The Wake

My eyes barely grazed the speckled pink countertops of my kitchen. I was waist high next to my mother, whose body seemed to reach to the sky; her figure was the pinnacle of elegance. She had returned from work late that evening. Her eyes were glazed from her morning jog, afternoon meetings and frequent journeys across the city. Tired as she was, my mother watched me carefully as I wandered around the room, making sure I wouldn’t step in harms way; that I was safe.

She rummaged through the cabinets of our house, searching for concoctions that would somehow lead to a nourishing meal for me. Thinking only of others she neglected to fuel her own needs that day. As my mother stood next to the stove and looked down upon her only daughter, she uttered the words that continue to ring through my ears.

“I’m so hungry; I haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

I grew up like most teenagers did, confused, awkward and extremely insecure. I attended a religious school for much of my adolescence that oftentimes pressured me to conform to the normality of my peers. I never really felt like I fit in. Friendship was hard to come by, confidence even more difficult. I became introverted in high school, seeking social acceptance through criticism and self-blame. Still I continued to push myself to receive good grades and be the perfect daughter. I yearned for intelligence and beauty, grace and power. It seemed like I had found a glimpse of hope in my dark existence: anorexia. Self-starvation became my abuse of choice.

It began innocently. Cutting out junk food was acceptable, so was breakfast. Thumbing through fashion magazines I learned tips on how to diet, dress for success and please a man. I watched the women around me: their Slimfast drinks and Weight Watchers programs. Stepping on a scale and seeing my body digress further fueled my metamorphosis. With every withheld bite of food came a surge of control that seemed to keep my chaotic life in balance.

By senior year of high school I had become obsessed. Counting calories and skipping meals were my daily routine. Ephedrine diet pills were still sold in drug stores and there was no limit to the amount I could buy. Nothing stopped me from destroying myself; in fact, I felt society was encouraging it.

Around this time I began to stuffer from severe stomach cramps. I would double over in pain if I took in the slightest bit of food. Even though I knew it was anorexia stealing my body, I convinced my family and friends that it was some sort of freak medical condition. Something that I had no control of and that I couldn’t be blamed for. Attending school became impossible, medical doctors became my peers. They performed dozens of tests on me, never once recognizing my protruding ribs and emaciated body. I wanted to scream at them, demanding why they couldn’t see what I did. Even my parents didn’t realize, or want to believe, that their perfect daughter was an anorexic mess.

It had been two years since my eating disorder began when I graduated high school. Missed opportunities had mounted during that last year. I could only attend school every other day, which made my social life almost non-existent. I struggled through classes because my mind could not keep up with my diminishing body. My only confidante was anorexia, who promised to never leave as long as I gave her what she wanted.

My freshman year of college lingered slowly into my life. Eager to have a new beginning, I opted to live in the residence halls and become involved in student organizations around campus. I had every possible advantage in front of me but I still continued to detach from my family, my friends and myself.

Several months into school I became extremely ill. I nearly passed out in the shower every morning, took three hour naps every day and had excruciating heart pain that kept me up at night. Laying in bed I felt my heart clench into a tight ball; I couldn’t breathe. I knew that I was going to succumb to this wretched disease if I didn’t get help soon. At one point I was sure I was going to die.

Deciding to confess about my double life was the most difficult thing I have ever and will ever do. A deep pain engulfed me as I picked up the phone and dialed my parent’s house. I had finally become aware of the shell of a person I had become. My mother initially answered the phone, my father instinctively jumped on the other line. Through my sobbing and tears I attempted to explain what had happened, that I was sorry and that I really needed help.

My mother immediately contacted all the doctors and clinics around the city that specialized in eating disorder treatment. As a student, it was important to me to continue living a semi-normal life at the university; therefore we attempted to find a program near my dormitory. Boynton Health Service, the leading provider for U students offered little help in my search for recovery. There was one student group that met once a week for those who suffered from bulimia. Individualized psychiatric sessions were available, but none which specialized in eating disorders, plus there was a limit to the amount of times you could be seen in one year. Coming to a dead end during the most critical time in my life was devastating. I felt like I wanted to give up and just let anorexia take its course.

