A month ago my insurance said the 30-day program at Renfrew was covered.
I filled out forms and underwent numerous medical tests. I made peace with being away from my husband for thirty days. I looked around at everything and everyone I loved and silently said good-bye.
I was ready to leave and start on the road to recovery from anorexia nervosa. I was already dreaming of my new life without the ED thoughts constantly gnawing at me 24/7. I felt a cautious hope.
On Friday the insurance denied coverage of the 30-day day treatment program at Renfrew. I had to cancel my reservation at the extended stay hotel, tell everyone I wasn't going anywhere and then cried myself to sleep. I kept thinking, but I'm supposed to be going to Florida tomorrow. My mind just didn't want to make the connection that I was not going anywhere the next day.
On Saturday I was heartbroken and doubled my dose of Ativan to keep myself from falling apart, combining it with OTC sleeping pills and one night, a glass of wine, just so I could remain numb. The few times I was awake I kept thinking, I'm supposed to be on the road to Florida. To hope. To recovery. I had invested so much of my heart and soul into this program. I was reluctant to go at first, but finally listened to my husband and doctor who continuously said I needed more extensive treatment. That I was getting sicker. That I was dying.
I barely ate anything between Friday and Monday, subsequently losing three more pounds and am now at the lowest weight I've ever been since I was in junior high school. I veered between despair and anger, and just wished the anorexia would kill me soon. Or something. A falling meteor. A caved-in roof. Anything to stop hurting and thinking.
On Monday the insurance company offered an alternative, the River Centre in Ohio. The company said its doctor was recommending IOP (which is only offered three evenings a week at the Florida program; an idea my doctor did not endorse) or partial hospitalization at the Centre. I looked the Centre up, learned that it had had some problems involving its director, but that all that had been resolved. But I was still scared - I had never heard of this place. On the other hand, ED Referral had a lot of good comments posted about the center.
On Tuesday I shook myself out of the fog I was enveloped in (thanks to everyone's kind and blunt comments!) and called the Centre. The person I spoke to sounded really nice and was very helpful, answering all my questions even though she knew the Centre was my second choice. The program sounded good, and the fact that they had a trauma-based group was a plus. The Centre also provides dorm-like housing (two to a room), so I would be around people in the evening after the program ends. Evenings and weekends are free, and some people commute and others stay there through the weekends.
On Wednesday (today) the insurance went through my second appeal; another one of their doctors talking to my doctor. He told them if I didn't get more extensive treatment, I was going to end up in the hospital.
Both my doctor and the insurance company called to tell me I was approved to go to any partial hospitalization program in the United States. I missed both calls because, ironically, I was making myself lunch - the first meal I had even tried to eat since Friday - and my cell was downstairs. I finally got angry and said I wasn't going to let any insurance company decide if I were to live or die. I finally had had enough. It wasn't much of a meal, but it was an attempt and a sign of hope and the fact that the despair was breaking up.
Now the question is - Renfrew or the River Centre? Each has its pluses and minuses. Renfrew is a seven-day, 30-day program. The River Centre is more open, but my planned stay there was going to be about 30 days. Of course, my total length of stay will be determined by the insurance. It will be reviewed every six days (something that is common, I am told). But now I am afraid, what if I get to Florida only to have to turn around and come back in a week? How hard is recovery going to be with that hanging over my head?
At Renfrew, I will have a room by myself - but I also will be alone each night, no one to talk to about how the day went. At the Centre, there will be a group of women around to talk to after the program day has ended. The housing costs are covered as part of the program at the Centre; I will have to pay about $1,300 out-of-pocket to live at the extended stay hotel while at Renfrew. I was looking forward to living alone, proving I could go through treatment and be an adult and handle all the stuff that comes with it.
I'm so confused. I was twittering at length to fellow blogger and good friend Half Shattered and she said I need to make the right decision for me. Not what will please this program or that center. Not out of guilt for putting the staff to trouble, only to say I'm going to this place instead. Putting myself first.
I need to choose the best place for me to start on the road to recovery. But my mind is such a jumble. This whole week with the insurance company makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland, where logic is turned upside down and twisted, where nothing makes sense.
12 May 2010
10 May 2010
What recovery meant to me
I wanted to be free.
