Let’s Talk About Sex

I’m not sure when men decided that “no” means to ask again, beg, or just take it as a “yes” but I’m here to set the record straight. NO MEANS NO.

Within the past few days I reconnected with an old friend from college who knew me in the earlier days of my eating disorder. He knew me at a time where I wasn’t my skinniest but I started at a higher weight and dropped pounds rapidly. Whether he remembers or not, days before I left college to go to treatment, he told me: “Stop hating yourself. You look so much better than you did when you first got to school.” I should have discontinued our friendship then but he isn’t all that bad of a guy even though he clearly has no concern for his words.

Anyways, this guy and I were pretty close. We spent most weekends together, with friends in a social situation, and he was always at my dorm hanging out with me and my suite-mates. I developed a pretty big crush on him and the feelings were mutual. To be completely honest and to prevent myself from portraying the role of a victim, this guy and I spent some drunken times alone making out. Nothing ever went farther than that but it is important to note that those were consensual interactions. It also is important to note that when getting to college, I spent a lot of time with a lot of different guys which is completely different than how I present myself or spend my time now.

So, like I said, this guy and I reconnected over some memories of early college days together. We also, again had some drunken FaceTimes reminiscing on those days together and joking about the crushes we had on each other. It was all innocent until he took that conversation as an indication that I still wanted him in a way that was more than friendly. What started as Snapchats asking to see my bra has turned into fake conversations telling me I’m pretty and begging me to get “freaky.”

Let me be very clear here, the only freaky thing about me is my mental health. I’m focused on me right now not on men.

So on my most recent Factime with this guy, we started out with a nice conversation. He showed me the computer he just built as he is a computer engineer and we talked a little about my life. We continued with funny stories about college and then he began to bring up things I didn’t remember. He began to talk about times we supposedly spent after class in my room doing somewhat unsavory things. Again, I’m not being a victim; I genuinely do not remember any of these things happening. The conversation proceeded with him telling me he was in a good mood and that we should get “freaky.” (side note: I am very quickly coming to be disgusted by the word “freaky.”) I said no and told him I’m shy— NOT THAT I NEED TO JUSTIFY NOT WANTING TO DO ANYTHING.

He asked to see my body and I told him I hate my body and I’m not showing anyone. He then told me that he’s seen it before and he knows it’s “fine.” Okay boys, no matter who it is, anorexic or not, pretty or not, 547289 pounds or 2 pounds, do not tell a woman her body is fine. If you really want to get with someone at least hype her up a little bit. That’s beside the point. After saying, “I know you want to” I again replied: “No, I’m shy and I’m not really like that anymore.”

After a few more minutes of small talk he said to me: “okay, so are we going to do this now.” And again, I said “no.” He continued by telling me that I only like attention and I enjoy playing hard to get which is annoying to him. The conversation ended by him saying he was going to bed.

To be honest, all of this left me feeling pretty shitty. From an eating disorder stand-point, I hate my body and don’t even want to think about anyone seeing it, touching it, or imagining it. From a strong woman that don’t need no man stand-point I was livid. Why the hell did I just spend 26 minutes telling a man that I was not interested in doing anything with him? Why the hell couldn’t he take no for an answer? Why the hell did he try to use my past to convince me that I should explore our relationship sexually? Why the hell can he not be interested in my life without the thought of seeing me naked?

I’m pretty disgusted.

I talk a lot about love and boys and finding the perfect man. However, I always talk about that in the sense of being understood, loved, and cared for. I never talk about or really think about it in a sexual way. Tonight it sucked to feel like someone was interested in me just to find out it was for my body. It also sucked that this person I’ve known and trusted felt the need to keep asking when I said no to the original question. To add to the frustration, he insulted my character by saying I only like attention.

In this eating disorder life, all I feel like I have is my character and my vulnerability. Both, tonight, crushed by someone who was only focused on a very surface level part of me.

It feels somewhat ironic to say that because my eating disorder is very surface level but Ashlyn, the girl living with the eating disorder is not. Ashlyn is a pretty strong gal who needs connection. Emotional connection. Genuine connection. Sexual connection isn’t bad but it’s not everything.

This has been a pretty eye-opening night for me and is really making me reconsider how I interact with the boys my age. I want to present myself as someone who is way more than a body. I want to be seen as someone with a big caring heart that fights for both herself and others. In this pain and frustration I will fight to stay aligned with my values and show myself in the light I want to be seen.

Men might be trash but I sure as hell am not.

#b8ddf2

Recovery/the process of trying to begin recovery is a hard time. A lot of people say that time in therapy, treatment, taking time away from life to reflect is “finding yourself.” But how the hell are you supposed to find yourself if you don’t even know what you’re looking for?

That’s kind of where I am right now. I’m supposed to be finding new interests, investing time in hobbies, ect. to create an identity for myself outside of anorexia but the truth is: I don’t know anything about myself. I know that sounds crazy, like I live with myself everyday, I am myself, how do I not know anything about myself? But it’s true- I don’t even know my favorite color.

I feel like I know who I am in groups- the basic blonde, anorexic, sorority girl- but I don’t know who I am as an individual. I don’t make decisions on my own and therefore, nothing really comes down to me. I followed my brother to college, I joined my mom’s sorority, I even do the same makeup routine as one of the influencers I follow on Instagram because I hate the pressure of making my own choices. Believe it or not, I’m super hard on myself (lol it’s a joke, you already knew that.) But to some extent, the thought of making a bad decision on my own terrifies me. I don’t want to be unhappy with my own choice so I follow what other people do almost as a safety net so I don’t have myself to blame for misfortunes.

In terms of identity, this means I’m always following the crowd. I said it best to my first therapist in treatment when I told her: “I’m whatever anyone wants me to be.” To some college boy I’m just a body. To my sorority sisters I’m a coffee loving, letter wearing, girl who is incredibly predictable. To my grandparents I’m an academic success. To my fellow treatment inmates I’m a sick girl who’s in a competition to the grave. But to myself I’m kind of a mystery.

