The Initial Assessment

I stated in my bio that I’m a recovering alcoholic as well as bulimic, so I think it’s about time I share a little about how alcohol abuse showed up in my life. For that, let's journey back to my first assessment at Melrose Center in St. Louis Park, MN, where I ended up going for eating disorder treatment.

My assessment was early on a Monday morning, so like the good little alcoholic I am, I drank myself to sleep on Sunday night to ease my nerves. I have a brief memory of crawling into my parent’s bed like a small child who had a nightmare, and sobbing. That’s about it from that night.   The appointment was on the other side of town, and I had to get my blood drawn at a lab beforehand so my mom and I were out of the house bright and early.

We drove the half hour to the lab for the blood draw, and sat in the most hectic waiting room I’ve ever been in, I felt like I was sitting in grand Central Station. We didn’t speak to each other in the car or in the waiting room; this was unusual for us. Finally, my name was called and I pasted a  smile on my face and hopped in the chair I was directed to where they wrapped my arm in a rubber binder then took four extremely large vials of blood. Seriously, they were so large; the size of a hot dog. I can’t believe they can just take that much blood from you; I wonder if anyone’s ever gotten into a car accident after having their blood drawn and died from blood loss at the scene since they were missing so much blood, even before the accident. If you have an information on this, feel free to let me know.

While my blood was being drawn, I was quite nervous and did what I normally do when I’m nervous, I made an uncomfortable joke. As the technician drew the fourth vial, I made eye contact with her and asked if she could fill another one so that I could give it to my boyfriend to wear on a chain around his neck. Who doesn’t love a good Angelina Jolie and Tommy Lee reference? Well, apparently, that technician did not. She started at me for, what seemed like, an incredibly long few seconds before turning away and finishing up.

After that was taken care of we headed to Melrose for the actual evaluation, of which I do not remember many specifics. I know they asked about specific symptom use and how frequent it was, which I was honest about. I wanted to get better; to be cured of bulimia. I also know they asked about my drug and alcohol use. I was not as truthful about that, but I also didn’t think it was very relevant. I said I drank on weekends like a normal college student, that I took Adderall once in a blue moon, smoked a little pot, and only took my Klonopin as prescribed. I thought these were all white lies that wouldn’t make a big difference, and I think I was believable.

Unfortunately, that blood test came back to bite me in the ass. Turns out, one of things they looked at was my blood alcohol concentration (BAC). The evaluator came back in the room and told me he had a couple issues with what I told him about my alcohol use. The first was that my BAC was .29 an hour earlier when they did the lab draw. Per www.intheknow.com at a BAC of .25-.30 Drinkers display general inertia, near total loss of motor functions, little response to stimuli, inability to stand or walk, vomiting, and incontinence. Drinkers may lose consciousness or fall into a stupor. This brings up his second issue; while having a BAC of .29 he couldn’t even tell I was drunk. Apparently I had built up quite the tolerance.; I didn’t feel even the slightest bit drunk.

I was told that I should go to drug and alcohol treatment, which I immediately refused. I thought they were idiots and that wasn’t my problem. I convinced myself and my parents in the following days that I had only been drinking so much recently because I couldn’t deal with my eating disorder. Melrose would only take me after I had been sober for at least 4 days though, and I wanted to be there. I did some wheeling and dealing with my parents because I did not want to go to a hospital to detox, looking back this was both idiotic and dangerous. I spent the next 4 days straight wide awake and detoxing at my parents’ house. I was never left alone, even at night my Dad slept out in the living room with me, and all alcohol in my house was locked in the trunk of my dad’s car. Just because I wasn’t drinking, didn’t mean they weren’t and it had to be readily available to them. After four of the most miserable days of my existence, I finally began my journey at Melrose.

Toilet Water in and Around my Mouth

Labor Day of 2015 I binged and purged for 12 straight hours, that was the last time I ever did it, a finale of sorts. It’s still hard for me to believe I’ve been in recovery for over a year, for a long time I never thought I’d stop. I was sure I would continue until the bulimia killed me, and I was so fucking miserable I wished it would hurry up and get it over with. My life was like an especially shitty version of the movie Ground Hog Day. The same monotonous cycle of bingeing, purging, obsessing about food and telling myself it was never going to happen again. I couldn’t help but wonder how in the world it came to that…

Well, I blame lasagna. That hot, carb-filled, cheesy, meaty heaven. Lasagna was my request for every birthday dinner or special occasion. This makes it fitting that it is also the first meal I forced myself to puke back up. I think my Mom might say it was more heart breaking then fitting if you were to ask her though, she’d also probably take about 5 minutes to say it; she likes to talk even more than I do.