I wanted to be free of anorexia. Free of the thoughts. Thoughts that taunted me 24/7, telling me I didn't deserve to eat, didn't deserve food or life or happiness or love. Thoughts that told me I am worthless and useless and ugly and that I don't deserve to live.
I sit here, dreaming of what might have been . . .
I wanted to continue with graduate school, learning and writing and exploring new ideas. I wanted to continue to grow as a writer, and planned someday to use my skills to do all sorts of things: advocate for those whose voices have been silenced by society, people with eating disorders and other mental illness, the poor and those who live on the fringes; write children's books and poetry; teach and help others discover the gift of writing within themselves; and just write for the sheer joy of it.
I wanted to heal my marriage of the damage anorexia has caused it, and rediscover the happiness and love that were ours before I got sick.
I wanted to be able to be there for my family and friends; rediscover relationships that didn't always revolve around how sick or how thin I am.
I wanted to go out and eat and not be afraid, spend time going to the movies and concerts and other events without anxiety nipping at my heels.
I wanted to stop the daily weigh-ins and calorie counting. I wanted to sit down at one meal, just one meal, without being afraid of the food. I wanted to eat one piece of food without knowing or caring about how many calories were contained within it.
I wanted to be free.
I wanted to return fully to myself, not be halfway there and never fully recover. I reached out for help, called Renfrew and was ready to give my total self to the program and begin true recovery.
But recovery costs money. I sit here, fully expecting a final no from the insurance company today. I constantly check my cell phone, waiting for it to ring. It would almost have been kinder if the insurance company would have said no this morning instead of drawing out the agony all day.
Do they not realize what this means to me? That I felt this would start me on the path of recovery. I felt that it would save me.
I was supposed to be on the last leg of my journey to Renfrew today, heading toward hope and help and possible recovery. Instead, I am sitting here filled with anxiety and wonder how I will handle that final no. I'm sorry I ever called Renfrew. I'm sorry I ever gave myself that hope.
Everyone says if this doesn't work out there's something else out there? WHAT??? There are no support groups here, the hospital is only a place for stabilization and if my insurance isn't going to cover this - a 30-day day treatment program - it isn't likely it will cover anything else.
To them, I am just a number. That reality was brought home to me Friday when my doctor said not to take this personally. How in the hell am I supposed to take it?
I AM MORE THAN A NUMBER. WE ARE ALL MORE THAN JUST NUMBERS TO BE PLAYED AROUND WITH BY THE INSURANCE COMPANIES. WE ARE HUMANS.
I am a human. I had a life, and I want it back. But I can't do it by myself. I can't handle the thought of getting better, only to have the fear of another relapse haunting my days and nights.
I wanted to be free. But I guess I'm just wasting my time.
I wanted to be free of anorexia. Free of the thoughts. Thoughts that taunted me 24/7, telling me I didn't deserve to eat, didn't deserve food or life or happiness or love. Thoughts that told me I am worthless and useless and ugly and that I don't deserve to live.
I sit here, dreaming of what might have been . . .
I wanted to continue with graduate school, learning and writing and exploring new ideas. I wanted to continue to grow as a writer, and planned someday to use my skills to do all sorts of things: advocate for those whose voices have been silenced by society, people with eating disorders and other mental illness, the poor and those who live on the fringes; write children's books and poetry; teach and help others discover the gift of writing within themselves; and just write for the sheer joy of it.
I wanted to heal my marriage of the damage anorexia has caused it, and rediscover the happiness and love that were ours before I got sick.
I wanted to be able to be there for my family and friends; rediscover relationships that didn't always revolve around how sick or how thin I am.
I wanted to go out and eat and not be afraid, spend time going to the movies and concerts and other events without anxiety nipping at my heels.
I wanted to stop the daily weigh-ins and calorie counting. I wanted to sit down at one meal, just one meal, without being afraid of the food. I wanted to eat one piece of food without knowing or caring about how many calories were contained within it.
I wanted to be free.
I wanted to return fully to myself, not be halfway there and never fully recover. I reached out for help, called Renfrew and was ready to give my total self to the program and begin true recovery.
But recovery costs money. I sit here, fully expecting a final no from the insurance company today. I constantly check my cell phone, waiting for it to ring. It would almost have been kinder if the insurance company would have said no this morning instead of drawing out the agony all day.
