BRAIN OVER BINGE

Why I Was Bulimic, Why Conventional Therapy Didn't Work, and How I Recovered for Good

Kathryn Hansen

Copyright © 2011 by Kathryn Hansen

Camellia Publishing

6825 S. 7th St.

Box 8305

Phoenix, AZ 85066

www.camelliapublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-9844817-2-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010911736

NOTICE OF LIABILITY: This is a personal story of recovery. It is not intended to replace the services of trained health professionals or be a substitute for medical advice. You are advised to consult with your health care professional with regard to matters relating to your health and, in particular, regarding matters that may require diagnosis or medical attention. The author and publisher disclaim any liability arising directly or indirectly from the use of this book.

This book is for the 19-year-old bulimic who felt hopeless yet swore to conquer her problem one day and then write about it.

That bulimic was me ten years ago. ...

So now I dedicate Brain over Binge to my former self and to all those who want to be free of binge eating.

Contents

Preface

A Note to the Reader

Introduction

PART I: MY BULIMIA AND RECOVERY

1 A Typical Day's Binge

2 A Typical Day of Purging

3 Choice and Consequences

4 Introduction to Therapy

5 My First Binge

6 Accepting Therapy

7 Topamax to the Rescue

8 Some Things Change, Some Remain the Same

9 A New Book and New Hope

10 My Two Brains

11 I Had Control All Along

12 Resisting the Urge

13 The End of My Bulimia

PART II: MY BULIMIA REDEFINED AND RECOVERY EXPLAINED

14 Investigating the True Story Behind My Bulimia and Recovery

15 Was I Really Recovered?

16 Why Did I Binge?

17 What Caused My First Urges to Binge?

18 Why Did I Diet and Why Was It Such a Problem for Me?

19 Why Did I Continue Having Urges to Binge?

Reason 1: Persistence of Survival Instincts

20 Why Did I Continue Having Urges to Binge?

Reason 2: Habit

21 Why Did I Follow My Urges to Binge?

22 Why Didn't Therapy Work for Me?

23 Revisiting Recovery: How Did I Do It?

24 Brain over Binge, Step 1: View Urges to Binge as Neurological Junk

25 Brain over Binge, Step 2: Separate the Highest Human Brain from Urges to Binge

26 Brain over Binge, Step 3: Stop Reacting to Urges to Binge

27 Brain over Binge, Step 4: Stop Acting on Urges to Binge

28 Brain over Binge, Step 5: Get Excited

29 Is Relapse a Possibility?

30 Where I Am Today

PART III: THERAPY CONCEPTS REEXAMINED

31 Normal Eating

32 Body Image, Weight, and Dieting

33 Low Self-Esteem

34 "Coping"

35 Triggers

36 Purging

37 Coexisting Problems

38 Medication

39 Prevention

40 Bridges to Traditional Therapy

41 Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Preface

"[A]n eating disorder provides solutions to one's problems in life and is not simply about food and weight."1

In November 2007, two and a half years after I recovered from bulimia, I visited my doctor about some stomach pain. I told him about my past eating disorder, because I thought years of binge eating could have caused some damage to my digestive system. Even though I made it very clear that I had not binged in a long time and was no longer bulimic, he asked me, "Do you think your eating disorder is—" He hesitated, so I finished the sentence for him: "Gone?" Then I answered my own question with a simple "yes."

"That's great," he said. "So I assume you sought help?"

"Yes, I did go to therapy, but then I realized it was just a habit and I quit."

A look of interest, or perhaps doubt, came across his face. "Well," he said, "I'm sure your bulimia was fulfilling some need."

Fulfilling some need ... the words struck me, and suddenly, I felt as if I were sitting in a therapist's office again.

I was attempting to write this book at the time but wasn't making much progress. I found new motivation that day. My doctor's comment made me realize that there is a big problem with the way bulimia is viewed, not just among therapists and patients, but throughout society.