Let’s journey back to when I was nineteen years old, a freshman at Mankato State University. It was one of my first nights home on my month-long Christmas break, as if I needed a break from consuming numerous boxes of Franzia. Of course, my fabulous Mom made me a welcome home meal; a big pan of lasagna with garlic bread that makes my nostrils flare in happiness to think about. I consumed a large helping of salad, several pieces of garlic bread, and a piece of lasagna the size of an average head. I say average head instead of my head because mine is unusually large. That’s right, unusually large, not ‘oddly shaped’ as one guy on tinder told me. Okay, back to my first time. I was in Mexico on spring break when I made eyes at handsome Canadian man on the beach…whoops! Wrong first time.

Getting back on track now. Myself, my two older brothers and my parents sat at the dining room table. We didn’t often eat together as a family anymore and I don’t recall this meal’s topic of conversation, but based off past family dinners, we can safely assume there was at least one argument, and that I was part of said argument. I devoured the home cooked meal, while simultaneously being short and rude with everyone at the table; my brothers didn’t call me a fat bitch for nothing. Writing this now, for the first time I’m wondering if it was something said that night that set off the years of me damaging myself mentally and physical, or if it was the stress and anxiety that came up by being with my family. At this point, I suppose it doesn’t matter.

After “enjoying” family time upstairs, I rushed down the small spiral staircase to the lower level of my parents split level home. I locked myself in the safety of the bathroom—decorated by my mom in creams and gold—steadfast in making myself vomit this time. This wasn’t the first time I had tried, but it was the first time I was successful. I haven’t been as dedicated to anything in my life as I was to getting the entire contents of the meal out of my stomach in and around the toilet bowl.

I shoved my fingers down my throat as deeply as they could go, they met resistance but I pushed through it, much like my other first time. Suddenly what can only be described as a lump of lasagna came tumbling out of my mouth, compacted as if it were garbage. It dropped into the bowl and cold toilet water splashed back up into my face and widely opened mouth, that was an unfortunate surprise. I continued shoving my fingers down my throat until the entire contents of my welcome home dinner were flushed down the toilet bowl. The aftermath left me, the toilet and the bathroom covered in plops of puke mixed with water that jumped out of the bowl with an unexpected force and landed all over the bathroom. My eyes were blood shot and watery, my breath was rancid. Despite this, I was ecstatic. I have never felt so relieved in my life, and while I often miss that feeling, I do not miss toilet water jumping in to my mouth. 

...Average Night

I pull into the gas station, my heart racing and palms sticky with sweat. I walk inside the small, brightly lit building with my head down, and quickly grab my purchases; some preplanned and some spur of the moment. Once at the cash register I hand over my payment with shaky hands and avoid eye contact with the oblivious cashier. They always ask if I’d like a bag, I always say yes even though it takes a few more precious seconds to get out of there. Before I’m all the way out of the gas station I’m discretely trying to rip open one of the packages inside the bag. It doesn’t even matter which one, the only thing on my mind is getting the food into my mouth as soon as possible. I can only hope that someday they will make wrappers edible so I’m not slowed down by this necessary step.

 

 The second the car door slams shut, I begin double fisting my stash and shoving it into my salivating mouth, if it were dicks instead of food I’d make quite the porn star. I feel, at least for a few seconds, that sweet relief from life that I so badly crave. It’s just me and the food in the car, and I finally feel okay again. I can breathe. This feeling is fleeting, as I drive home still thrusting the sweet and rich food in my mouth, it already begins to fade. I begin to feel sick from eating so much sugary food so quickly but don’t slow down. I easily finish it all by the time I get back to my neighborhood. I park a few blocks away on a quiet street to undo the damage of the last half-hour.

 

Now, this is where the bags come in. I kneel on the driver’s seat facing the passenger side window, and put the bags—still filled with empty packages and wrappers—on the passenger’s seat. I violently shove two fingers down my throat and beginning slightly scissoring them to trigger my frequently used gag reflex. After a brief moment, the puke begins pouring out of my mouth, covering my hand like slime covers a b-list celebrity on Nickelodeon. Most of it lands in the bag with a satisfying, guttural splat.