In middle school, when painting canvases from Pinterest was cool, I painted myself with a big dividing line down the middle. On one side my hair was red, as I had embarrassingly dyed it at the time, and on the other side was my natural blonde color. The blonde side included brand names and pearls, where the red side included grungier, vintage clothing. At the time, I thought the blonde side was the “real me” but looking back, they were both two masks I was putting on to present myself the way I thought others wanted to see me. That’s probably pretty normal in middle school but the truth is: that identity crisis hasn’t changed for me.

Recently, I was talking to an old friend telling him that it feels like I’m two different people. I think of myself in two distinctive ways. One being really fun, carefree, unique, and funny. The other being tragically and beautifully broken by the events of my past. Obviously, the first side sounds better than the second but to me they’re both attractive. Knowing me and my AmBivAleNCe the real Ash falls somewhere in the middle. I’m funny but I’m broken. I’m carefree but only under the influence. I have fun but when I’m in control. I could recover but I could happily live comfortably anorexic for the rest of my life.

Ambivalence is my thing. But according to my therapist it isn’t allowed to be: “Ashlyn. Ambivalence cannot be your thing. That’s not an identity.” I’m always in the middle, right on the edge of the best and the worst but I can’t make the decision to pick one. What if the best isn’t that great? What if the worst kills me? So I sit in the middle: the breeding ground of suffering.

To be honest, it’s not a great life to live. Constantly keeping up with other people is exhausting. As I said in therapy, in reference to my eating disorder but it also applies to most aspects of my life, I’m winning a competition that isn’t even going on. I am (well, was) the skinniest because I starve. My skin looks the best because I wear literally $300 worth of makeup everyday. I dress well because I never stop shopping. Funny that everything I mentioned was aesthetic- I truthfully didn’t realize that until after I typed it. Sometimes it feels like the only way I know how to live is in the pageant like mindset where I’m trying to show myself off to look the most perfect. Probably to hide the fact that nothing about me is even close to perfect.

So how the hell am I going to create my identity? I guess the first step is deciding to look for it beyond my knack for starving myself. I’m going to have to suck at things and fail at them but I’ve been told that won’t kill me. I’m also going to have to trust that there’s a really cool life out there waiting for my healthy self to find it.

Right now I’m kind of like a baby chick. I’m in a shell that is so dark and comfortable, it’s all I know. But I’m going to have to grow and break that shell. When the shell breaks it’s going to be terrifying. I’m going to see light that I’ve never seen, I’m going to see a huge world that is completely unknown to me now. My world will feel like it’s ending but the truth is, I’ll be entering a place with opportunity, people, and beauty like I’ve never known.

Also- I’ve decided my favorite color is #b8ddf2.

addiction.

Please bear with me as this may be one of my most honest and vulnerable posts. I threw on my NEDA t-shirt to help give me strength as I type some of the darker sides of myself. Though I assume there will be judgement, as I judge myself, I ask you read with an open mind.

Addiction is a strong word. So is obsession. Unfortunately, I struggle with both.

Recently, a very important person in my life has been somewhat forced to deal with their own addiction. As I’ve watched this person struggle for years, my heart has broken as I’ve seen their potential be suppressed by their dependence on substances. I participated in an intervention like meeting with this person and their loved ones as we essentially demanded that they stop using substances immediately. However, as days have passed it has been overwhelming how hypocritical this was of me.

It comes as no surprise that I’m rather obsessed with my eating disorder, you could even say I’m addicted to the feeling of starvation. Something about the burning in my stomach feels so good. But next to that, I’ve become addicted to nicotine.

Early this year I started vaping. It was eating disorder motivated as I bought a JUUL to curb my appetite but it also filled time of boredom at school. It felt pretty innocent to be honest, I mean what person my age hasn’t hit a JUUL out of curiosity. It was pretty unusual behavior for me as I am absolutely terrified of most substances. Hell, I’m terrified of food much less drugs. I like to be in control and substances alter the body and thus, my sense of control is lost. With that being said, nicotine doesn’t give a high of marijuana or the drunkenness of alcohol but it does buzz the body and alter the mind.

side note: I also hate spending my own money and let me tell you, vaping is far from cheap.

As time went on, I was vaping more and more. I was going through a JUUL pod a day which has the nicotine equivalency of smoking a pack of cigarettes a day; sometimes I would vape more. I began vaping on campus which makes me so embarrassed. I was clouded by the thought of getting skinny and looking “cool” that I was compromising my image along with my morals to get skinny/stay in my addiction. I relied so much on nicotine that when I left my JUUL at my brother’s apartment for less than 24 hours I had to go out and buy a new one.

I was also lying a lot. I didn’t tell my mom about my vape for a while and when I did I swore to her that I quit. I didn’t tell my dad for longer. I made my mom keep my secret which was very unfair of me and caused her to compromise her own honesty in her marriage.

I even told a very convincing lie to my therapist about quitting.

In my mom’s eyes, I’ve quit three times. But I haven’t quit once. I lied to the three adults I trust and care for the most. I value my parents. I value their support and trust. I value the trust and honesty of the relationship between me and my therapist but this damn chemical kept me from being true to myself. It pisses me off when I think about it.

I’m a neuroscience and psychology double major. I value my brain. I value my health, believe it or not. I do not want to go into a profession of helping people with a huge secret of my own. I don’t want to compromise the trust I have in important relationships. I don’t want the important person in my life battling withdrawal and recovery alone.

Today, I am quitting. For real. Hold me to it. Unfortunately, I can’t do it alone. I will be giving my mom all three of my vapes, my pods and juice, my nicotine gum, my chargers, literally all of it because I need to be healthy. My top values are honesty, authenticity, and safety, all of which have been undermined my secret life of vaping in the bathroom or my bedroom or my car.

