This is going to be the hardest thing you've ever done. You're so brave for making this decision. Get ready to thank yourself for the rest of your life. It's going to be an uphill battle, but it'll be worth it.
These and a slew of other cliches were thrown at me left and right in the week before I left to be checked into a residential treatment center in an attempt to get control of my anorexia. And while everyone had the best intentions, no one told me what recovering is actually like. It is not a pretty package that can be wrapped up in inspirational quotes and tied together with cliches. It is an overflowing garbage can of other people’s opinions, mixed in with useless analogies and trying to figure out what will be best for you. It may not be what you expect, but it will honestly and truly change your life. Trust me.
And now, here I am to tell you what recovery in a treatment center is actually like, or at least what I experienced in my four-week journey in residential. The parts of recovery that no one warns you about, the ups and downs, the good and bad, no uncomfortable detail left unsaid…
Here is what no one tells you:
No one told me that, the night before I entered treatment, I would cry in my mother's arms for an hour due to the fear of the unknown. They left out that the morning I left, a wave of terror would wash over me because what if I wasn’t sick enough, what if I was too heavy for them to believe I needed help? There is no warning that every movement you make will be monitored and questioned; don’t shake your anxious legs too much, don’t walk around too often, never stay quiet for too long. The staff will sit outside the stall when you go to the bathroom and when you shower. When you use a razor, you can only have it for two minutes at a time before it is locked up again, and they definitely don’t tell you that you will secretly do squats in the shower for the first few days when you think the staff aren’t looking under the curtain to check on you. (They also don’t tell you that you’re not alone in these behaviors).
Speaking of the staff, in the brochures, there are no sections on the fact that you will keep a diary full of spiteful thoughts toward the staff because, in your mind, they are the enemy. And they don’t say that these staff members will come into your room every hour during the night to make sure you haven’t made a break for it, and it will most surely wake you up. Every. Single. Time. The staff become your only source of information from the outside world, and you beg them to tell you what the weather is like outside because you haven’t left the building in three days. No one tells you that. They also leave out the part about the five-minute walk to and from yoga twice a week, and that it will be the most glorious 20 minutes total of your life because you are finally feeling the sunshine (even if the wind-chill is -30). No one prepares you to be perpetually cold, no matter how many layers of clothing and piles of blankets you lay on yourself, because your body is readjusting.
No one filled me in that having no access to a phone and no contact with anyone outside of treatment other than a 30-minute window to make phone calls to a select list of family members every night is an incredibly debilitating and isolating experience. Supervised visits from loved ones are awkward and embarrassing; how do you act normally with someone hovering and listening? They don’t tell you that your therapist might suggest that your close relationship with your mom is unhealthy and that you will proceed to yell at your therapist because of the disgusting idea. Not one single person tells you how afraid you would be the first few days of the shame that is accompanied with everyone knowing that you are “broken.”
They don’t inform you that eating again will not only be terrifying but also physically hurt. It will probably feel as though your stomach is being torn apart. None of the welcome crew will tell you that sitting at a dinner table full of crying girls is an everyday (even every-meal) occurrence, and that you, too, will probably cry your fair share of times. On the subject of crying, group therapy sessions can and will force you to sob every time, whether it be sympathy tears, tears of joy, or just a good old-fashioned cry.
Nobody tells you that your therapist will force you, as an adult, to stand in front of a mirror and say one positive thing about yourself. And they don’t say that you will stand there for 20 minutes before finally uttering those words because it has become that difficult for you to see yourself in any light, only darkness. The embarrassment of asking a staff member what you can eat on a field trip to a restaurant to ensure you meet your meal plan requirements fades after a while. No one will tell you that. For some reason, they always leave out that meeting with your nutritionist to talk meal plans is the worst part of the week, especially on the days when they add more food to it.
The first time you get to leave for an hour or two with your family to test your new coping skills, you might go to a movie theater, and if you do, you will most definitely cry while waiting in line for snacks because there are too many options and it is overwhelming… No one prepares you for that. They will never ever tell you how hard it will be to erase the constant counting and tallying of calories in your head because, by now, you have the exact amount in every food engraved into your mind. It’s hard to hold a conversation when numbers are flying around in your head.
One of the scariest parts that no one will tell you is that you will have no idea if you will fail or be successful, and even if you are successful for a will, you can always slip up and fail. That is terrifying.
And although there are a lot of horrific parts of treatment that no one will tell you — whether its for your own safety or to save themselves from an uncomfortable situation, I don’t know — there are also many overwhelmingly wonderful and gratifying moments no one tells you that you will encounter.
I’ll start with the most exciting thing: No one tells you that learning that peanut butter is not scary but actually delicious is glorious and life-changing (and there are a slew of other wonderful foods that you will have a newfound love for). They won’t tell you about the feeling of pride you get when you make it through a meal and can finally say you feel content instead of anxious at the check-in. And they won’t tell you how exciting it is when your teeth stop bleeding and your hair stops falling out. When you can walk up stairs without getting out of breath, that, my friends, is a happy day.
The friendships — they never tell you about the lifelong friendships you will make with your fellow treatment buddies. The support and stability you gain from those people is part of the reason you will be successful in treatment. That’s not on the website. They’ll never let you in on the secret that eventually you will have a new zeal for life, love everything about living and finally have the confidence to pursue your dreams. This is a feeling you will never give up.
Giving yourself permission to feel things and to live life without guilt or shame is more freeing than anything else you will ever experience. Your nutritionist won’t be the one to tell you that. No one will ever tell you that, by sharing your experience with others, dozens of people will reach out to you in similar situations. And then they never say that you might actually be able to have something meaningful to say and that you will be able to offer advice in order to help them conquer some of the same obstacles you conquered.
No one will ever be able to put into words that, when you learn there is life outside the walls of your eating disorder, you know that you are finally free, and you can learn to be happy.
Recovery is messy. It is terrifying. But then sometimes, it is a miraculous experience that you wouldn’t trade for anything. They try to help by offering shallow pieces of advice and cliches, but there is no way to prepare yourself for the journey you are about to embark on. Because if they were able to put into words the experiences you will have, those moments wouldn’t be as impactful; they wouldn’t help your recovery because you would be expecting them.
Sometimes you have to lie on rock bottom for a while before you can learn what it feels like to fly. Keep pushing, fighters.