 

Often gas station bags are too small and flimsy, so I usually have some garbage bags in my car as back up. Worst case, I slip over to the passenger side and puke behind my car door on the side of the road, risking exposure in order to get the food back out. In an ideal world, one nice big purge would get everything up. Unfortunately for me and my fellow bulimic’s out there, it’s not that simple. It takes several times to get everything up, even more when I binge on gummy candy or chocolate. They go down a lot easier then they come up, more on that another time. Drinking a carbonated beverage always helps get things moving though, diet soda was my new drink of choice.  In between pukes I wipe my mouth and hands on whatever spare clothing is in my car. I have no problem remembering bags but I can never seem to remember a napkin or paper towel. I just hope I remember it needs to be washed before I try and wear it, I’ve gotten good and checking sweatshirts in my car for vomit before just throwing them on.

 

Once I’m satisfied that I’ve got as much up as I can, I gather my things together and tie the puke bag or bags in a knot at the top. I get out of my car and walk from the residential street I’m parked on to the busier one where my apartment is, carrying the puke bags with me and tossing them in the trash outside my building. Sometimes when I want to quickly forget about a binge I just throw the bags in the trunk or the backseat under some clothes and deal with them later.

 

Once inside my apartment I say hello to my boyfriend who’s too engrossed in whatever video game he’s playing to notice how awful I look, and then I heat up something for dinner and eat on the couch while chatting to him about how lucky he is to date me. As soon as I’m done eating I tell him I feel gross and need a shower, which isn’t exactly a lie. I head into the bathroom, turn the shower on, then face the toilet and stick my fingers down my throat to get rid of the dinner I just ate. That first binge and purge nowhere near satisfied me, once is never enough. Before getting in the shower I look in the mirror, my eyes are red and glassy. There’s make-up smudged around them. My hair is a mess and there’s a streak of vomit decorating my cheek. I tell myself this is the last time; never again. I’m done now. By the time I’m out of the shower I’m already coming up with a plan to binge and purge again that night.

 

 

Bee Allergy

I’m Madison, and I’m allergic to bees. I think I am at least. I’ve only been stung once and afterwards I was very aware my throat existed. For some reason though, whenever I’m asked to introduce myself and share an ‘interesting fact’ about me, I get extra anxious and this is always my response. Besides being socially awkward and more anxious then the average person, I’m also a recovering alcoholic and bulimic. While I’m sure most people would find this more interesting than a false bee allergy, I’m much more hesitant to share this part of my life.

I’ve been sober for a little over 2 years, and haven’t made myself throw up since Labor Day of last year. When I tell someone that I’m an alcoholic, the usual response is ‘but you don’t look like an alcoholic? Which isn’t surprising, since I’m a female who is only a quarter century old. I usually take it as a compliment since I’m assuming they’re telling me they don’t think I look like an old drunken homeless man. When I tell people about the eating disorder, I usually get a really similar reply, people tell me I don’t look like someone who would have an eating disorder. This, I do not take as a compliment. It feels more like a verbal punch in the gut. I assume they say this because while I’m a young female, I’m not underweight. I’m actually slightly overweight. Even after all the therapy I’ve had, I still feel like I’m drowning in a wave of shame and fury every time my weight is referenced in the slightest.

Writing is one of the few forms of therapy I've resisted in the last few years. I'm not sure why I've been so resistant to it since I have been open to so many other types of therapy that are much stranger. I kind of knew I'd end up writing at some point but figured something really bad would have to happen for me start. I kind of thought it would be me forcing myself to puke again if I’m being honest. If this isn't the place to be honest I don't know where is!

As it turns out it was something bad that happened that gave me that push I needed to write; my Grandpa Gene had a heart attack this morning. Even that sentence is hard to write for some reason, and it's the third time I've written it today. It has not gotten easier to write; it seems to make it more real each time I do. He actually had a heart attack when I was about 13, too. That first heart attack happened on a Thanksgiving, and his second heart attack decided to pounce on a much spookier holiday, Halloween! I made a joke at work today about my him always having heart attacks on holidays. Turns out, people get uncomfortable when you make jokes about heart attacks the same day it happens. Oh well, it made me feel better.