This is hard...

As people with diabetes, we all have sort of an "nontraditional" relationship with food. Everything we eat must be measured, calculated, and compensated for. But there comes a time in some of our lives where we have to take a closer look and see if that relationship can be called healthy.

I have a sordid mental health history, as some readers may recall. I have anxiety, depression, and Borderline Personality Disorder. I see a psychiatrist regularly, and I see my therapist weekly. I'm a delight, let me tell you. But we are getting off track here.

It was about a year ago that my therapist noticed some odd behaviors around food, the most obvious being that I had stopped eating it as often as I could manage. In a nutshell, I only ate dinner most days. My therapist sent me to see a nutritionist. At first I was resistant because the only experience I had with a nutritionist was way back in 1997 when I was diagnosed, and it wasn't the best experience. I wanted to find a nutritionist who understood diabetes and would understand that sometimes I was making the logical choice by not eating when my blood sugar was high. I wanted to find someone who knew how weird the dynamic with food can be when you throw in diabetes. Naturally, I went to the nutritionist in my endocrinology office.

"Well if you're looking to drop the weight, Weight Watchers is a pretty good option," she said by way of greeting. The woman did not even ask me why I wanted to speak with a nutritionist. I'll admit, I am on the heftier side of the spectrum, but that was not what I expected at all. I accomplished nothing I had set out to do. I couldn't tell this judgmental woman that I was having trouble eating, not feeling hungry, and not caring one bit. I just couldn't.

I returned to my therapist feeling somewhat distraught. I didn't think I had a problem to begin with, but to not even be heard was something else entirely. My therapist then told me I had to go see a nutritionist she knew and trusted, and guaranteed I wouldn't end up feeling the same way.

So I set out again to see a nutritionist. I live in the Atlanta suburbs and I had to drive to a nearby town during the morning rush. What normally would have taken thirty minutes dragged on to an hour and a half. It was gray and rainy that morning.

My therapist was right; this office was much different. It didn't feel clinical, but it also wasn't overly homey. I met the nutritionist, and we sat on a couch to talk. We talked about my food habits, my diet, what I like to eat, my body image, and I'm sure there was more. She did take my weight for records, and I was given the option to not know the number. I signed a release of information so she could share her findings with my therapist.

In my next weekly session with my therapist, we talked about the visit. Wanting one more opinion, she sent me to see another therapist for a consult. Another day, another suburb, and another release of information later, I was back with my original therapist. 

An eating disorder. That's what they decided. All three of them had the same reaction and the same diagnosis. A restrictive eating disorder.

Horse shit. I have diabetes; I have to know about the foods I'm eating. I just don't feel hungry. I don't eat unless I'm hungry. None of this is pathological.

Well, nobody was buying my story. My therapist pulled my mother into the mix somewhere along the way. It was decided that I would work with the nutritionist and my therapist to get my eating back on track. I met with the nutritionist every other week for a few months. I kept a food (and blood sugar) log. She helped me make some meal plans. She called my boss and insisted that on longer shifts I be allowed to stop for a snack (that one was humiliating). She had me eating every four hours while I was awake. It felt like a lot. It was hard and I pushed back so hard on everything.

I wish the story could end here, with me eating regular meals and snacks. But life isn't exactly linear, you know? A few weeks ago my therapist asked me how my eating had been. Ashamedly, I had to look away. Suddenly the weave of her upholstered couch was fascinating. I knew I was no longer doing what I should be doing.

I'm not even sure where things went off the rails. I stopped seeing the nutritionist over the summer. I had to cancel one appointment, and then I never made another one. No longer keeping a food log, I wasn't accountable to anyone for my eating. I let snacks slide. Over time I decided lunch was for losers. Then I stopped breakfasts again.

My therapist insisted that I go see the nutritionist again. I refused. She told me I had two weeks to get my shit in order. Two weeks came and went, and I still don't have my shit together. The last time I went to the nutritionist, she and my therapist thought that doing a treatment program in Nevada (?) was the next step. It is a step I am fighting hard and part of the reason I don't want to go back. The other reason is that I don't like being accountable for what I eat.

Today my therapist dropped the A-bomb on me: anorexia. I don't meet the clinical requirements for that, but it still is something I never thought I'd hear about myself.

That's where the story ends for now. I know I have a lot of work ahead of me, and it's hard. It's really, really hard. Updates to come!

For anyone who bothered to read all the way to the end, thank you. Your support means the world to me. Drop me a comment below so I know I'm not shouting into the void.