Anorexia is a tough one. It’s much easier to treat a broken finger.
A broken skull is a tough one, too. But it’s much easier to treat than anorexia.
Broken bones and anorexia––the two go together, don’t they? The National Institutes of Health finds individuals with anorexia at risk for osteoporosis––and that the eating disorder’s characteristic loss of bone density, which can lead to osteoporosis later in life, starts happening early.
The Background
So there I was, 18 years young and a highly-functioning individual with anorexia. I had always had a distorted relationship with my body, food, and exercise, but going into all that now would involve a culling of childhood and genetic history. Eating disorders happen for everyone differently, and mine peaked right around the summer before college.
I was so afraid of gaining the “Freshman 15,” that I lost 20.
I was also far from home, and used this to fuel my eating disorder. No one in my family had to see any lower than my chin during FaceTime sessions, and for months: enough time to surprise everyone with a gaunt stranger upon the return. And on that first return home, three months into freshman year, my mother’s empty stare, mirroring my body back to me.
Months of this dance, of me killing myself to feel in control of the world and my “perfect” self-concept, of worried family members rendered impotent by distance, by my assuring that everything “is fine,” of me not recognizing that all this wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth it, to lose friends in order to lose pounds, to always fall asleep, to never be able to be present, with my new friends not sure how to interpret it. It was freshman year, and everyone was going through what they were going through, right?
The Impact
April rolls around. A Sunday night, the first warm spring evening of the season. No drugs, no alcohol.
My boyfriend at the time offers to teach me to skateboard. I hop on with sandals, all coquettish and ineffectual and “feminine,” telling him to pull me along by my hands and “teach me.” But no, wait. Stop going so fast. Seriously, stop. STOP!
He doesn’t stop, so I try to. I stick my foot out from the traveling board at an angle against the concrete. The first thing to hit the ground is the back of my skull. I still remember the sound.
. . .
Months later, a lecture from my evil step-grandmother sets it straight: “Sarah, if you had just, on a whim, decided to take a blood thinner like, I don’t know, Ibuprofen, you maybe wouldn’t have stopped bleeding.”
I will forever not know why and how it stopped bleeding; the fall had led to a fracturing of my skull, and then a hemorrhage, which was later diagnosed as subdural hematoma, or when the blood clot reaches below the second protective layer of the brain. This is all categorized under the term “traumatic brain injury,” or TBI.
This is internal bleeding. Even when external bleeding may appear more distressing, it’s the internal pressure of the blood that puts the brain in danger for long-term damage. The UCLA neurosurgical unit finds that of all head injuries, this type of subdural hematoma is among the most lethal.
After the fall, I had two seizures. They helicoptered me to a hospital, since the small college town’s closest one didn’t have the tools. I then remained unconscious for two-and-a-half days. Doctors thought they might have to go in and stop the bleeding, but it stopped on its own. I would spend the next three months slowly recovering balance, memory, and daily functioning.
The Lessons
What you do in the day-to-day adds up.
Whether it be an eating disorder or a decision to wear sandals, Everything affects everything. Of course, you can’t constantly be thinking about this, but you can evaluate the net affect of the little things.
Listen to the big falls. Tend to them in the moment and realize you can take them to treat yourself in the long run.
After the fall, I was forced to stop my lifeline––my addiction to my anorexia, which was killing me. It was hard to stop exercising violently five days a week, bounding up and down on the elliptical machine. It was hard to start eating again, but I had to, in order to get my brain back. I remember fighting with my mom on how much butter she put in the pan, and willfully burning the teflon just to get back at her.
My eating disorder, coupled with the fall, were not easy for my mom; she and I both were experiencing the acute TBI within the overall long-term illness. We were able to work with a nutritionist to talk through strategies, but not everyone has access to health and/or mental health professionals. The important thing here is the treating in the moment to treat in the long run.
Wear a helmet when you can.
I say this as a partial joke, but take it as a metaphor. You can take risks and let the rest hang out, be them limbs or feelings. But protect the most crucial parts. A brain injury is not a broken finger.
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This post was previously published on Change Becomes You and is republished here with permission from the author.
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Photo credit: Unsplash