Today, eating disorders are primarily thought to be symptoms of psychological problems like depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, and family conflicts. Eating disorder experts assert that the destructive eating behavior signals an inner emotional crisis, just as fever indicates an underlying infection.2 An affected individual supposedly uses the eating disorder as a coping mechanism to deal with issues and feelings she can't face in her life. In this way, eating disorders are thought to fill an important need or void in the person's life—a need that is much more than physical, which is why it's so common to hear that eating disorders are not about food.

I believe that the widespread view of bulimia as a complicated problem that helps victims fill some sort of emotional need is a shaky hypothesis at best; and in practice, it can be downright harmful to people suffering daily with incessant urges to binge and purge.

A bulimic typically seeks therapy because she can't seem to stop eating large quantities of food. But in therapy, she learns that food really isn't the problem—the problem is her personality, her inability to cope with life, her childhood, and/or her relationships. In short, she learns that she is psychologically unwell. No one tells her exactly how to stop the behavior she so desperately wants to stop. There are no specific directions, no pinpoint cure. No one tells her that she has the power to stop binge eating anytime she chooses. Instead, she learns she doesn't have much control over her own behavior—that is, until she addresses the underlying emotional issues.

So the bulimic sets out on a path of self-discovery, hoping to find some answers to why she binges, hoping that if she makes some changes in her life, heals past hurts, or builds new relationships, the incredible urges to binge and purge will go away. She learns to deal with depression, reduce anxiety, and build healthy self-esteem. She works on her nutrition, battles her perfectionism, and learns to cope with the events and feelings that supposedly trigger her binge eating episodes. She tries to figure out what purpose the bulimia serves in her life. But all the while, she continues to binge and purge.

This was my story for six years. After an initial reluctance, I embraced therapy. I embraced the view that my bulimia was about something more than food; I embraced the idea that I was using my eating disorder to cope; I embraced the idea that I was ill, that I needed professional help to get well, that I needed to get to the root of my problem before I could quit. I did everything I was supposed to do in therapy, and when it didn't work, I tried different therapists, slightly different approaches. But all this had the same result: I remained bulimic.

I don't blame my therapists because, after all, they were only trying to help me and they were always sensitive and supportive. Therapy simply didn't empower me to stop binge eating, and there are many like me who have had the same experience. Although there is a wide range of recovery rates in the available literature, current therapies for binge eaters do not come close to curing everyone. There is no consensus on exact recovery rates because of problems in research, including a limited number of studies, study design flaws, differing definitions of eating disorders and recovery, different treatment types, and patient withdrawal from studies.3 However, bulimia recovery rates are not encouraging, and "we still have much to learn about providing truly effective treatments for eating disorders."4

One study showed that, after treatment, 50 percent of bulimics maintained bulimic behavior with episodic remissions and 20 percent remained symptomatic.5 Another showed that, three years after treatment for bulimia, one-third of women binged every day, one-third binged less than once a month, and one-third fell somewhere in between.6 Even the treatment considered most effective for bulimia—cognitive behavioral therapy—eliminates binge eating and purging in only 30 to 50 percent of cases.7

These statistics show that although therapy does help some bulimics, it does not help them all. Therefore, alternatives are needed. After talking to my doctor that November day, I felt a strong desire to provide an alternative. I realized the view of bulimia as a coping mechanism is so pervasive in our society that it is generally accepted as fact, even by those outside of the therapy community, like my medical doctor. I decided that a new voice was urgently needed—a voice to challenge this orthodoxy and reach those who are not being helped by this view of bulimia. I also want to give hope to those who are not currently seeking therapy, because about nine out of ten people do not receive treatment for their eating disorder.8

Fulfilling some need... I thought about those words over and over, trying to understand why my doctor's simple and innocent comment kept lingering in my mind. I reflected on my experience in therapy and how the experts led me to believe that by binge eating, I was using food to cope with my problems, stuff down emotions, or fulfill a more complex psychological need.

Then I thought about the way I changed once I'd decided to view my eating disorder differently: by dismissing the belief that I ate for deeper, more profound reasons and, in turn, completely changing how I approached my problem. I'd discovered another path to recovery, a simple and quick way to stop my bulimia—without therapy. I have completely stopped bingeing, and I have had no desire to do so in years. I believe that I am at zero risk for relapse, even during stressful times in my life. My bulimia is over.