I’m so embarrassed but to be the person I want to be, I have to be honest. I have to own up to my struggles and stop from keeping secrets. I’m doing this for myself but I’m also doing it to fight along side the important person in my life. I want to lead by example. I want to practice what I preach and be a source of comfort. I want to be fearless.

As I go through my own withdrawal I will be leaning on my support system to help me. My anxiety is bad enough that this will be a rough time but it is the only way to become the authentic Ashlyn who is trustworthy and honest. It is the only way to be healthy and continue my eating disorder recovery. It is the only way I can help people and be a role model.

As Taylor Swift once sang: I have to “step into the daylight and let it go.”

“Do Something About It”

Since leaving the hospital, my body has changed. Though I really only gained three pounds and what feels like a crap ton of water weight, in my eyes, my body looks dramatically different. My stomach is no longer flat, my wrists aren’t extremely bony, and I don’t have a thigh gap. It goes without saying that these recent changes in my appearance have caused me extreme depression and discomfort.

To the anorexic brain, body changes like these feel like the end of the world.

In my ‘trying to recover brain’ body changes also feel like the end of the world.

To be completely honest, I’m a complainer. Sometimes I get annoyed by how much I complain. It comes as no surprise to me or anyone around me that as my body is changing, I am complaining more and more about it. Often the words: “I hate my body,” “I’m so fat,” or “when do you think they’ll call me to be on My 600 Pound Life,” come out of my mouth.

To a normal person, these words seem like desperate cries for attention. However, though they may be cries for attention, they’re not words fishing for a compliment, they’re words fishing for compassion.

In my opinion, fishing for compliments or validation comes from the mouth of someone who already knows truth. I do not know truth; anorexia and body dysmorphia do not know truth. I genuinely look at my body and all I see is fat. I predict an extreme weight in my mind that feels right before I step on the scale to ease the blow of being over 100 pounds. I genuinely hate my body.

I say these things, specifically to my parents, not to get on their nerves or force them to tell me I’m skinny but to receive compassion from them. I’m trying to say: I feel horrible in my own skin and this whole recovery thing is hard. I need my loved ones/anyone on the receiving end of these thoughts to understand that mentally, I AM UNWELL. I am fighting giant, nasty, deceiving demons, not begging you to tell me I’m pretty.

All of these thoughts recently came into play when a potential love interest (I use the “L” word lightly in this context) asked me how I was doing. Fortunately or unfortunately, I’m an open book. When someone truly takes the time to ask how I am, I truly take the time to tell them how I am. So, I told this guy that I was really depressed and in a deep spiral of hating myself and by body. His ill informed self replied, and I quote: “Well you shouldn’t hate your body…this might sound a little bitchy, but probably not, but if you hate it, do something about it… workout with me, get strong…”

Okay bud, first let’s start with: THAT WAS BITCHY. I just got out of the mother-freaking hospital after being malnourished so yeah, telling me to “do something about it” was bitchy. I did something about it: I signed my soul to the devil and allowed people that I didn’t know to force my weight to go up and my stomach to go out.

Second: I’m strong. I’m so freaking strong. I don’t need to workout to get strong. The mere fact that I haven’t allowed my disorder to end my life is greater strength than picking up heavy shit will ever give me.

Lastly, second to last, I’m not sure yet: don’t tell me or anyone else to “do something about [their body] it.” This vessel you’re telling me to change is keeping me alive. It is carrying blood to my heart, oxygen to my brain, and nourishment to my organs. My disorder takes up enough room in my brain yelling at me to do better, eat less, be skinnier, “DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT”, that I do not need to hear that from outside sources and neither does anyone else.

My body is strong because it is resilient. I have put my body in the position to die more than once but this bad ass bag of organs won’t give in. My body is doing everything it needs to and more, my face is pretty cute and not everyone can say that. LOL sorry, I have to hype myself up sometimes.

But anyways, we should be showing each other compassion. Challenging one another to better ourselves mentally, spiritually, literally anyway but aesthetically. Now, if I was training for a marathon, yes I would want to be pushed physically. But the only marathon I’m training for is the next (hopefully) 80 years alive and that time is going to require nourishment, a tummy that’s not so flat, and hydration. So before I get off of my soapbox: if you’re going to encourage me to “do something” concerning my body, encourage me to love it. Encourage me to feed my body and hydrate my body. Challenge me to look past my appearance and focus on allowing my body to thrive and carry out it’s responsibilities with ease.

Hell, I need to challenge myself in these ways.

Moral of my rant: bodies change, people change, you don’t know how different “advice” will land in the context of others lives’. So let’s work to be compassionate and encourage people to better their quality of life rather than better their appearance or lower the number that represents their gravitational pull on the Earth.

*drops microphone*

Attachment

Who’s the queen of attachment issues??? If you guess this chick, you win. It’s me. I’m that bitch.

So what exactly does it mean to be THE queen of attachment issues? Well I’m way too emotionally attached to things/people I shouldn’t be but I’m inappropriately detached from the things/people I should be.

Examples oh queen, the people are still confused.

I just finished watching Outer Banks. Basic, I know. I watched the first episode with my mom and we both agreed it wasn’t great. Thennnnn in my boredom I decided to keep watching. By episode two I loved the main character, John B. Within the next few episodes, I wanted him. I was obsessed. EMOTIONALLY ATTACHED. I kid you not when I say that when John B. was in trouble, my body was experiencing physical symptoms of anxiety. I was concerned for a fictional character. When he went through a misunderstanding with his girlfriend, I had to stop watching because I wanted him to be happy and it stressed me out that she couldn’t understand the truth. I was genuinely troubled and even had thoughts trying to figure out how she could know the truth sooner so that John B. could have the love he deserved. Y’ALL (though this may be the mark of a good show) ITS NOT NORMAL TO FEEL THAT WAY TO THE EXTENT THAT I DID.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, I can’t sit on the same couch as my dad without feeling weird. I don’t want hugs from him, I don’t want to be sat next to, I don’t want him to do nice things for me. He has NEVER done anything to make me feel unsafe or uncomfortable but there’s something about letting someone so important in my life have any emotional control over me.

