Chapter Eleven: A Body In Rebellion
About a year after I got sober I started to get sick. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that’s when I started to notice I was sick. It’s impossible to pinpoint when I actually started to get sick. As an active alcoholic and addict, deeply embedded in an eating disorder, I never really took the time to notice how my body felt. In fact, I did pretty much everything I could to avoid feeling how my body felt.
When I got sober, I was suddenly acutely aware of my body. I didn’t wake up with a hangover every morning, so I knew the difference between feeling well and feeling unwell. I wasn’t completely numb all the time, so I could tune into what my body was telling me. Instead of appreciating this new awareness, I was overwhelmed and terrified by it. This body I had completely ignored for so long had so many needs that I was supposed to attend to. It sent so many signals that were so much louder than they’d ever been in my life. For the first time in years, I had to acknowledge my body’s feelings and needs.
But acknowledging is not the same as addressing. While I was willing to be aware of what was happening with my body, I still wasn’t willing to do anything about it. So, when I started to get nauseous every time I ate and began to have severe gastrointestinal problems, I acknowledged that it was happening, I even told people about it, but I refused to do anything about it. I decided that it would go away on its own if I just continued to live my life.
I started cutting down my diet until I was only eating yogurt, crackers, and bread because those were the only things I could eat without getting severely ill. This kind of restriction was familiar to me, but I decided not to see it as restriction. I chose to see it as a health choice. I was doing the right thing for my body because these were the only foods my body could “handle.” Of course, the severe restriction periodically led to massive binges, because that’s how the human body works, and when I binged I got the confirmation I needed to restrict my diet in that I got very sick.
This went on for a few months before I told someone what was really going on with my body. I’d joked to my partner and some friends that I just couldn’t seem to eat without getting sick, but I hadn’t actually gone as far as describing my symptoms — constant nausea, diarrhea multiple times a day for weeks at a time, severe gas that made me worry an organ was malfunctioning, and abdominal cramps that literally brought me to the floor.
This friend first expressed shock that I’d been living with these symptoms for so long without addressing them and then annoyance that I’d gone so long without being honest with anyone about what was going on with my life. Honesty wasn’t my strong suit at the time. Neither was letting people in when I thought it made me look weak. I was a master of pretending that everything was fine when it really wasn’t. Letting people know that I was really sick felt like letting them know that I was weak, that I wasn’t really okay, and I was trying so hard to convince everyone that I was okay.
This friend gave me unequivocal instructions to make an appointment with a doctor and get seen as soon as I could. I asked if she meant going to the ER or urgent care and she said that wasn’t necessary, that I just needed to go to my primary care doctor. When I told her I didn’t have one and I hadn’t had one since I’d stopped seeing my pediatrician when I moved out, I got a very stern lecture about how being an adult meant taking care of yourself like an adult.
I’d never made a doctor’s appointment on my own. Therapy appointments, sure. I saw therapists all the time. But never doctors. When I really needed to be seen for an emergent issue, or when I really needed some pills, I would go to urgent care, but I hadn’t seen a regular doctor in probably five years. I didn’t even know how to start. As ridiculous as it sounds, I had to be walked through finding a doctor, getting my medical records, and talking to my family about my medical history.
When I finally got to the appointment, I was reluctant to tell the truth about what was going on with my body. I flashed back to all the times I’d been to doctors with my mother; when I insisted that something was wrong with my body, that I was in severe pain, and got told that my pain wasn’t real, that it was in my head, that I was exaggerating. I didn’t want to be dismissed again. I didn’t want to be told that it was all in my head. I didn’t want to be told that what I was experiencing wasn’t real. But I’d been told that part of being sober was being honest, so I told the truth.
That doctor got me an appointment with a gastroenterologist — for six months later. They told me that in the meantime I should eat a regular diet, keep a food journal, and track my reaction to every single thing I ate so I’d have more information to give the specialist. I didn’t mention my eating disorder history, which really wasn’t history at that point; it was still a present that I was refusing to acknowledge. I didn’t tell them how obsessive I would get keeping a food journal. I didn’t say anything at all. I just nodded and left.
I spent the next six months obsessively analyzing every single thing I put into my body and every single symptom that came afterward. Like any good Millennial, I turned to the Internet and started searching for the perfect diet that would eradicate my symptoms. I went gluten-free, dairy-free, paleo, semi-vegetarian, and my symptoms did start to improve. They didn’t go away, but they improved, and I was willing to settle for that.
By the time I went to the gastroenterologist, I told him that the symptoms were pretty much gone, which wasn’t true, and about how I’d conquered my GI problems with diet. Given that information, which again, wasn’t entirely true, the doctor concluded that I had Irritable Bowel Syndrome. He said that I should continue to address my GI issues with diet changes — low fat, no acidic foods, low sugar, low carb, minimal caffeine — and exercise.
What I heard from that appointment was that if I followed the right diet and the right exercise regimen, then I shouldn’t be sick anymore. Given the fact that I was already restricting my diet and training martial arts six days a week, I figured that I shouldn’t be sick anymore. So, when I continued to experience symptoms, I just refused to acknowledge them. I stopped tracking my symptoms and just tracked my food. I stopped paying attention to how often I got sick. Years of ignoring my body through addiction and an eating disorder made me an expert at ignoring my body and its messages. So, I put those skills into practice again. I didn’t stop experiencing symptoms, I didn’t get well. I simply decided that I wasn’t sick.
And I went on ignoring the fact that I was sick for two more years. While my body screamed and rebelled, I just didn’t listen.