When I was consumed with my struggle with bulimia, I vowed that if I ever found a way out, I would write a book to help others find their way too. Sometimes I still can't believe that I've now written this book, because for a long time, recovery seemed so elusive. But my recovery is real and permanent; and now I want to share my story with others so they can end their own struggle. I want to share my alternative approach, in hope that I can be a voice of change, a voice for those who are frustrated with therapy or who simply can't afford it, a voice that helps many escape the daily torment of bulimia.

When you are caught up in bingeing and purging or starving, you don't grow and you miss moments you'll never get back. I lost valuable years to my eating disorder, and I don't want anyone else to do the same. I am here to tell you it's possible to end your eating disorder right now and get on with your life.

Maybe traditional eating disorder treatment hasn't helped you thus far. Maybe self-help books you've read, while inspiring, haven't truly empowered you to stop your binge eating. Maybe you've tried many paths to recovery that only led to dead ends. Maybe you've realized, like me, that it may take a lifetime to transform into the person you want to be; but you are quickly grasping that you can't wait a lifetime to stop your bulimia.

Granted, we all want to become something greater than we are. We want to live with grace, love ourselves, and pursue our dreams unhindered. But that may not be possible for you right now. Maybe you can't even think about flourishing in other parts of your life until you conquer the most pressing issue—the thing that's holding you back: your destructive eating habits.

I hope my personal story of recovery can give some people who are plagued with bulimia the courage to expect a cure, and I hope my practical advice will give many bulimics their lives back. I hope I can change some people's attitudes about what bulimia is all about—people like my doctor and my therapists who believe that bulimia fulfills some need. If I can change one person's mind, give one person hope, or save one person's life, I will have done enough.

A Note to the Reader

For the sake of simplicity, throughout this book, I use the term therapy or treatment to refer to the collective treatment I received for my eating disorder, and I use my therapists to refer to the collective professionals who treated me over the years. During my college years, I saw three mental health counselors, two psychologists, three nutritionists, a psychiatrist, and a medical doctor about my bulimia. I was also an avid reader of anything pertaining to eating disorders. I got much advice from eating disorder experts by reading informational and self-help books and from resources on the Internet. Naturally, I don't remember exactly where I learned each specific item of information; so when I say, for example, "my therapist told me ..." or "this is what I learned in therapy," it's possible that the advice quoted could actually have come from a self-help book or another expert source. When I do mention specific therapists' names, I have given fictitious ones.

Introduction

The stories I've read of bulimia recovery are of two types. My story is neither of the two.

The first is what I call the "butterfly tale." It goes something like this: The bulimic—the caterpillar of the story—is not happy, her relationships are not fulfilling, she tends toward depression and negative thinking, she lacks true direction and purpose in her life, she holds on to hurt from her past, and she doesn't like herself. She binges and purges, supposedly to deal with her pain, but that only makes her more miserable.

Then she enters the recovery process—the cocoon—and there, she works to resolve issues from her past, learns how to cope with everyday problems and major stressors, learns how to manage feelings and emotions, and finds peace within herself.

The recovery process is not comfortable: it is hard work, and the transformation inside the cocoon can take an extremely long time. But when the bulimic is finally ready, she emerges as a fundamentally changed person—the butterfly of the story. She has become happy and fulfilled. She is in touch with her feelings and involved in satisfying relationships. She is at peace with her past and is able to live joyfully in the present; her ambitions for the future are quickly becoming reality. As a result of her transformation, she no longer needs to hold on to her eating disorder. She can fly away.

The second type of recovery tale is what I'll call the "tamed house pet story," and it goes something like this: The bulimic—the untamed animal of the story—lives a destructive and dangerous life. She binges and purges, and in so doing, she finds herself isolated, struggling through every day, and never safe from her bulimia.

Then she enters the recovery arena and begins the arduous process of taming her disordered eating behavior. After much training, practice, attention, and patience from therapists and support networks, she learns to reduce her binge eating and purging. She may even stop these behaviors—for the most part—after a long and difficult recovery process.