Ironically, as I’m sure you’ve experienced if you’ve read my blog, I love the idea of being loved. More specifically, I love the idea of perfect love. In my issues with attachment I find myself obsessed with people, characters, celebrities, ect. because they can’t actually get close to me. They’ll never be close enough to me for me to see their imperfections so I can create this perfect fantasy of love with them. However, my dad, potential boyfriends, regular friends, can get close to me. I will see the imperfections of the people in my life whether I look for them or not. Similarly to what I said in a prior post, no one is ever going to say the perfect thing all the time. Their eyes aren’t going to make me melt when I look into them and I’m pretty sure looking cute when you’re mad isn’t a real thing.

So I attach myself emotionally to the things that are perfect, movies with fairy tale endings after huge misunderstandings. Characters who are so broken but I feel like I see the whole story and love them for who they really are. Or artists who write beautiful music saying the perfect words at all the right times. These “people” are predictable, my emotional well-being isn’t at risk. Their music won’t change, the ending of the movie will always be the same, the character was written to be beautifully tragic. I see it coming and I know whatever pain is involved will end.

Somehow I need to teach myself that real people work this way too. Every relationship is not going to last but its possible that better will come or that conflict will resolve. My emotions might change and I might get hurt but I have to learn that hurt doesn’t have to last forever. I need to accept that no relationship will be perfect, perfect isn’t real.

When discussing some my attachment issues with my mom she asked, “So, what are you going to do about it?”

Honestly, I have no clue what I’m going to do about it but I’m sure it’ll make for a great conversation in therapy.

SIDE NOTE: I have a tshirt being delivered today that says “I would die for John B”

I’M BAAACKKKKK

You read the title and it’s true- I’m back.

A short tune up in the hospital and I’m fixed?

If you know anything about anorexia or eating disorder treatment, you know I am not fixed, just medically stable. Less than a week ago I hit my lowest point mentally in my disorder. Ironic because when I went into the hospital I was claiming that I was doing so great mentally. Turns out the truth lied somewhere in the middle as it often does.

I’ll first say that I am doing well mentally. I got out of the hospital and immediately went home had afternoon snack followed by dinner and night snack— following my meal plan outside of treatment, even the day I leave is new—so I am doing things differently. I also find myself anxious to meet with my outpatient team and get back to all of my “rEaL” work.

But back to my lowest mental point. Less than six days ago I had an NG tube placed. For those who don’t know, an NG tube is a small, long piece of tubing shoved up your nose, down your throat, and into your stomach that allows medical professionals to drip bags of nutrition into your body without you having to chew swallow or even think about mechanically eating. Pretty nasty and somewhat scary. Only the sickest of people in the main hospital, away from the ED ward need these. However, in the eating disorder world, getting tubed is like winning the Super Bowl, getting a giant, gaudy, diamond ring that says you won and wearing it around for everyone to see. To say I was stoked to finally be sick enough for an NG tube would be an understatement. But it wasn’t as great as I expected.

For one, it hurt. There’s nothing pleasant about having tubing shoved up your nose until it jams into your soft pallet and you flip your head down so its guided down the back of your throat to your stomach. And that’s just the placement. After the placement, the tube irritates your throat and nose and its just straight up not a good time. My eyes were watering and my nose was running for hours. But as most facilities have it, your tube has to go unused for 48 hours before they even consider removing it. I was in a tricky spot because my tube was not going to be used for supplementing the meals I refused to eat, it was going to be a 24 hour continuous drip interrupted every two hours by a water flush to ensure I was getting enough fluids. There was also no expectation for me to eat in addition to the feed and therefore there was no plan as to how I would get this mother freaking tube out of my face.

Side note: I named my tube lil dicky after being asked what I would want being shoved down my throat. After the fact I should have named it religion for what I don’t want being shoved down my throat. LOLLLLL.

So automatically, I didn’t feel the pride or sense of achievement that I had become “sick enough” but instead I felt trapped. Trapped in the dull unit that had no color and no one familiar. My anxiety was heightened as I knew I couldn’t see my family, I couldn’t leave anytime soon (seldom do people leave the hospital on tube feeds), I couldn’t get comfortable, and now I couldn’t control what went into my body: an anorexic nightmare.

The time for my first, well continuous, feed came. I FREAKED THE EFF OUT. Thoughts were racing through my mind a million times faster than a typical day with anxiety. I was thinking about calories in the feed, having nutrition slowly drip into my body literally every second of the day, I was thinking about the fact that it felt like I would never leave the hospital, and of the discomfort I was experiencing just by having a tube up my nose. So, what did crazy bitch Ashlyn do? I ripped that little shit right out of my face. It took about five seconds of pulling and bam! I could breathe again. Now immediately my nurses said they were going to replace the tube but my defiant self said they couldn’t if I didn’t let them. This fiasco ultimately ended in all of my doctors thinking I was certifiably CRAZY and me drinking what seemed like 10 gallons of Ensure Plus. Let me tell you, Ensure Plus taste like booty. It’s just fake milk with a crap ton of sugar and added calories for no reason.

So now that my tube was out and was not going back in if I had anything to do with it, I had to figure out how the hell life was going to go on. I had to eat or go through the painful tubing process again. By the grace of some God, I ended up eating. I was on an all liquid diet for three days and managed to keep all my meals down. I slowly worked on adding in solids until I was on a one hundred percent solid diet. I was able to keep all of my food down with the aid of about 2048201 medications and somehow finagled myself out of that hell hole in time to bring you this blog.

