Working With Your Enemy
Every single day, I have no choice but to work with my enemy. I must come face-to-face with something that tried to murder me. Do you have any idea what that is like? The price I must pay to participate in the medical world requires encountering my demons. To make matters worse, I no longer have the option to run away.
Oh, the numbers — they are everywhere. I try so hard to ignore them, for they easily become tangled within my mind. The more I mess with the knots in my brain, the more hair I end up pulling out of my head. By the end of the mental chaos, there is nothing left of me but a drained human with deteriorating self-esteem.
When the laboratory transforms into a panic room …what do you do?
I remember tightening the cuff around my lanky arm, listening for the sound of the Velcro fastening shut. What sane person would be bothered by two numbers, one on top, the other on the bottom? Who would cringe at the idea of their low blood pressure not being quite low enough? In this class, I always remind myself that my purpose is to collect data so I can finish writing my lab report — not to rank my current health status. It is almost comical to think with all of this education that an illness can still haunt my existence.
I remember when I had once checked for a monster under my bed, I did not find anything peculiar. Little did I realize it was actually circulating throughout my veins, making my bones ache, and leaving my cheeks flustered. The monster follows me. The monster is me.
Back during my days in recovery, body composition was not about focusing on the negative aspects of fat, but instead the positives. I remember when I could no longer keep my organs warm, my body responded with lanugo to preserve itself. I remember when it hurt to sit on my tailbone during long car rides; I used to enjoy rolling down the windows and becoming one with the bass pouring from my speakers. Now, all I could focus on was how no matter how much I shifted my weight, the passenger seat was like sitting on a wooden stool. Years later, being in a rather good state of mind, basking in the glory of defeating a disorder, old wounds are being reopened. My scabs are being picked causing the anguish and ache to resurface like fresh blood. It is painful being in a classroom with the task of grabbing the skin folds along a person’s most insecure areas and measuring the fat. Yes, this is the sacrifice I must give to pursue my passion for science, but the side effects are everlasting.
My therapists made me throw away my scales. I remember rolling my eyes as I tossed it into the trash can along with my dignity on the sunniest of afternoons back when I was in high school. On such a blissful day comprised of gratitude and giggles, there I was sulking in the shadow of defeat for losing the privilege of knowing my body weight. How pathetic. Yet in this classroom, my professor did not hesitate to ask me to walk over to the scale (without any supervision!) and instructed me to “…hurry up! Get your weight. Make sure it is in kilograms, so we can determine the workload.” To most, it is perceived as a physics problem, but for me, it was an opportunity to redeem myself, to show that I was healed. However, if things took a turn for the worst and I were to allow the numbers to get to me, it could result in a guilt-filled experience at the dinner table.
As a college student who has battled the wrath of an eating disorder, I appreciate being able to reclaim my future and have the nutrition to live a prosperous life. I replenish my body even when I must fight the urge not to, for it has provided me with energy to think and learn in school. Without the self-acceptance, I never would have been able to succeed in anatomy, psychology, and treacherous organic chemistry. There has been nothing as difficult as having an infatuation with the medical field; as I said before, I must work with my enemy every day.
For most people, it is simply obtaining your blood pressure, your weight, your heart rate, etc., but for me, it is resurrecting a harmful voice that I had managed to lay to rest a few years back.
For those of you in a similar boat, I promise the hours will get easier. My eating disorder stays away from the seat of my lab partner. It does not interrupt my measurements or get in the way of my calculations. Once in a while, it will whisper in my ear the negative thoughts that stifled me in the past, but my burning desire to learn screams until I return to reality.
One day I know I am going to go to school to become a physical therapist. I am going to toss my cap in the air with the rest of my class. Nothing will stop me from achieving my dream.
Eating disorders demand a life-long recovery.
National Eating Disorders Association Hotline: 1-800-931-2237
Something Fishy: 1-866-418-1207
Hopeline Network: 1-800-442-4673
National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders: 1-630-577-1330