This type of recovered bulimic is like a wild animal who is taken into a home, trained diligently and painstakingly, given much attention and care, and learns to live a new and better life. However, even though the house pet learns to behave correctly most of the time, it still retains its untamed instincts at some level, and the owners may never be fully confident with the house pet in all situations.

In this type of recovery, an occasional binge is excused, just as occasional inappropriate behavior is expected from a tamed house pet. The bulimic falters every now and then, but she gets back on track afterward. Her relapses are welcomed as learning experiences or as signals that something else in her life needs attention. When they occur, the bulimic seeks support, tries to address what she believes to be the underlying emotional causes of the binge, and learns some new coping skills so as to avoid binges in the future.

This type of recovery eventually becomes fairly secure; however, the recovered bulimic can never get too comfortable. She has to take it "one day at a time." Just as the owner of a tamed house pet has to keep it away from, or train it to deal with, anyone or anything that could trigger its past behaviors, the former bulimic has to either avoid, or ensure she copes well with, things that could send her back to binge eating and purging. She has to be on guard against feelings and life events that could allow her untamed ways—her binge eating and purging—to return. These events and feelings are termed "triggers" in the eating disorder community. The recovered bulimic has to continue to deal with issues from her past, ensure that her emotional needs are met, and make sure she eats the right type and quantity of foods to avoid triggering a relapse.

The improved quality of life of the "tamed house pet" former bulimic is, undeniably, a vast improvement over the daily torment of bingeing and purging, just as the pet animal is unquestionably better off than when it was living on its own. But remaining free of bulimic behaviors is certainly not effortless—it takes constant maintenance.

When I was in the depths of bulimia, none of these stories made sense to me. Butterfly tales of triumph are commendable and inspiring, and no doubt very real; but in six years of trying, I found I could not relate to the idea of a long journey into a rich and full life while struggling daily with my incessant urges to binge. My failure to transform myself into a butterfly wasn't for lack of effort. Sure, I wanted to become happy and fulfilled; but that was not happening for me, especially while I continued to eat thousands of calories at a time and while I was exercising to exhaustion to try to undo the damage to my body.

No matter what I uncovered from my past, no matter what I resolved in the present, no matter what I envisioned for my future, my urges to binge eat still consumed me. No wings grew, no brilliant colors appeared. No matter how well I managed to cope with emotions and feelings and conflicts and problems, I still gave in to those urges time after time. As time went by, I saw what should have been some of the best years of my life quickly passing. I began to think that if I was waiting to become a butterfly to stop binge eating, I could be waiting forever. I began to think that the "tamed house pet" type of recovery was my only chance at a semi-normal life.

Yet the tamed house pet recovery stories didn't really appeal to me any more than butterfly tales did. These stories don't even promise the complete freedom of the butterfly tales, because even after recovery, the bulimic is still very much reliant on therapists, therapeutic techniques, and support systems in order to remain recovered. I was tired of meal plans; I did not want to have to follow one every day after recovery. I did not want to continue going to therapy and support groups indefinitely. I did not want to have to deal with my bulimia one day at a time—I wanted to be free of it completely. I wanted recovery to mean a life where I would no longer have any desire to binge eat, no longer have to be on guard against triggers, and no longer binge—ever.

As I write today, I am completely free of binge eating, purging, and any type of disordered eating. I don't have to watch out for triggers, and I don't have to follow meal plans or attend therapy. I no longer have any urges to binge, and there is no possibility of relapse. Yet my recovery did not involve any major self-transformation—I found another way to end my bulimia. My daily struggle with food is finished; the pain that my habits brought me has disappeared; the misery of those years of binge eating is gone. The relief I feel to have put my eating disorder behind me is beyond words.

My recovery was not typical. It did not involve special diets, emotional self-discovery, or spiritual enlightenment. It did not result from a decrease in anxiety, an increase in happiness, an improvement in self-esteem, a new medication, or any major life change. It was simply me, armed with a bit of knowledge, finally taking control of my own behavior.