However, the first meal I had at home, a snack actually, I immediately felt the need to throw up. That feeling hadn’t been present in six days so why now when I’m at home, the most comfortable, without ten nurses constantly monitoring me did I feel the need to vomit? Because my issues extend well beyond just a diagnosis of gastroparesis. Yes, I still have gastroparesis and my vomiting is not completely mental, there is a physical component of my body not working right but with the most shame and embarrassment I have to confess that a lot of my problems stem from the screwed up nature of my brain.

Where I go from here is a two part answer: 1. Straight to therapy, see you at 11 Mr.Therapist! and 2. I don’t have a damn clue. I now have to manage my life knowing that there is nothing sparkly and beautiful about being sick. Getting tube feeds doesn’t make you feel like the Queen of Anorexia and having a diagnosis of gastroparesis doesn’t give you a free pass to starve yourself and lose weight for the rest of time.

I’m scared. Scared for my future in tackling my newfound psycho-somatic complications. Scared of having to return to treatment, and even scared I’ll go in the opposite direction and binge eat to cope.

I’m lucky to have an incredible team of outpatient providers to support me and ensure my safety along side the two most beautiful humans alive, my parents who would move mountains to see me happy. But there are still lots of scaries hiding everywhere. This is a marathon not a sprint which sucks either way because I hate running.

Hell of a Year

It’s only May and I’m already saying it’s been a hell of a year. To be fair, I stole the title from my favorite song by Parker McCollum. But I’m not here to talk about music; I want to try out that whole fearless thing and be honest.

Since mid February I have been unable to tolerate food. No, it is not voluntary purging but instead something is physiologically wrong with my gastrointestinal system. My symptoms have gotten progressively worse despite working with five different doctors, my therapist, and dietitian. I’m no longer able to tolerate liquids and everything I eat comes back up.

I was diagnosed with gastroparesis, delayed stomach emptying, and put on many different medications to help improve my symptoms. Unfortunately, nothing has helped so I’ve been going through testing to rule out any more significant medical complication. I am blessed that I have had an MRI and CT scan come back normal along side a relatively normal upper endoscopy. I’m currently waiting on a motility study to further confirm my diagnosis of gastroparesis. I can’t do the motility study until I can tolerate food so I’m stuck in a rut right now.

I’ve been working closely with GI doctors and doctors who specialize in eating disorder treatment throughout this situation. After getting news that a lot of my blood work is abnormal, with the most sadness and the largest sense of defeat, I will be admitting to an eating disorder oriented hospital program. Seeing as how an eating disorder hospital may very well be the last place I ever wanted to find myself again- I am terrified.

I’ve been through treatment three other times but never for a medical complication. My previous admissions were for my mental health but surprisingly, right now, I’m doing great mentally. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, coming off a full semester back at school where I was able to get a 4.0 gpa. I’M DOING BIG THINGS!

But alas, my body refuses to catch up with my mind and I’m headed back to hell.

I’ve tried looking at this situation many different ways. The first way being Ashlyn: full of rage and anger. When I go to treatment, I’m mean. I take pride in my illness and I often find myself fighting with anyone who will give me the time of day. I hate losing control so I bend the rules and try to divide my team until I get exactly what I want. I also tend to engage in extremely toxic relationships that allow my disorder to thrive. To be honest, the person I am in treatment is so far from who I am today that I’m concerned I’ll get overwhelmed and go back to evil Ashlyn, resulting in me feeling hopeless.

The second way I can look at it is in a more positive light. Going to treatment with the sole purpose of correcting my medical complications will essentially save my life. It is not sustainable to never eat and vomit nonstop. This could be an opportunity to rest, get my body healthy, while also being a source of support to other patients. I’m not recovered by any means but I am trying and I do have positivity to share. That would be a new role for me in terms of my place in treatment.

I recognize now more than ever that I will not be in control of my body, my weight gain, or most external factors as soon as I walk through those hospital doors. However, I am in control of how I behave, the way I treat others, and the amount on internal work I allow myself to do. Going back to inpatient treatment will be an opportunity to test my ability to self-sooth when I feel backed into a corner. It will give me the chance to fight my urges to be “right” and get what I want when I feel completely out of control. It will also be an opportunity to show that nothing can stop me on my path to recovery. I can do this. No one said it would be easy and the world sure as hell isn’t letting me believe it will be.

With all of that being said, I will not have access to my laptop but I will continue writing blogs in a notebook. If I find a way, I will try to post. If I’m gone for a while, I’m probably busy peeing while someone watches me, getting my labs drawn, waking up at the crack of dawn, or doing word-searches.

To wrap this up I want to give huge shout out to my outpatient team. When I started working with both my therapist and dietitian I hated them. I thought I didn’t need them and I didn’t like being called out on my bullshit. As my life has changed and my body has changed, they have proven to be two of the best people I’ve ever known. They’ve taught me that I can trust others and that not everyone is a threat. As I go through this unpredictable and overwhelming treatment stay, I know they will be supporting me in any way possible.

I’m anxious to get this party started again but I am hopeful that I will come out stronger in every sense of the word. Its not a bad life, just a bad day. ;)

dAtINg

Dating? Ew. Commitment. Ew.

I want it? I don’t want it?

A boy likes me? Boys hate me?

Why is it that as soon as a boy wants a relationship with me I am immediately opposed to it? And why the hell is it that as soon as a guy makes it clear that he is not interested in a relationship I all the sudden NEED him?

Oh yeah that’s right I am a mother freaking walking dialectic. I want what I can’t have. Pretty human nature but as usual, I take it to the extreme.

