This past week at church, our pastor,
John McKinzie, challenged the
congregation to tell our stories of hope. I am not normally one to talk much
about myself, as you can probably tell from this blog, but I felt like God was
really pushing me to put my story out there, so here I am...completely
transparent...and completely terrified.
You see, my story of hope is not a happy, flowery, joyful story. My story of
hope is not pretty. My story of hope involves a battle that I endured with the
devil for nearly four years. My story of hope was almost a story of death. I'll
start at the beginning.
I was raised as the younger of two children in University Park, a suburb of
Dallas, Texas. My mom stayed at home with the kids while we were younger, and
my dad was (and still is) a doctor. My brother was about two and a half years
older, and we fought like cats and dogs. It was a pretty typical, albeit very
blessed, upbringing. We never wanted for anything. We attended great schools,
grew up in a Methodist church, took family vacations, and every summer, I was
fortunate enough to attend Camp Ozark in Mt. Ida, Arkansas, for two weeks. It
was the greatest two weeks of my year.
God began knocking on the door of my heart very young, and I committed my
life to him at the age of 12, sitting at the foot of a cross after a hike up
the Ozark mountains one summer at camp. It was almost poetic. After that, I
became very involved with my church youth group and missions, and for some
unknown reason, they even let me sing in the youth choir. Life was sweet.
While in middle school, I became very involved in dance and cheerleading. My
dream was to make the Highland Belles drill team once I got to high school. I
spent 10-15 hours a week clothed head to toe in Spandex while staring at myself
in full-length mirrors. And believe it or not, I felt okay about myself. Could
my thighs be thinner? Sure. But was I willing to give up my beloved bagels and
cookies? Nah. At five feet, five inches tall, I weighed a very healthy 125
pounds. Generally speaking, I felt good about myself. That is until I took a
trip to Mexico with a sweet friend over Christmas break of my eighth
grade year. That trip, and the pictures taken there, changed the course of my
life forever.
Back in those days, we took pictures on disposable cameras. We didn't see
the photos immediately. We had to take them up to a drug store and wait an
AGONIZING 60 minutes for the film to be developed. As I waited for my pictures,
I remember purchasing a Tiger Beat magazine to pass the time, and a York
Peppermint Patty and 7Up to enjoy on the way home. I never had either one.
As I held those pictures in my hands, something in me changed. For the first
time in my life, what I saw in those pictures was different. The faint whisper
of comparison crept into my life. Sitting side by side in our swimsuits on
those beach chairs, I noticed that my friend's thighs were thinner than mine in
the pictures. Her stomach was flatter. Her arms more muscular. I didn't know
exactly how to process what I was feeling, but I did know that I did not like
what I saw.
When I arrived home, I remember walking upstairs to talk to my mom in her
office. I sat on her desk, and I confessed how I was feeling. I knew she'd
understand. I had watched my mom, like most women, go on and off diets my whole
life. Although I'm positive she offered me some reassuring words about how I
was beautiful just the way I was, I don't remember them. What I do remember
very clearly was her proposed solution - we would go on a diet together and
support each other. Sounds innocent, right? What my mom didn't understand about
me then was my competitive drive. She offered me support and accountability,
but what I saw in that moment was a competition. And man, did I want to WIN.
I began walking on our home treadmill in addition to my dance classes. I
read nutrition labels and started counting calories. I still remember my food
logs. I remember the sense of accomplishment I felt watching the calories I ate
each day drop from 1700 to 1200 to, at one point, 500. 500 calories for a very
active young woman in a whole day. (To put that into perspective, that is the
typical calorie intake of an infant. An infant!)
The weight fell off rapidly. By March, I was down 10 pounds, and by May, I
had lost 10 more. Each time I put on clothing that was too big, something in me
rejoiced. Each time someone complimented me or told me how good I looked, my
heart sang. Each time I looked into those mirrors in the dance studio and saw
my shrinking thighs, I felt accomplished. I relished every second of it. The
praise, the smaller clothing sizes, the way I could jump higher and turn
faster...it consumed me.
By that summer, I had lost my period. My face became pale. The compliments
became words of concern. My friends' parents would call my parents, worried
that I was ill. A dance teacher who hadn't seen me in several months pulled me
aside one day and told me I looked like I had been in a concentration camp. As
sick as it was, that comment didn't frighten me as it should have. It made me
smile. It pushed me to lose even more weight. By this point, Satan's grip on me
was so strong that I didn't see the harm in what I was doing. I just thought I
was winning the competition. After all, I was down to a mere 90 pounds.
At home, things were rocky. My dad tried to help me. He was a doctor after
all, so he knew something was terribly wrong. He made me step on his scale
every Sunday and would lecture me if I had lost weight. (He didn't realize I
had my own scale hidden in my bathroom that I had bought without my parents'
knowledge.) Meal times became a battle zone. My parents were terrified to send
me off to my beloved Camp Ozark that summer, worried about what would happen
when meals were no longer monitored. But I made promises to them to stay
healthy that I didn't keep, and of course, their fears were realized when I
came home weighing even less than I had when I left. They hired a nutritionist
to help me, but all I did was tell her lies and claim that I was eating all
kinds of things that I wasn't. She believed me, and it eased my parents'
concerns temporarily to at least know I was being seen by a medical
professional.
That fall, I began my freshman year of high school and survived primarily on
Extra spearmint gum and Diet Dr. Pepper. My face was sunken and my arms looked
like toothpicks. My clothes hung on me, but I continued in my quest. That
winter came Highland Belles tryouts. I was weak and unhealthy, and the judges
knew it. I didn't make the team. At that point, I thought I was at rock-bottom.