Today, perhaps I am not the perfect, successful, confident, shining example of what a recovered bulimic should be—"in love with life and in love with myself"—but each day, I do have the opportunity to live a real life, with all the joy and pain it brings. I still have many of the same faults, problems, and weaknesses that I had when I was bulimic; but without the bulimia, those problems are immeasurably more manageable. I now have a family of my own, and I can be available to them and to all the people I care about. Without my bulimia consuming me, I am better able to tackle the daily challenges that I face, even if I don't always cope well.

I hope that my story will point other bulimics in a new direction—away from the myths of the butterfly theory of recovery and the constraints of the tamed house pet theory of recovery, and into a kind of recovery that is secure and lasting. I believe that, at any time we choose, we can take another path and use our own resources to end bulimia.

This book is divided into three parts. Part I is a memoir of my eating disorder and my recovery. I share how my bulimia developed and grew over the years, my experiences with unsuccessful therapy, and how I finally conquered my bulimia on my own. Part II is an account of my journey to figure out what my bulimia was all about to begin with and to explain to myself how I was able to recover so quickly and completely. The answers I found were surprising to me, and very different from what I had learned in therapy. In Part III, I discuss topics that were often the focus of my unsuccessful therapy, such as low self-esteem, poor body image, coexisting problems, and eating a normal diet.

In this book, I primarily address bulimics and those with binge eating disorder (BED); but anyone dealing with episodes of binge eating can benefit from what I've written. For those who are unsure if they fall into this category, here is a definition of binge eating adapted from most recent edition of the American Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV-TR), published by the American Psychiatric Association:

An episode of binge eating is characterized by eating, in a discrete period of time (e.g., within any 2-hour period), an amount of food that is definitely larger than most people would eat during a similar period of time and under similar circumstances, and by a sense of lack of control over eating during the episode (e.g., a feeling that one cannot stop eating or control what or how much one is eating).

Binge eating disorders affect many people. BED is more common than bulimia, with an estimated 2 percent of all adults in the U.S. affected (as many as four million Americans), according to a 2001 report.9 Bulimia occurs in about 1 percent, although the rates are probably much higher because bulimics often hide their disorder from others;10 furthermore, bulimics are harder to identify because they do not have emaciated bodies like anorexics.11 Among teen girls, bulimia may affect as many as 5 percent.12

So far, I have used a female perspective in describing those with eating disorders; but this book can benefit men as well. Although 90-95 percent of those with bulimia are female,13 males can develop the disorder too. BED affects more men than bulimia; for every three females with BED, there are two males, which amounts to well over one million men.14 For ease of writing, I will continue to use feminine pronouns; however, this book is not excluding males, and in fact, my ideas may be especially appealing to males who feel alienated by female-oriented, emotionally intensive "talk" therapies.

It doesn't matter if you are male or female; it doesn't matter how old you are, how frequently you binge, how long you've been doing it, or how large the quantities of food you consume—binge eating can create havoc in your life. So even if you don't quite fit the typical pattern of bulimia or BED, or you don't meet the diagnostic criteria for either disorder, you may be able to relate to my story and find help in this book.

A word of caution: all this book can help you do is end your destructive eating habits. It won't tell you how to become assertive, spiritual, emotionally satisfied, or happy, or solve any of your other problems. It won't teach you how to love yourself, build meaningful relationships, heal hurt from your past, eat a perfect diet, maintain your ideal weight, or exercise optimally. Recovering from an eating disorder will not magically change you into the person you want to be. That's a lifetime's work. But putting aside your bulimia or binge eating disorder can be the first step in a process of self-transformation, if that's what you desire.

Reading this book certainly won't give you wings, but it will give you hope, and more importantly, it will give you a clear path to recovery.

PART I: My Bulimia and Recovery

1: A Typical Day's Binge

It was near midnight on January 6, 2000. I lay on an old couch in the basement of my college dorm, a Pop-Tart wrapper and empty Diet Sprite bottle at my side. As I began to wake from a deep sleep, I noticed the back of my shirt was damp; but it was so hot in the basement that I wasn't sure if the moisture was sweat or soda. I didn't really care. All I could think was, I can't believe I've done it again.

This was supposed to be a new year, a new semester, and a new start.