I hate pain. Well, I don’t mind physical pain but I cannot live with emotional pain. Somewhere along the line of life I learned that I am not strong enough to handle emotional pain so I avoid it at absolutely all costs. I didn’t grow up in the most nurturing environment, my parents were great and I love them, but I was making my own breakfast and packing my own lunch by second grade, something I didn’t realize was kind of unusual until recently. But anyways, it wasn’t all bedtime stories and goodnight kisses.

I was unsure of love and nurture growing up. Certain things changed my view of what was important to men and that men can be scary and HUGE sources of emotional pain. I’m not talking about my heartbreak from Taylor Swift songs, I’m talking about legitimate men I put trust into absolutely shattering my emotional well-being. You don’t bounce back from trauma quickly and I am not exception.

Without getting too far into it I’m just now learning that all men aren’t trash. Lots are don’t get me wrong. Ladies, Chad from Alpha Theta Apple Pie Delta who just did a line off of some girls tits then came and told you that you’re the prettiest woman alive is trash. But the man who gets to know you, learns what makes you happy, avoids what makes you sad, doesn’t push you past your physical limits, he’s not trash. He’s not perfect either. His voice isn’t always going to make you swoon. He’s not always going to say the right thing or let you get away with your bullshit but he is going to love you, and love you right.

Side note: I guess I’m not extremely hopeless, I literally cried this week (I never do that) thinking about the fact that there is (hopefully) a man out there that doesn’t know me praying for me and our future. Let that sink in. Throw on an emotional song and think of some cutie out there praying for your well-being as you go through hell because he already loves you. DAMN.

Anyways, here comes the tricky part. That man can’t love me until I accept that this body I am in is the vessel that carries my personality, my stupid laugh, my disgusting sense of humor, my quirks, and my heartache. It is what someone will come to love me for. I have to love that too. By not loving myself I’m insulting everyone who does love me. I’m saying their standards are too low or that they have no “taste,” and would I ever actually say that to someone? HELL NO. I need to start loving myself because along with the people around me, there’s a man out there that’s so in love with me and if he’s who I think he will be, his heart would be broken to see I don’t love myself. How can you start a relationship off by already breaking someone’s heart?

Que “She Will Be Loved” By Maroon 5

QuaranTUNES

Music is pretty important to me. As I’ve said, some of my happiest memories come from concerts. Believe it or not, I listen to more than just Taylor Swift. Soooooo I thought I’d make a list of some bomb-ass-music for you to listen to or not. There’s some happy, some sad, some mood stuff, some party stuff, some of everything so enjoy.

Let’s start off with some of my favorites:

Cover Me Up- Cover by Morgan Wallen

Hell of a Year- Parker McCollum

Your Body is a Wonderland- Cover by Taylor Acorn and David Ryan

Sympathy- The GooGoo Dolls

YEE (and i cannot stress this enough) HAWWW:

psss… I don’t seem like it but I’m a BIG country gal

God’s Country- Blake Shelton

Hell Right- Blake Shelton

Tough to Tie Down- Jordan Davis

This Bar- Morgan Wallen

Done- Chris Janson

Mississippi to Me- Ryan Hurd

Love in a Bar- Ryan Hurd

This- Darius Rucker

Tequila- Dan + Shay

Break Up with Him- Old Dominion

teee swiftieeee:

seriously she hasn’t written a bad song so listen to it all

mOodY:

Name- The GooGoo Dolls

When You Love Someone- James TW

I’ll Be- Edwin McCain

100 Years- Five For Fighting

Drops of Jupiter- Train

Collide- Howie Day

Belle Of The Boulevard- Dashboard Confessional

Down to the Sea- Elephant Revival

I so Hate Consequences- Relient K

3AM- Matchbox Twenty

Nowhere Fast- Old Dominion

sad girl vibes :(

Hear You Me- Jimmy Eat World

When We Were Young- Adele

July- Noah Cyrus

Little Do You Know- Alex & Sierra

Please Don’t Go- Barcelona

The Girl- City and Colour

Clairvoyant- The Story So Far

fun, FUN, fUn:

Boys- Charli XCX

Bibia Be Ye Ye- Ed Sheeran

You’ll Always Find Your Way Back Home- Hannah Montana

Tounge Tied- Group love

Mr. Brightside- The Killers duhhhh

Okay, so this is not even a forth of my music library but go listen and have fun. Maybe I’ll add to this or make a whole other blog about my favorite jams!

Clink, Clink!

Being anorexic and in college is weird in so many ways. But specifically in the realm of alcohol. I’m not a big party girl but I don’t mind getting a little tipsy with the girls every once in a while. But alcohol is so high in calories! Not. Fair. How am I supposed to have fun and stay skinny, amirite!?

My thought process before a typical night drinking goes like this:

“Don’t drink, that is too many calories and you DON’T need them, you’re already fat enough.”

“But if you drink toooo much you’ll throw up and get rid of pretty much everything you ate today, so pull the trigger and let’s do some shots bayyybeeee!”

“Okay, Ash, calm down. Your ex from senior year of high school not going to re-fall in love with you over this drunk snapchat.”

“Jokes on you sober Ash, he’s going to realize all he missed while I’m sitting in this apartment with your eyes going two different ways and your shirt falling off.”

“Well, now that you’re drunk and clearly don’t care about your body at all, maybe you should smoke a little too.”

“Woooowwww, the world is spinning and time is going by so slow. Why is time a thing? I might be the most insightful person ever. But you should go eat some tater tots.”

“Wow, never heard a better idea. I should probably sleep on this beautiful oh so soft bathroom floor too.”

And then I wake up the next day!

Now, I missed a couple parts. Mostly the parts where I talk about all my secrets, like my shitty childhood and how people keep CLAIMING I have an eating disorder when really I CLEARLY do not. LOL. But like, back to the calories.

