the eating disorder wins is through sickness and today I choose health.
6 months ago I kept silent. My only voice was my eating disorder and I felt that no one cared what I had to say.
Today I've been writing almost non-stop for 6 months, and I truly believe my writing has had an impact. I've been published in a variety of places, and writing has helped me heal.
6 months ago my only way to cope was through using eating disorder behaviors.
Today I've been through DBT an entire time and even have the teaching manual. I know that I am well equipped with the skills I've learned and I can finally cope in a healthy way.
6 months ago I couldn't see life outside my eating disorder or depression. I trusted my team but it felt truly impossible.
Today I'm in recovery once again. It's still a struggle and I have to fight every day, but I'm here. I'm in a place that Charlotte 6 months ago could have only dreamed of. And for that, I am so beyond proud and grateful for the leap I took 6 months ago.
6 months ago I was barely surviving.
Today I am thriving.
All this from an airport gate.
I won't lie, recovery from a mental illness is exhausting. This is especially true this summer, as I've been struggling being away from my friends, boyfriend, and support team in NYC for this long while simultaneously recovering from major shoulder surgery and not being able to do things that I used to be able to.
Recovery is hard as hell, and somedays there is nothing I want to do more than quit--just give up and listen to the voice that screams at me all the time with the hope that if I just listened and relapsed, it'd finally quit talking so loud.
I'm tired of my eating disorder and body image getting in the way of me being able to enjoy much-needed time with my boyfriend when he visited.
I'm tired of the cruel and ridiculous things that come into my mind when I eat something like tortilla chips. They're "not safe" so my brain ridicules me and makes me feel like shit for having them.
I'm tired of the paralyzing anxiety that creeps up on me out of nowhere, making me worry endlessly about things out of my control, telling me that I will be unsuccessful in the future, and physically wrecking my body.
I'm tired of the depression leaving me without energy, keeping me in bed all day, and telling me that I'm worthless and a burden to others.
Let's face it. Mental illness sucks. It's not glamorous, or fun, or "quirky". They're complex diseases that can affect someone's entire life.
And sometimes, like this afternoon where my stomach is in horrible pain due to me having an "unsafe" food, and my brain is running a million miles an hour about how I won't get an internship for the fall, I have to ask:
"Why can't I just be normal?!"
But, as DBT says, fighting against reality and acceptance causes suffering.
The truth, and the facts are, that I have mental illnesses. I may not like them, they may make me miserable a lot of the time, but they're there. And I can't really change them by getting angry, asking "why me?!" and wishing that I had been born with a brain that fired more "normally".
So, even though it's tough, and frustrating, I have to keep going. I have to keep fighting, taking my meds, engaging in self care, working on the tough stuff in therapy, and knowing that the best course of action for myself is one where I'm living in recovery.
I think it's kind of a misconception that recovery means everything will just be better all the time. That's not what it is, though.
Recovery means a life that's worth living. A life that doesn't get rid of the mental illnesses, but makes them more manageable and easier to cope with. It means that you don't let these completely control you, but they simply become something that's part of your life.
So while it's frustrating and I wish I could say that the bad days ended once I went through treatment, that's just not true. That's not how life works.
Life is messy, and hard, and wonderful and amazing. And so is recovery.
It's times like these where I remind myself of where I've been and where I want to go. I know that if I had not accepted these illnesses for what they are and committed myself to recovery I could NEVER be doing the things that I do. I would not be steps closer to living the life I want, and more than anything, I would be unhealthy, and unhappy.
So when I ask, "Why can't I be normal?!" I recognize that there would not have been the growth and change that I've had from being the way I am. I guess I have to choose the messy and hard and amazing and wonderful that is recovery and deciding not to fight against the fact that I have these illnesses, but fighting for the life I want.
Hi, I'm Charlotte! I'm a 23 year old grad student living in NYC. I'm passionate about mental health, reality tv, and making my cat an Instagram star.