I had vowed not to binge eat in the second semester of my freshman year, yet here I was: full, bloated, and sick of myself. I sat up and stared down at the couch. It was gross—muted purple, spongy with brownish stains. I thought that any other freshman girls who had been here had probably been drunk, because no one would have been on that couch if they were thinking clearly. I only wished alcohol had brought me here; that would have been OK for a college freshman. But for me, it was not beer—it was food.

I was so ashamed. It was only my first day back at the university after spending the holidays with my family, and it was already a disaster. The holidays, too, had been disastrous; I had binged many times at home as well. Yes, everyone overeats during the holidays, indulging in treats that come around only once a year; but for me, it was different. During every meal, I struggled with controlling myself, trying to eat slowly and take small bites. I always tried to be mindful of how hungry or full I felt as I ate, but this was very frustrating because I was rarely satisfied. No matter how much I consumed at a meal, I usually wanted much more.

I'd indulged like everyone else during Christmas dinner, but afterward, I'd longed for our guests to leave and my parents to go to bed so I could truly eat the way I wanted to. I wanted everything to myself: the stuffing, the sweet potatoes, the pies, the cookies, the chocolates. I wanted to eat fast, swallowing large mouthfuls at a time until I was dizzy. I'd tried to talk myself out of it, but I couldn't reason with myself when I had such strong urges to binge.

If I hadn't experienced the urges for myself, I would never have believed that such strong cravings for something so irrational were possible; and I wouldn't have believed that saying no to something harmful could seem completely out of the question. I had always been a conscientious person who valued personal responsibility and good choices. But my urges to binge made me throw all of that out the window.

Christmas night was one of those times when my conscientious self seemed completely absent, and saying no to my irrational desire to binge seemed unfathomable. So, as soon as I was alone, I walked slowly into the kitchen, trying to remain calm even though my heart was racing. I told myself I would have only a little, as I usually did before a binge. Possibly one more piece of pecan pie—because it was Christmas, after all—and I could always work out the next day to make up for it.

I told myself I wouldn't let a little snack turn into a binge, but halfway through the first piece of pie, I knew I would eat much more. My heart beat faster, and I began taking bigger and bigger bites. In a matter of minutes, I had eaten two more pieces of pecan pie, two pieces of cherry pie, six Christmas cookies, and ten chocolate candies. (I still know what I ate during binges many years ago because I always wrote it down the next day in my journal.)

I let go of all self-restraint and it felt good. I proceeded to eat from the leftover dishes until it was no longer pleasurable to eat; that is, until I was hunched over with stomach pain. Then I poured myself a large bowl of cereal and took it back to my bedroom. I sat up in bed, eating each bite slowly, wondering if I could die from overeating. What could happen to me? Could my stomach burst? Could my esophagus tear? Could I go into shock from too much sugar?

Surely what I'm. doing won't kill me, I thought. Will it?

Such questions always popped into my head after a binge, but I tried not to pay too much attention to them. I didn't want to think about what might happen. I also didn't want to think about how much weight I'd gained, about having to spend the entire next day at the gym to make up for my binge, and about going back to college. I only wanted to be full. I wanted to drift off to sleep feeling stuffed, sugar-drunk, and content.

The beginning of a binge always brought excitement, relief, and gratification, as if I were finally giving my body what it wanted, as if I were doing the right thing—even though part of me knew it was terribly wrong. However, the feelings of pleasure were all too fleeting. As I continued to binge, the good feelings gradually faded, leaving me wanting more and more to recapture them.

This will be the last time, I thought.

It was not the last time. I binged again two days later, and again three days after that. Then I made a firm resolution to stop as we rang in the new millennium, which was the first of many New Year's resolutions to stop binge eating. That resolution lasted only until I binged again on January 3, three days before I was to drive back to school. I thought maybe I'd have better luck quitting once I got back to campus, once I no longer had to deal with the stress of living back at home, and once I had access to my therapist and nutritionist again. So, on January 3, I promised myself I would quit binge eating for good once I got back to the university.

