Practice Hope
Encourage, Educate, Equip
Control
con·trol
[ kən trṓl ]
1. manage: to exercise power or authority over something
2. restrain or limit something: to limit or restrict somebody or something
My summer before college was once again filled with new beginnings. We moved into a handsome buttercup yellow house with a sprawling front porch in Morris Plains, New Jersey. The lush trees arching over the endless streets and the rolling hills were like a dream. I had never lived in such a beautiful fairy tale type place. Once again, I prayed that this would be the place of happiness for me.
The first months of college were surreal. I made friends, ate healthy, exercised, and enjoyed my nickname, Arizona Jen. This time was filled with so many new experiences: sorority sister trips to Manhattan, the Jersey shore and big Italian families. I would joke that I was the only non-Italian, non-Catholic student at Seton Hall. In my mind though, I started to notice there were many other qualities that set me apart.
My dad lost his job the same week I started college. The very job that had moved us across the entire country. The job that had changed my plans to attend college in Arizona. The job that payed for the house in New Jersey and the tuition for Seton Hall. My parents did not want me to quit school, despite my offer. The house was sold, my dad moved back to Phoenix for work, my mom stayed in a tiny apartment in Jersey with my two cats, and worked at a furniture store. There I was at college using up the money they were sacrificing for me to be happy.
My confidence began to spiral with guilt. This guilt lead to me feeling powerless over my future. I searched for something that gave me control. Food became that substance. I could control what went in and out of my body.
I would eat secretly in my dorm room and then vomit. This way, I could punish myself for not being perfect. Mean girls, bad grades, fears, moving, and not belonging all disappeared when I was in the midst of stuffing in food. Then the discomfort would be so great, that I had to get rid of what filled my stomach. After purging, I would loathe myself for what I had done. Each time, I prayed that tomorrow would be better. I would be healthy and happy. The thing that kept me hooked in this spiral was that it occupied my thoughts. It gave my mind an hour break from the insanity.
Lying became second nature for me. I had to hide what I ate and where I went after eating. This contradicted everything I was ever taught, but I felt that I had to. The binging and purging had become too demanding. I could not stop. Each moment in my day was consumed with thoughts of food, exercise, and how I needed to fix myself. It drove my every action and conversation. Soon, I became unable to maintain most of my friendships.
My freshman year of college finally came to an end. I needed a new start. A new start would make me healthy and happy again. My parents had already moved back to Arizona. God did give me a couple of friends that stuck with me despite my sickness. Perhaps they did not know about it, or maybe they liked me in spite of it. I am thankful these sorority sisters were the people that saw the good in me through the fog. They deserved a full time friend. I was not capable of being one.
After summer, I was very excited to start at the University of Arizona as I had originally planned. My high school friends had made new friends, pledged different sororities, and started new social groups without me. That was totally to be expected. Their lives were full and busy. I was happy for them, but sad we would not pick up where we left off in high school. So, sophomore year turned out to be much like the last.
I was in self-destruct mode. To make things worse, I started to control food by restricting my eating and using laxatives. I could live on bran flakes with water for breakfast and a frozen yogurt for lunch. But, that did not always feed my need to get the sickness out of my mind. I was trying hard not to throw up anymore. My mouth had sores in it, and my stomach ached all the time. I was always constipated and bloated. Laxatives seemed to be a good alternative. I figured that if I took a couple, my body would be purged of all the bad things. I would not have to throw up any more.
This seemed to be a good idea to me. I thought I would get better. Unfortunately, I did not. My body became more and more resistant to the laxatives, so I had to take more. Two laxative pills turned into ten, then twenty, thirty and more. I had to shop at different stores to keep people from noticing my disgusting habit. The large numbers of pills I was taking would keep me up at night, cause me to vomit, dehydrate, pass out, and miss out on activities because I had to be close to a bathroom.
My inability to manage my eating disorder culminated one night in the spring of my sophomore year. I felt I needed to take sixty laxatives in hopes that it would clean out all of my bad habits and thoughts. If it worked, the next day I would awaken to a new me and fresh start! Obviously, it did not work. My roommates had to take me to the university’s urgent care. I needed several bags of IV fluid to survive. At the end of the day, I was transported to the hospital, for what I thought was more IV. It turned out to be more than an IV. I was admitted to the psychiatric ward under the label of a suicide attempt. I did not think I was trying to end my life, just end all of the bad thoughts and habits. That is what I kept telling the doctors and nurses.
This place was awful! They took what few things I had away from me like my pencils, pens, shoe laces, and more. I had to sleep in a room with no door, next to a woman who cried out to non-existent people. Each morsel of food I did or did not eat was monitored. There were group therapy sessions and leather lacing. The lacing was not just a fun art activity. I think it was supposed to occupy my mind so that I could talk about my problems.
My parents called on the pay phone in the hallway soon after I was sent to the ward. They responded in opposite manners. My dad said he loved me, but did not understand. My mom was angry that I hid this from her and not asked for help. In my attempt to be the perfect daughter, I could have left my parents with no children. They must have been devastated. Cancer took my sister, and I was trying to end the life that God let me keep.
Lord, I am so ashamed by my disrespect for the body you gave me. This body is a temple. You made it specifically for me. You loved me so much that you even numbered the hairs on my head. Yet, I tortured and loathed it. Please forgive me. Let my future days be filled with honor and care for the gift of life you have given.
Practice Hope 