My beloved dream had been shattered. (If only I knew then what was coming.)
What I found out from the judges afterward was that I had the dance technique
to make the team, but they were concerned about my weak muscle tone and didn't
feel I had the stamina to keep up with the practices and games. What they were
telling me was that I was too frail and weak. What I heard was that I need to
exercise even MORE.
I joined the YMCA (unbeknownst to my parents) and began working out in
secret after school. Before school, I could be found in my room doing Tae Bo
workout videos on mute, in socks, in the dark, so that my parents didn't know
what I was doing and wouldn't think I was already up. I continued in my dance
classes and began private lessons. Although I was hovering in the low 90's, my
weight stayed status quo for the time being as I began to build muscle. I read
nutrition books and tried "clean eating" although I kept the calories
excessively low. If I gave into temptation and allowed myself something
"bad" or "off-limits," I punished myself with even more
exercise so I could purge the calories. Although I didn't know it at the time,
I would learn later that this new strategy I had discovered is actually known
as Exercise Bulimia.
Things continued in this manner for the next two years. I actually made the
drill team the following year - a dream come true. My parents continued taking
me to doctors and nutritionists, and I continued to lie and cheat my way out of
their help. I still hadn't had my period in 3 years, so my mom made me an
appointment with a gynecologist in the spring of my junior year of high school.
Had she not taken this step, I would not be alive today. As the doctor
completed my exam, she listened to my chest, as all doctors do. It was very
routine. But I noticed her face as she was listening to my heart seemed to
change. She looked concerned. She listened again, and then sat down in her chair.
She told me she didn't like what she was hearing, that my heart was making a
swooshing sound that it shouldn't be, and she wanted to send me to a pediatric
cardiologist for further testing. I was terrified, but I continued doing what I
was doing.
I didn't realize that my body was literally breaking down.
The next week, I woke up on a Thursday morning in early April, and after my
mom had left for work, I drove myself up to the YMCA and worked out on the
Stairmaster. I came home, changed my clothes so I wouldn't smell sweaty, and
headed up to her office so we could go to my cardiologist appointment. They
took me in to perform an echo-cardiogram (basically an ultrasound) on my heart,
and then we went upstairs to wait for the results. As the cardiologist came in
the room, the first words out of her mouth to me were simply, "Not
good." She explained that the "swooshing sound" my doctor had
heard the previous week was fluid moving around where there shouldn't be fluid,
and I was diagnosed that day with something called a pericardial effusion.
Essentially, two of my four heart valves were leaking fluid into the sack
around my heart. If that sack got too full, my heart would stop. She explained
that I had basically done so much damage to myself that I was lucky to be alive
and sitting in her office that morning. I had starved and exercised myself to
the point that my body was eating my own muscle in order to stay alive. I
learned that, at any given moment, my heart could stop, and I could drop dead
unless we did something. NOW.
I didn't go home after that appointment. I was admitted just minutes later
to the cardiac floor of Presbyterian Hospital for emergent treatment. My body
needed rest. My body needed nourishment. My body needed to heal.
After I was admitted and taken up to my room, a nurse came in and told me I
was going to be hooked up to a feeding tube. I didn't understand. I promised
them I would eat. I promised them I would rest. But you see, Anorexia is a
liar's disease. And they knew it. I'll never forget my dad holding me down as
they inserted the tube. We both teared up as it was put in, and I told him I
hated him for letting them do it. He told me that I would understand one day
when I was a parent myself, but at the time, I hated him. I get it now.
That night, after my parents had gone home for the night, I laid in bed,
tossing. I rolled onto my side and caught a glimpse of myself in the hospital
room window. For the first time in years, I saw the reality of my situation. I
saw the lack of color in my face. I saw my hollowness. I saw myself on the
verge of death. And I gently felt God saying to me, "This is NOT the
end for you. I can do better. Come back to me." I cried, and cried,
and cried some more. I remembered what the Bible said in Jeremiah 29:11,
"For I know the plans I have for you...plans to give you hope and
future." And that night, in room 308 of Presbyterian Hospital, I prayed to
God for a miracle. I surrendered my disease to Him. And boy, did He ever come
through.
That week in the hospital, I allowed myself, for the first time in years, to
rest. I slept. A lot. I ate real food. I read books. I allowed my body to heal.
And by His grace, and to the shock of my doctors, I did. I was released a week
later after a repeat echo-cardiogram showed that one of my valves had healed
completely and that the second was improving. I was sent home on bedrest, and a
few weeks later, I was allowed to go back to school for half-days in order to
complete my junior year. I resigned from my beloved drill team. God placed the
most amazing team of doctors in my life, and I had weekly meetings with my
therapist and nutritionist for the next year. I slowly began to put some weight
back on. My color came back. My life came back together.
As I began my senior year, I felt God calling me to tell my story. I was
very involved with the high school newspaper, so I took a leap of faith and
published my story up until that point. The support was incredible. From there,
I found the courage to begin a disordered eating awareness group for high
school students that is still present in North Texas today and has helped many
young girls with their struggles. Over the past ten years, God has given me the
opportunity to speak in many different settings and to tell my story, although
really it's HIS story, of hope.
I didn't know it at the time, but God's plan for my life was SO MUCH BIGGER than a number on a tag. My life was about these two incredible little people who made me a mom.
If I know anything now, I know with 100% certainty, that God has a PLAN, and
his plan is PERFECT. I pray that all who read this would feel confident and
know that truth today, too.