Weeks after my initial acknowledgement I finally found a treatment center on campus but, by this time, it was too late. I was weighing in the double digits. I couldn’t climb stairs and needed to use handicapped ramps to conserve my energy. I was growing a light coat of hair around my neck and jaw line to keep my body from freezing to death during the winter months. I was on the brink of heart failure. What I needed then was full time support, something that couldn’t be provided in a local doctor’s clinic. Hospitalization was my only chance at survival.

The waitlist at Methodist Hospital was a mile long. Initial assessment appointments, the first step to admittance in the hospital, were scheduled months in advance. My family called the clinic every day to check for a cancellation, looking for a glimpse of hope, a way to save their daughter from herself. We received the phone call late one Friday morning. There was an opening the following Monday. Be there at 5 a.m.

The sky was still dark when I packed my belongings into my Father’s car. I remember it was a week before Christmas and I wasn’t sure if I was going come home in time. “Be prepared,” they said at the clinic, “you may be staying here for the holidays.” My parents carefully sat me in the car, wrapping my grandmother’s blanket around my shoulders, and began the drive that changed my life.

I had always hated hospitals. The bright lights and sterile environment was somewhere I never wanted to call home, even for a brief passing of time. Somehow I was sure my parents were wrong to send me here. I wasn’t as bad as I seemed.

My initial assessment lasted five hours. They first took blood samples, which became increasingly difficult due to my thin and buried veins. I let them take as much as they wanted, the pain felt good compared to my numb body. Next they checked my heart by attaching monitors on my bare chest, my ankles, and my arms. The needle jumped across the page with each heartbeat. I wasn’t allowed to see the results. Lastly they came to take my weight. I was given a large paper gown that drowned most of my body with amusing results. I laid my clothes carefully on the chair beside me and stepped on the scale, my nemesis since the beginning. The doctor carefully observed the monitor, changing the gauges while making sure to hide his findings from me. I was told to get dressed and wait in the lobby for the verdict.

I still remember sitting in that waiting room watching the other patients scuttle by; their bones protruding out of their skin, their eyes clouded over, their clothes hanging comically off their bodies. How did it come to this? How am I sitting in this room, with these people, waiting for my life to begin again? My name was called soon after.

The meeting was brief. There were no beds for me in the clinic. I would not be in the full-time program. I was to start the partial program the next day. I was to read these packets and arrive at 10:30 a.m. If I did not arrive my spot would be given away. I would eat lunch and dinner in the hospital. I would be allowed to leave at 8 p.m. I would stay there for two months. Goodbye. We will see you tomorrow.

My life began again Dec. 21, 2004. I went to the 8th floor of Methodist Hospital and started over. “Hello,” I greeted all the patients, “My name is Katie Nelson. I’m a student at the University of Minnesota. I have been anorexic for 3 years. I want to get better. I want to live again.”

After introductions and general orientation to the clinic came lunch. The patients and

staff had decided on the food beforehand. My first full meal in more then two years was beef cabbage rolls. I was vegetarian. I began to cry. A girl who had been admitted the week before took my hand and led me around the kitchen. She calmed my nerves and helped me dish up my food. She showed me where the plates were, the glasses, the water, made me feel comfortable and for that I am forever grateful. So I sat down and ate it. Later that day I ate my snack. After that came dinner. I continued to eat what I needed, and slowly regained my strength and spirit back. I stayed at Methodist Hospital for two months learning how to eat again, how to reclaim everything I had lost. The most powerful moment of my life was walking out of those doors, my parents holding each hand and leading me to the world that had been waiting.

I continued to attend an outpatient program and soon moved back to the dorms. Setbacks were regular, daily even, but I continued to push through regardless of how difficult it was. I’ve learned that everyday is a battle, but a battle worth fighting. Regaining a lost life is a gift I will be forever grateful for and hope to never take for granted.

Katie Nelson is a Voices guest columnist and welcomes comments at .