Do they not realize what this means to me? That I felt this would start me on the path of recovery. I felt that it would save me.
I was supposed to be on the last leg of my journey to Renfrew today, heading toward hope and help and possible recovery. Instead, I am sitting here filled with anxiety and wonder how I will handle that final no. I'm sorry I ever called Renfrew. I'm sorry I ever gave myself that hope.
Everyone says if this doesn't work out there's something else out there? WHAT??? There are no support groups here, the hospital is only a place for stabilization and if my insurance isn't going to cover this - a 30-day day treatment program - it isn't likely it will cover anything else.
To them, I am just a number. That reality was brought home to me Friday when my doctor said not to take this personally. How in the hell am I supposed to take it?
I AM MORE THAN A NUMBER. WE ARE ALL MORE THAN JUST NUMBERS TO BE PLAYED AROUND WITH BY THE INSURANCE COMPANIES. WE ARE HUMANS.
I am a human. I had a life, and I want it back. But I can't do it by myself. I can't handle the thought of getting better, only to have the fear of another relapse haunting my days and nights.
I wanted to be free. But I guess I'm just wasting my time.
07 May 2010
No hope
I won't be going to Renfrew after all. The insurance denied the pre-authorization today. I was supposed to leave tomorrow for the three-day trip to Florida. I was all ready; I just had to pack. We even got new tires for the car and cleaned it out.
I have no hope this will work out, although the insurance company said they would review it and call me Monday. It's just their way of appeasing my tearful pleas that this was my last chance for recovery. I just don't understand what else they need - my doctor told them on the phone today that this was "essential" for my recovery.
I doubt that I will be blogging for a while, as I am devastated by this and can't think of anything else to write or say. There is nothing else to write or say, except treatment is only for the rich, I guess.
The worst part was that I was ready mentally. It took so much to prepare myself to go, to leave my home and my husband for 30 days. It took so much to admit I needed more help than I was getting here. It took so much to accept the idea of giving up control to get better, but I worked through it and was ready.
I was ready.
Now there is no hope. And I don't want to turn this blog into a hopeless, depressing mess. Because that's what I am right now - a hopeless, depressing mess.
I have no hope this will work out, although the insurance company said they would review it and call me Monday. It's just their way of appeasing my tearful pleas that this was my last chance for recovery. I just don't understand what else they need - my doctor told them on the phone today that this was "essential" for my recovery.
I doubt that I will be blogging for a while, as I am devastated by this and can't think of anything else to write or say. There is nothing else to write or say, except treatment is only for the rich, I guess.
The worst part was that I was ready mentally. It took so much to prepare myself to go, to leave my home and my husband for 30 days. It took so much to admit I needed more help than I was getting here. It took so much to accept the idea of giving up control to get better, but I worked through it and was ready.
I was ready.
Now there is no hope. And I don't want to turn this blog into a hopeless, depressing mess. Because that's what I am right now - a hopeless, depressing mess.
04 May 2010
Halfway gone and feeling anorexic
A strange awareness came crashing through this morning.
The pale light of dawn was just appearing through the mass of green leaves. Cool air blew through the open window. I was in a land between dreams and wakening; luxuriating in that drowsy feeling where you feel safe and warm, the outside world not yet invading your mind or soul.
It is a feeling of safety. I feel this way when I'm drifting off to sleep, snuggling with my husband as I am able to slowly forget that I have anorexia, that I have any problems at all. I also feel this way when I am first leaving sleep; blessed sleep where I can rest and lay down my burdens for the night.
This feeling of safety was taken away this morning. I reached up and touched my collarbones. But this time, I really felt my bones. The protruding collarbones and the jutting clavicle. The sharp hip bones and the hard knees clicking together.
I couldn't breathe. I panicked. Where are my curves? Where is the feminine smoothness, the slight roundness of hips?
I touched my face, feeling nothing but a skull. My heart began to race. I realized I am thin. Thin. There is nothing to soften the sharpness. I felt like I could feel every bone pushing against my skin, the layers of muscle and fat eaten away by months of restricting and laxative abuse and enemas and suppositories. All the tools I used to keep the hateful food out of my body.
To deprive myself of life.