Anorexia takes so much from you. Fun times, friends, literally everything. Before I go out, or even to my brother’s apartment during this quarantine, I have to freak out and plan out my drinking. That’s not normal. On my 21st birthday, I had to convince myself it was okay to let myself go for one day. It was my freaking birthday!! Granted I have two drinks and my mindset completely changes, the hours leading up to those drinks are filled with panic.

This particularly impacted me before my sorority date party. I was worried the whole day. Do I eat so I don’t get trashed after a shot? Do I not eat and save those calories for alcohol? Do I cut myself off? Shit, I should just stay home and not go and avoid all of this. Luckily I went. And I ate. And I drank. But it was not that easy. I could have easily refused to go. Shout out to my “date” who ditched me two hours before the party and gave me the prime opportunity to miss out on what was one of my favorite nights. I ate a little before the party, meticulously counting my calories and making sure I fit into my favorite XS dress. My date ditched me so I laid on the floor doing an ab workout, calling my family to complain, and hoping I could get skinnier before I had to go embarrass myself and tell all of my perfect sisters that my really attractive date cancelled on me. It was so awful. I’m already so insecure and this guy I had genuine interest in, waited until 6p.m. to tell me he had no interest!? What an ass but also I took it so personally. What was wrong with me? Did he really think I was so bad that he couldn’t be seen with me? I must be the ugliest, fattest, most worthless chick ever. But aside from my self pity, I put on my makeup and picked up my newg with her date. We went to my place and started drinking. Luckily my newg knew a guy who’s date cancelled and he went as my date, after I promised him all my liquor as a compensation for having to be seen with disgusting me.

We pregamed the pregame then headed out to meet up with the sisters. My new date got kicked out of the pregame because he was so effed up but we got some cute pictures before. So then it was just me, my bestie, Hayley, and her date. We really had a great time, we went to the bar, saw people, took pictures, then I lost my friends on their drunken quest to the bathroom. I made a lot of new connections in my loneliness though. A friend of a friend, who was also a sister, bought me a drink because men are trash and I “deserved better.” I had a date for a little while that I actually kind of liked. But most importantly I made great connections with my sorority sisters.

My eating disorder was with me the whole time. Counting the calories, refusing to drink a whole margarita because calories and sugar and “think of what the scale will say tomorrow” but I also lived a little. I did drink. I did force myself to put my anxiety and shame aside and go to the party after being rejected by someone I was into. It’s small recovery wins that add up to big ones. Alcohol is fun and it has calories. But such is life. You have to have fuel to have fun and though I’m not saying you should rely only on the energy of alcohol, a drink or two or seven won’t be the death of your eating disorder and if it is, didn’t you have fun when it died?

Fearless

The word “fearless” means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. For most, it is a word of empowerment. Think about it, fearless… its a wild concept. To be completely free of fear? That’s a daydream. I’m terrified of pretty much everything so it’s not a reality I can even imagine for myself. However, that’s not what fearless means to me.

When I hear the word “fearless,” it brings me to a very particular time in my life. Mid- November 2008 to be exact; I was nine years old. An overwhelmed, very fearful, nine year old. I had just lost a lot of really close friends for a reason I did not know. “Adult stuff that’s not your fault,” was the only answer I could get as to why my best friends, who continued to live right next to me, stopped talking to me, being my friend, and even went on to spread rumors about little Ash. But don’t pity me. Fearless came into my life and helped me.

I’m not talking about the word “fearless,” I’m talking about Taylor Swift’s sophomore album. Let me first say, whether due to the time in my life when the album was released, or just my impeccable taste in music, I live by the fact that Fearless is one of the best albums ever released. So back to the meaning of this album. Or should I start with my story as a die-hard swiftie? That story is fun so let’s get into it.

I can picture exactly what road I was on, in my dad’s gold Toyota Hylander, the first time I heard the song “Teardrops On My Guitar.” For those unfortunate souls that don’t know, this was one of Taylor’s (yes, we’re on a first name basis) first songs to hit the top 100. When I heard the song on the radio, I immediately told my family, “This song isn’t even that good, she’s too overrated.” LOL baby Ashlyn, so young, so immature. Get ready for the Taylor Swift ride of your life.

It was September 5, 2009 when I went to my first Taylor show, on the fearless tour actually. By this time I was obsessed with Taylor and no longer had the judgement that she was overrated. This was her first tour, I went to the first and I’ve been to at least one show on all of her tours since. Weird flex but okay. Anyways, my entire family (even my 13 year old brother) packed ourselves up and headed to Charlotte, NC to see the show. I remember the hotel I was in, I remember going to and leaving the show, and I even still have the t-shirt I got at the concert. It was magical. I knew every word and danced the entire night. To be completely honest and I swear I’m not exaggerating, this is my first memory of happiness. I don’t remember how I felt in my body that night the way I remember how my body felt months earlier at a difference concert, I only remember how my heart felt. Beautifully euphoric, drifting away in a sea of purple sparkles and breakup songs. (I was nine but already hated men since they had clearly wronged my idol, Miss Taylor Swift.) I remember feeling this extreme sense of loss when the concert was over, something that I have felt at the end of her other shows. It was like this bliss I was living in for those four hours were over. Well, they were literally over, but the feeling was gone too. I remember leaving Charlotte the next morning visualizing Taylor on her tour bus. I remember wondering if she was still in the same city as my broken heart or if she snuck off to her next show under the cover of darkness. I wondered if she knew that my life was a mess away from that show. I wondered if she knew that she had given me a sense of healing in our time together the night before. I wondered if she knew that my healing was gone and I was back to brokenness when she left the stage.

