From Broken to Beautifully Broken

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones, but my eating disorder almost killed me

On March 30th I used every ounce of strength my body had and I went to the emergency room escorted by my sister in law. It was not by choice. I was forced. I was forced by family members who had gotten together and created an intervention. When I arrived at triage, the woman behind the desk asked me why I was there. My response " no idea". My sister in law explained to the woman that they believed I was malnourished and suffered from an eating disorder. They wanted me to have a psychiatric evaluation and to be assessed medically. I sat in the waiting room, unable to process what was really happening. All I could do was wrap my sweater around me to try and stop my body from shivering. I was cold. I was tired. I wanted to go home. This was ridiculous.
After what felt like 42 hours, I was brought into a room in the ER. The nurses told me I needed an IV and bloodwork and the dr would be in shortly. My blood pressure was below normal. My heart rate was below normal. I was dehydrated. My fingers and especially the tips of my fingers were purple. My bloodwork came back with almost no white blood cells and a whole plethora of things out of whack. My EKG came back with some abnormality. The doctor came and told me they didn't have a psychiatric unit at that particular hospital but he would give me some nutrients through the IV. I looked at my sister in law, who had been patiently sitting with me for 6 hours, and told her "I told you so. Totally waste of time. I'm fine." She stopped the doctor because if you knew my sister in law, you would know this was not acceptable for her. She knew something was wrong and she wasn't leaving until we had a plan. She asked the doctor at what point he thought I would need to go into treatment for an eating disorder and what signs she should look for. His immediate response was " Now. She should be there now. I just don't have the capacity to help in the way she needs it." With that I finished my IV and headed back home. I went to my primary care physician the next day. In the meantime, my entire family was calling various eating disorder treatment centers to see what would be a fit for me. Many were only for adolescents, many were far. My husband managed to get me an appointment for an assessment at a hospital about an hour away in a few days. While I was at my primary care physician, I prayed she would say it was all a misunderstanding and everyone could just relax. Instead, I got quite the opposite. She spoke to me as if I were broken. Her soft voice started explaining to me in almost a childlike fashion, that my blood work all pointed to malnutrition and if I were to continue at this rate I would begin organ failure. She wrote down a few recommendations that were all inpatient. I stood up off the patient chair and everything started going black. I laid back down, my face tinted a gray color. All I kept thinking was how is this happening and how the hell am I at this point in my life. This doesn't make any sense. I was fine.
Over the next few days, I made arrangements for someone to watch my three children. I packed a bag in case I had to stay. I was told no pens, no shoe strings, no cell phones, no hoodies or draw string pants. I wasn't allow to have a razor or any sharp objects . There was no way I belonged there, but I packed to appease my family. Tuesday came and my kids cried as I got into the car. I couldn't even tell them when I would see them again. I was just as lost as they were and it was infuriating. The last few days had been nothing short of traumatic for them and my husband. They didn't know where I was going, for how long, how sick I actually was or wasn't and how their own lives would look during all of this. My husband drove me to my intake assessment appointment. Here they would perform bloodwork, EKG, urine analysis and of course weigh me. I wore my heaviest Terri cloth pants and sweater. The scale was no stranger to me! I was weighing myself every time I walked into the bathroom. When I brushed my teeth, when I used the bathroom, when I showered, after I ate, before I ate and even some random times in between, I always stepped on that scale. This scale was different and it pissed me off. It was covered with cardboard so I couldn't see the number. Are you serious!? Moments later the psychiatrist pulled me into her office for an interview. It's a bit of a blur, but I remember her being stern and to the point. "Walk me through your day Elisa".
"I have a 2 year old so my day is never the same. I don't work. I'm a stay at home mom and housewife but I used to be a teacher for 13 years before Covid."
"What does your breakfast consist of?"
"Coffee."
"Coffee and?"
"Coffee with milk and sugar"
The psychiatrist scribbled something down and then asked when I ate my first meal. I told her it varied but mostly around 2:00/3:00. I mean when I was in college I woke up this time, it's not awful to eat for the first time at 2:00.
"What does that meal look like"
Here we go. " A breakfast bar and I'll just make this easier for you. I don't eat again until dinner. I do eat whatever I cook for my family but under certain conditions."
"Which are?"
"I allow myself to eat dinner, if I didn't eat anything besides the breakfast bar. If I ate something else during the day, I don't eat dinner."