On Sunday, I went to our church for the last time in five weeks. I looked around, this group of people who have embraced me as a family and prayed for me for years. The church has a fantastic couple who provide music, and they played "Canticle of The Turning" for me. We talked about the changes coming to the church, how the Episcopal Church's rules won't allow our priest to retire there and so there will be a new person.
I felt sad and forced myself to nibble on a homemade muffin made by one of the members. Our priest will most likely be leaving about a month after my return from Renfrew, and I will miss him. I told him so, burst into tears and hugged him, then ran out in embarrassment.
I felt as if I couldn't stand one more change in my life and I choked down half my dinner. Later I proceeded to take a handful of laxatives, unable to handle the food and the feelings and the emptiness and the sadness.
I was sick all day Monday, constantly running to the bathroom with diarrhea. I had to go and get an EKG and blood and urine tests for Renfrew, and thought I really screwed up this time. Why did I do that? I knew what that many laxatives would do to me.
But my heart hurt. I couldn't stand the thought of more changes, and I was struggling with the thought of being apart from David for one month. It was the only way to cope.
Throughout the tests, I had to stop and run to the bathroom. This continued until I went to bed that night, exhausted and depleted.
Then this morning. It's not like I haven't seen myself in the mirror and realized I am too thin. But this time, I felt it. I felt every protruding bone. I was frightened I would die of anorexia, die of laxative abuse, die of a cardiac arrest.
Die at 44.
I feel as if Renfrew is my last chance. As I looked in the mirror, I saw the now-prominent veins and drained face. I applied some makeup; a wine-color eyeliner that did nothing for my half-hooded eyes. Dead eyes from lack of nutrition.
I am halfway gone. I realize if I don't find a way to recover, I will continue to lose weight and everyone will watch as I fade away. My life will be over before I have a chance to get it back.
I decided this morning I don't want to live if I can't recover from anorexia. I'd rather be dead than continue to live with the realization of what I am doing to my husband and my family. I'd rather be dead than be anorexic.
The pale light of dawn was just appearing through the mass of green leaves. Cool air blew through the open window. I was in a land between dreams and wakening; luxuriating in that drowsy feeling where you feel safe and warm, the outside world not yet invading your mind or soul.
It is a feeling of safety. I feel this way when I'm drifting off to sleep, snuggling with my husband as I am able to slowly forget that I have anorexia, that I have any problems at all. I also feel this way when I am first leaving sleep; blessed sleep where I can rest and lay down my burdens for the night.
This feeling of safety was taken away this morning. I reached up and touched my collarbones. But this time, I really felt my bones. The protruding collarbones and the jutting clavicle. The sharp hip bones and the hard knees clicking together.
I couldn't breathe. I panicked. Where are my curves? Where is the feminine smoothness, the slight roundness of hips?
I touched my face, feeling nothing but a skull. My heart began to race. I realized I am thin. Thin. There is nothing to soften the sharpness. I felt like I could feel every bone pushing against my skin, the layers of muscle and fat eaten away by months of restricting and laxative abuse and enemas and suppositories. All the tools I used to keep the hateful food out of my body.
To deprive myself of life.
On Sunday, I went to our church for the last time in five weeks. I looked around, this group of people who have embraced me as a family and prayed for me for years. The church has a fantastic couple who provide music, and they played "Canticle of The Turning" for me. We talked about the changes coming to the church, how the Episcopal Church's rules won't allow our priest to retire there and so there will be a new person.
I felt sad and forced myself to nibble on a homemade muffin made by one of the members. Our priest will most likely be leaving about a month after my return from Renfrew, and I will miss him. I told him so, burst into tears and hugged him, then ran out in embarrassment.
I felt as if I couldn't stand one more change in my life and I choked down half my dinner. Later I proceeded to take a handful of laxatives, unable to handle the food and the feelings and the emptiness and the sadness.
I was sick all day Monday, constantly running to the bathroom with diarrhea. I had to go and get an EKG and blood and urine tests for Renfrew, and thought I really screwed up this time. Why did I do that? I knew what that many laxatives would do to me.
But my heart hurt. I couldn't stand the thought of more changes, and I was struggling with the thought of being apart from David for one month. It was the only way to cope.
