BC True Life: I know anorexia

Urgh! I had run 7.5 miles every other day for the past three months, and four miles every other day for three months before that. Besides running, I also lifted weights and cut calories … a lot of calories. None of it made any difference. As I stared in the mirror, only one thought came to mind: I am fat.

The obvious problem was that at 5-foot-5-inches, I amassed a mere 98 pounds. This put me at a BMI (body mass index) of 16.3 when the healthy minimum, according to the Eating Disorders Institute, is 19 or 20.

Before coming to Boston College, I had been relatively satisfied with my body. I was a member of two varsity teams throughout high school and maintained an active lifestyle. Once I saw the girls at BC, however, it seemed as though, unless I was a size 2 or smaller, I wasn't good enough to be here.

Focusing on the fat on my thighs, each day was no longer about my friends, course work, or social events; food became my obsession. Initially, I still allowed myself some form of breakfast - usually an apple. This would be followed by class, the Plex, and homework. Dinner was after 6 p.m. and consisted of a chocolate chip cookie with skim milk. Soon, breakfast was replaced with a Diet Coke, and dinner became a handful of M&Ms. Walking through campus and sitting in class, I would catch people staring at me. Ignorantly, I assumed they were jealous of how "fit" I was.

My life and body began to deteriorate. I stopped going out. Socializing with others interfered with my eating disorder and the micromanagement of food and exercise. I was on an emotional roller coaster; one minute I was the happiest girl you would meet, and the next I was crying in class for no reason. Physically, I became whiter than a ghost, my face gaunt and my hair thinned.

One night, after scrambling up the desk into my bunk, I was unable to catch my breath. I lay there for half an hour attempting to breathe normally. It was impossible. Reaching out to the one person I lived for anymore, I texted my boyfriend. I told him I was scared to go to sleep, afraid I would die in the night. Halfway across the country and clueless about my health, he thought I was being ridiculous.

Eventually, I sent my parents an e-mail with a list of the signs and symptoms of Anorexia Nervosa. I had highlighted in lime green everything that applied to me and everything that did not in hot pink. All but two of the signs and symptoms were in green. Two days later, my mom showed up in Boston, convinced me to introduce her to the nurse I had been seeing in Health Services, and the two of them decided that I needed to go home to receive treatment.

Not once did the staff at Health Services discuss with me the severity of my condition, the danger of my heart rate being in the 40s (it should never be below 60), or the fact that I was going to lose my housing if I continued to drop weight.

Once home, terrified of food and blowing up like a balloon if I ate even a single calorie more than I burned, I refused to eat. I didn't consider that I was about 30 pounds underweight or that the average college woman needs 1800-2100 calories per day to keep her organs healthy and functioning.

My second day home, I went to the hospital for an "initial assessment." There, they declared a medical hold and sent me to the eighth floor - the eating disorder floor. Half of the patients there looked as though they belonged in a concentration camp. One may wonder how people become so sick without seeing it. The truth of the matter is that once malnutrition sets in, the brain chemicals become imbalanced such that one believes they don't need food; food is the enemy.

Nurses monitor patients at all times. They can't even use the bathroom without an open door to be sure one isn't cutting or throwing up. After three days of compliance to all the rules, patients earn an orange band, which means you can use the bathroom with the door shut. Any refusal of food, lack of participation in group activities and therapy sessions, or exercise, results in the confiscation of the sacred, orange band.

After weeks of three meals and three snacks per day at the glass table; group, individual, and family therapy sessions; blood tests; EKGs; five-minute showers; 5:45 a.m. mornings to have your vitals checked; and torturous exercise bans, I couldn't wait to get out of there. Instead of continuing on to Partial (half days on the eighth floor), I opted for family treatment and went home. Just after Thanksgiving, determined to finish the semester, I returned to BC. Unfortunately, I couldn't do it. My head was still a mess. I was hardly any better than when I had left a month and a half before, and went home for more family treatment.

In January, I felt well enough to return to school … a big mistake. I was better, but still not OK with food or my body. Over-exercise was a persistent problem, and I could no longer control my hunger cues. Binges became frequent, and I ended up making myself sick. Things spiraled down to the point that I was throwing up blood and suffering from bloody noses. Over spring break, I returned home for a second stay in Inpatient Care. This time, I did Partial followed by Intensive Outpatient (biweekly dinners at the hospital), and then weekly Outpatient visits.

I managed to stay at BC all of sophomore year, but things weren't perfect. I still got sick frequently and restricted calories, but never to a point that I needed return to Inpatient. Weekly, I was forced to weigh-in with Health Services and suffer the "Great job! You've gained weight" comments.

I may have shrunk a quarter of an inch, been diagnosed with a heart murmur and osteopenia, but after having maintained close ties with my treatment team, I no longer purge or restrict. The only persistent fear I have is weight restoration. I frequently rely on my best friend to reassure me that the fact that I have an ass again is a good thing. Without her, I would not be where I am today. No one truly understands what those of us who have been diagnosed with eating disorders have been through, but they try to help. Currently, I am well, but who knows how long that will last. I've been told that it takes eight full years to recover from this disease, this mental disorder that affects every aspect of one's life. People do not choose an eating disorder; it is a defense mechanism, a way of coping with life. It can happen to anyone, male or female. The good news is that eating disorders can be beaten. One may feel hopeless and lost, depressed and anxious, but it won't always be that way. There is recovery from this disease. It just takes time and faith.