Thursday, March 2nd
My mother is an absolute saint. Just a glimpse into this incredible woman’s life eliminates any doubt of miracles still being possible.
My mom is no stranger to hardship and adversity, but the grace and beauty that she steadily overcomes every obstacle in her path is awe-inspiring.
In 2008, my parents began to notice physical changes to my body. Instead of progressing through puberty like a normal adolescent, I was wasting away into a shell of myself.
The thing with mental illnesses is that it’s impossible to know how sick someone truly is. One cannot ascertain by simply assessing someone’s physical structure how mentally well a person is doing.
My poor parents had no prior experience with eating disorders, and didn’t know how to “fix me.” They tried encouraging me to eat more, exercise less, and focused on my physical wellness. However, after a year of trying to fix this monster themselves, they realized this problem required medical attention.
Mom set up an appointment with a family practice doctor to address the issue of my absence of a menstrual period. That appointment turned out to be much more than just discussing my lack of womanly development.
Before we knew it, we were driving to the hospital to meet with a dietitian and a therapist that would work with a medical doctor specializing in eating disorder treatment.
The most remarkable thing about all of this is that my parents loved me enough to turn this problem over to professionals. I was too sick to admit that I had a problem, but my parents in their infinite wisdom were able realize the gravity of the issue at hand.
Mom drove me to every single appointment and tirelessly, thanklessly, and lovingly stuck by me every single step of the way.
She sat down with me every night so we could record my food intake for the day and kept track of my food journals, weight lists, and notes from my recovery team.
I have no idea how she did it. I had zero desire to “get better,” because I was too sick to admit that there was anything wrong with me in the first place.
Dad took a different, yet equally as effective approach to my recovery. He did all the grocery shopping, removed the scale from the house, and ensured that our fridge and cupboards were always stocked with healthy, nutritional, and fuel-filled foods. He brought specialty foods home from work for me to try, and tried to encourage me to see food as something different than the enemy.
Both of my parents dove head first into the terrifying world of eating disorder recovery. They scoured over therapy books, engaged me in conversation, and never stopped believing that recovery was possible for me.
I am eternally thankful for parents that recognized the gravity of my situation, and chose to help me get the necessary medical assistance that I so desperately needed.
Thank you Mom and Dad, love you both so much!