Throughout the tests, I had to stop and run to the bathroom. This continued until I went to bed that night, exhausted and depleted.
Then this morning. It's not like I haven't seen myself in the mirror and realized I am too thin. But this time, I felt it. I felt every protruding bone. I was frightened I would die of anorexia, die of laxative abuse, die of a cardiac arrest.
Die at 44.
I feel as if Renfrew is my last chance. As I looked in the mirror, I saw the now-prominent veins and drained face. I applied some makeup; a wine-color eyeliner that did nothing for my half-hooded eyes. Dead eyes from lack of nutrition.
I am halfway gone. I realize if I don't find a way to recover, I will continue to lose weight and everyone will watch as I fade away. My life will be over before I have a chance to get it back.
I decided this morning I don't want to live if I can't recover from anorexia. I'd rather be dead than continue to live with the realization of what I am doing to my husband and my family. I'd rather be dead than be anorexic.
01 May 2010
Getting ready for anorexia rehab
Anxiety Fear Hope Desire Love Beauty Depression Panic Fragmented Life Death Heaven Christ
Emotions and words swirl through my mind like a fast-moving tornado heading dead center for its target. "Left of Center" by Suzanne Vega is playing. The watery sun is setting on the deep, dark green grasses and newly bloomed bushes. Aliena sits in the window, ready to pounce on any stray bug which crosses her path.
I am cold. I am hot. I can't think.
I leave for Renfrew in one week. I'm afraid I will fail. I'm afraid I will succeed. I'm afraid ...
Thirty days. Away from my home. Away from my husband, my friends. I will be alone each night, trying to sort out each day as I work toward recovering from anorexia. There will be memories stirred up, things I would rather forget. I will face food I am afraid of and I will need to eat it. I will need to talk about how I feel.
How do I feel? My emotions are in upheaval right now. How am I supposed to feel? Should I continue to mourn the life I lost when anorexia hit me at 41? Or do I move forward, knowing that person died years ago and it is time for the resurrection of a new me? Do I rage against the neighborhood boy who sexually abused me? The uber-conservative church of my childhood which left me feeling dirty and knowing I was hell-bound? Do I continue to be angry because alcoholism and depression made my childhood feel unstable and rocky?
How do I let go of it all?
I believe I must let go in order to recover. I must let go of everything. Anger. Secrets. Laxatives. Cutting. Enemas. Restricting. Control.
Playing at recovery.
I will have to turn my entire life over to complete strangers for thirty days, and that will require a hell of lot more trust than I've ever been able to give anyone.
But I can't take it anymore. I will not be able to live much longer with anorexia. I can't take waking up each morning crying and hating life because ... because I'm me.
Emotions and words swirl through my mind like a fast-moving tornado heading dead center for its target. "Left of Center" by Suzanne Vega is playing. The watery sun is setting on the deep, dark green grasses and newly bloomed bushes. Aliena sits in the window, ready to pounce on any stray bug which crosses her path.
I am cold. I am hot. I can't think.
I leave for Renfrew in one week. I'm afraid I will fail. I'm afraid I will succeed. I'm afraid ...
Thirty days. Away from my home. Away from my husband, my friends. I will be alone each night, trying to sort out each day as I work toward recovering from anorexia. There will be memories stirred up, things I would rather forget. I will face food I am afraid of and I will need to eat it. I will need to talk about how I feel.
How do I feel? My emotions are in upheaval right now. How am I supposed to feel? Should I continue to mourn the life I lost when anorexia hit me at 41? Or do I move forward, knowing that person died years ago and it is time for the resurrection of a new me? Do I rage against the neighborhood boy who sexually abused me? The uber-conservative church of my childhood which left me feeling dirty and knowing I was hell-bound? Do I continue to be angry because alcoholism and depression made my childhood feel unstable and rocky?
How do I let go of it all?
I believe I must let go in order to recover. I must let go of everything. Anger. Secrets. Laxatives. Cutting. Enemas. Restricting. Control.
Playing at recovery.
I will have to turn my entire life over to complete strangers for thirty days, and that will require a hell of lot more trust than I've ever been able to give anyone.
But I can't take it anymore. I will not be able to live much longer with anorexia. I can't take waking up each morning crying and hating life because ... because I'm me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)