Trauma, PTSD, & Eating Disorders…
Last Friday, my husband Ed had the second of two knee replacement surgeries within five weeks of each other. The days leading to this latest surgery filled me with sudden onsets of post-traumatic stress disorder anxiety.
You see, the first surgery ran an hour and forty-five minutes longer than the projected surgery timeline. Sitting alone with the hospital intercom systems crying out “Code Blue” several times within that time span, my body, mind, and spirit went into worst-case-scenario overdrive. Fear pervaded every inch of my body while awaiting the call from the surgeon with his news. By the time the call came, my entire existence was frayed and frazzled. All was well of course, except for me.
So, in the days leading up to the second surgery, while driving down a dark two-lane road on the way to my early morning swim, I suddenly could not breathe as my heart pounded thunder in my chest. The car behind me felt inches from my bumper and I thought I was going to lose control of the car. Remarkably, I kept driving, and after several minutes I was able to collect my scattered faculties. As I evaluated the incident, it was obvious to me that part of me did not want to face the fear of losing my husband, or anything terrible going wrong. This post-traumatic stress disorder anxiety surfaced in other ways that week as well, in the form of night terrors, sudden agitation, grumpiness, sleepiness, and social withdrawal.
A deep-rooted childhood fear of being abandoned, also began to present itself.
I found myself feeling the need to eat sweets. My faulty logic said, if I ate more, I would not feel these terrifying feelings that were consuming my body. It started with a simple Starbucks Strawberries and Cream Frappuccino with extra whipped cream. Unbeknownst to anyone but me, I slipped through our neighborhood drive through and slurped that drink down before I pulled into our driveway, then into our house undetected. The need to hide these cravings was paramount.
The day of the second surgery arrived with no change in my foreboding. While waiting for word, cravings continued. I went down to the hospital cafeteria and ordered a large strawberry milkshake with whipped cream. That, too, was demolished before the doctor called assuring me of the successful operation. While my thoughts and anxiety were thankfully proven to be unfounded, the effects of my worries stayed with me. When I returned home that evening from the hospital, dinner was followed with a bag of chips and salsa, and two bags of that yummy sugary crunchy kettle corn. I felt hollow inside. A part of me knew my emotions emanated from deep inside, but I just could not go there and face them.
Psychologist, Gia Marson talks about the double jeopardy of trauma in this way, “People who have been victims of trauma often feel shame. The trauma happens, and then they feel ashamed that something bad happened to them, so there is self-inflicted punishment for the trauma. It can be a deep kind of pain and suffering.”
I think the fear of losing my husband in the present mirrored my daily fear of danger and abandonment as a child. They seemed to both come crashing down on me and I could not breathe through this ever-growing monster. So, I ate.
Each subsequent day following the surgery, I added more and more sweets to my diet; until just a few nights ago, after completing a large dinner and desert, I scarfed a whole pint of Ben and Jerry’s strawberry cheesecake ice cream. It was as if I was in a dissociative state sitting there eating bite after bite and feeling nothing or perhaps emptiness. As I stared at myself emptying the pint of ice cream from afar, I caught myself in a moment of self-realization. “Whoa!” That is enough!
You see, when I was a young adult, I developed and suffered from an eating disorder. I would find myself curled in a ball in the middle of my living room at three o’clock in the morning desperately wanting to die. Wanting someone or something to take away the crippling pain of the voices that lived inside of me. This deep sense of loneliness and isolation led to bulimia and my deepest, darkest, life secret. It was a way to push down and out my ugliness. A way to self-numb. A way to dull the intolerable inner world by paradoxically creating a sense of control over my body.
“We now have learned a great deal about the effects of child abuse and neglect, both psychological and biological, and the toll it takes on increasing morbidity and mortality. It results in an increased risk for and more virulent course of many mental health disorders including bipolar disorder, major depression, PTSD, eating disorders, substance use disorders and the worst outcome of these disorders, suicide.”
— Dr. Charles Nemeroff
Dr. Bessel van der Kolk explains:
“Traumatized people are often afraid of feeling. It is not so much the perpetrators (who, hopefully, are no longer around to hurt them) but their own physical sensations that now are the enemy. Apprehension about being hijacked by uncomfortable sensations keeps the body frozen and the mind shut. Even though the trauma is a thing of the past, the emotional brain keeps generating sensations that make the sufferer feel scared and helpless. It is not surprising that so many trauma survivors are compulsive eaters and drinkers, fear making love, and avoid many social activities. Their sensory world is largely off limits.”
Before our marriage, I confided this disorder to Ed. He held my hand as I battled the demons trying to own me. He armored me with an acupuncturist, horrible tasting teas, and a therapist. With his unconditional love, I defeated the eating disorder, and the horrible captive chapter of my life ended.
Dr. Bessel van der Kolk beautifully explains:
“Once you recognize that post traumatic reactions started off as efforts to save your life, you may gather the courage to face your inner music (or cacophony), but you will need help to do so. You must find someone you can trust enough to accompany you, someone who can safely hold your feelings and help you listen to the painful messages from your emotional brain. You need a guide who is not afraid of your terror and who can contain your darkest rage, someone who can safeguard the wholeness of you while you explore the fragmented experiences that you had to keep secret from yourself for so long.”
My guide was Ed. I could not lose my guide. I could not see life without him.
On a recent post-surgery afternoon, as I lay on my bed, curled in a ball, Ed hobbled in and sat next to me on the bed. He gently held my hand and told me he was here. He did not leave me. I was not abandoned. I was safe. I was loved. He was safe and going to be present with me for a long time.
I took a long, deep, healing breath. I told Ed about my sweet binge. He still loves me. I do not need to hide anything.
Who is your guide?
Let us find the courage to lean into those emotions that overtake us. Let us be gentle with ourselves when we feel overwhelmed. Let us feel the pain all the way through to the other side and be open to what we find. We can always add more self-compassion to our every-growing toolbox.
Until next time, friends.