My dad had still hurt me, my brother still hated me, my mom still confused me, and I was disgusted with myself. But that night I felt so, well, fearless. I was experiencing my first major high followed by my first major low. As I think and write about it, this might be the first addictive mindset I ever had. I needed more of that feeling. I needed more of this thing that made me so different than I was in my day-to-day life. I worshiped Taylor in the years to come and I still do. I longed for that feeling and luckily, I’ve been able to experience it ten more times since that day in 2009. I listen to Taylor daily and we’ve grown up together. Her parents have had problems, she’s used herself with men to find peace in her body, she’s had disordered eating, she’s cared so much about what people have thought of her: we’re so similar. I’ve had the thought more than once that I can’t commit suicide because I can’t miss a Taylor Swift album. This chick has literally saved my life more than once. I know that sounds crazy but y’all, that’s the power of music sometimes.

To be completely honest, I’ve sort of lost my train of thought and now I’m in a spiral of remembering the intense happiness of the eleven Taylor shows I’ve been to. But in the end, a lot of people think I’m some crazy, psycho girl for being 20+ and still staning the queen I grew up loving. That may be true but it’s also a relationship I’ve formed and worked for. She is a person I love and her music is a way for me to feel understood. That to me is fearless. Putting yourself out there, being heard and hearing others; sharing your story so someone else can feel less alone. That’s what I’m trying to do with this blog, be fearless.

Permission

Permission is a weird thing. Growing up you always have to ask for permission. Permission to see your friends, permission to speak, hell, you have to ask for permission to go to the bathroom. Though, as you get older, permission becomes less of a necessity and more of a courtesy, we are trained so young that we must ask for someone else’s approval. Though I could easily take this blog into a lecture on how we shouldn’t beg for the approval of other’s (which, I don’t think we should), that’s not what I’m here to say.

I’ve been having a unique experience with permission recently. In this weird time of being at home with my parents during quarantine, they [my parents] have brought to my attention that I am constantly asking for their permission. Every time I want to leave the room, I ask my mom if I can. I’m a lady in my twenties, if I can buy alcohol on my own, I sure as hell can go upstairs without everyone giving me their blessing. More interestingly, every time I think about eating something I ask my family if that is okay. Let me be the first and last to tell you, if you have anorexia, your parents will never say “no” to you eating.

So where does my need for permission to eat come from? The more obvious, somewhat scientific answer that I touched on before is: I’ve been trained my whole life to ask if I can do even the simplest of things. However, the psychological answer is a lot more complex.

Throughout my years of having an eating disorder, I have felt judged. It sometimes feels like everyone is watching me to see what I do, what I don’t do, what I eat, what I don’t eat, ect. I’ve always felt the need to prove to these people who are watching me, whether real or just in my mind, that I do have an eating disorder. I’m trying to scream at them that even though my body hasn’t been tiny, I’m still over here dying because I hate myself! So why after three rounds of treatment and endless hours of therapy do I still feel like I need permission to eat? 1. Because no matter what you want to believe, therapy doesn’t fix it all and 2.Because I need to check with the world to make sure that even if I have a perfectly measured 50 calories of Rice Krispies, everyone still knows I’m anorexic.

Recovery is hard. I still identify myself by being the “anorexic girl” or the “tall blonde skinny girl who needs to go eat” and honestly, I love those titles, I’ve worked hard for them. Starving yourself to near death is no easy task. But, recovery isn’t easy either. It’s a constant battle. I didn’t become anorexic overnight and I sure as hell am not going to recover overnight. To be honest, starving myself was the easy part. But back to permission. I’m so scared of losing my identity as a skinny girl or an anorexic girl that I almost have to let people know that’s still who I am. Every time I ask my mom if I can eat, I’m really saying, “hey, I’m going to put this thing in my mouth and possibly enjoy it, but that’s a hard thing to do and I’m still sick.”

With time and help, I hope to not feel so strongly identified in my disorder. But for now, I am sick and recovering. WHAT A DIALECTIC. Though I may ask for permission to eat, I will work hard to limit the amount of times I ask. I am worthy of food. I am worthy of tasty, tasty food and I do not need to ask if I can enjoy that worthiness. I am sick but I am worthy.

Do you mind if I end this blog now?

Obligatory Introduction

Fine, I’ll do it. Here goes my introduction.

I’m Ashlyn: a girl in my twenties trying to recover from anorexia nervosa. I’ve been sick for years and for some reason I’ve just decided to try to find light in my darkness. I’ve been to treatment three times a.k.a I’ve been to hell and back more than once. I heavily identify myself as “the girl with the eating disorder” and I guess I’m trying to change that but I also love it. My blogs are intended to reflect all the dialects in my life. I want recovery; I don’t want recovery. I love my therapist; my therapist is the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. I want to be alive; my eating disorder is the best part of my life. I could go on but maybe I’ll do a nice little blog on dialectics some time.

I’m a pretty straight shooter. I don’t sugar coat a lot of things. I use humor to dance around the seriousness of things that make me uncomfortable but who would anyone be without their maladaptive coping mechanisms? With that being said, I’m a pretty funny gal with a wicked sense of humor. I make lots of jokes about eating disorders and often I come across as being insensitive. However, you don’t have to listen to me! If you don’t want to read what I have to say or you feel put off by my personality, don’t read my posts! It is okay. No. Hard. Feelings. You don’t have time to be upset by my words and I don’t have time to worry about who I’m impressing, believe me, I’ve spent enough of my life doing that already.

Some housekeeping before I wrap up this cringey post:

I’m not an English major. In fact, I hate reading and somewhat hate writing (ANOTHER DIALECTIC for a girl with a blog). Soooo, if I misspell or misuse words, feel free to laugh at me and keep going. My punctuation is pretty spotty too. I’ve had two collegiate English professors tell me I need to learn how to use the comma because I just throw them in when it feels right! Disregard those too, I’m, trying, my, best.

Though I know few people will probably ever see this blog, feel free to message me about topics. If you want to talk one on one or hear my thoughts through a post, let me know! I’m in quarantine and bored out of my gourd. I am all ears all the time!

So that’s me, I left out a lot and probably forgot to mention some important things but I have so many more posts to let you know about my crazy, messed up life. :)