DRIVING WHILE EATING

But here I was on January 6, lying on a disgusting old couch in a basement, feeling as full as I had on Christmas night. I wanted to rewind time and take back all I had eaten that day. My binge had begun that morning, about a quarter of the way into my four-hour drive. Even though I had eaten a meal before I left the house, I'd begun feeling the familiar urge to binge just an hour later.

I'd briefly tried to talk myself out of it but then quickly decided—since my promise to quit bingeing did not technically start until I was back on campus—that it was OK to eat in the car on the way. I reached into the backseat and blindly dug through my luggage for the large bag of Christmas M&M's that my mom had given me to share with my roommate. The M&M's were gone in minutes; then all my focus and energy turned to getting more food.

When I began to binge, it was as if I entered a trance where nothing else mattered—not driving, not listening to music, not my cell phone ringing, not making plans for next semester. All that mattered was where I would get the next sugary and fattening item for my binge. I knew it was wrong, disgusting, gluttonous, abnormal, costly, unhealthy, and irresponsible; but in the moment, I didn't care.

I took the next exit. I bought Doritos, Rice Krispies Treats, and honey buns at a gas station; and before getting back on the interstate, I pulled into a fast-food restaurant for a chocolate shake. I exited four more times to get more food before reaching my college town. Then I decided that I could squeeze in a few more stops before I was officially on campus. So instead of going straight to my dorm, I drove around town from one place to the next, avoiding the route to the university until I simply couldn't eat any more.

Finally, around 4:00 p.m., I took the two-lane road to my residence hall, going below the speed limit with a line of cars behind me.

I have to stop this, I scolded myself as I pulled into the parking lot. I got out of the car feeling nauseous and dizzy, my stomach full and tight. I felt sick as I looked at the eight-story building in front of me. I wanted to like college. I wanted to make friends, go out, date; but my irrational and unrelenting desire to binge was getting in the way.

I was too uncomfortable to carry anything to my dorm room, so I left all my luggage, trash, and some uneaten food in the car. Opening the door to the building, I felt in a daze as I heard girls talking about the holidays, upcoming sorority events, and what classes they were taking this semester. I stared at the tile floor as I walked to the elevator, hoping I wouldn't see anyone I knew. My face was swollen, as it always was after prolonged binges; I was unsure whether I had gotten all the crumbs off of my face; and I certainly didn't want to talk to anyone.

Three girls boarded the elevator with me; one of them was telling her friend about gaining weight over the holidays because she had eaten so much. This was typical conversation in a college dorm, and it seemed I couldn't get away from talk about calories, weight, and working out. I hated the fact that other girls were so concerned about their weight, even though I was probably more concerned about mine than anyone. I thought that if that girl had only known what I'd eaten over the holidays, she wouldn't feel so bad.

I was still the thinnest one on the elevator, but I was gaining weight by the day. At 5'4", I'd weighed 92 pounds when I began college in August 1999; by January 6, I was 107. The girls in that elevator probably weighed between 120 and 130, and they looked healthy and beautiful to me. I thought of how wonderful it would be to be like one of them—to be of average weight, not starving, not stuffed, and only concerned with eating a few extra calories during the holidays. Instead, I was concerned about eating over 7,000 calories in the car ... and wondering why I still wanted more.

The three girls got off the elevator on the third floor, and the door closed behind them. My dorm room was two floors higher, but as the elevator ascended and the number 5 lit up, I didn't move. I watched the door open and close.

What's the point of trying anymore? I stepped forward and pressed the B button.

LOW

Downstairs, I walked the empty hallway—past the basement lobby, past the laundry room, and into a small room with vending machines. I bought a bag of chips, a candy bar, a Pop-Tart, and a bottle of Diet Sprite; then it was back to the basement lobby to sit on the old, disgusting couch. The food was no longer enjoyable, and I felt sick, but as long as I kept eating, I didn't have to think about anything else—I only had to chew and swallow. I felt completely numb.

It wasn't until I had eaten the last bite of Pop-Tart that I started to feel uneasy. As I slowly returned to my senses, what I'd done that day became very real to me. The shame, guilt, and self-hatred set in. What made it worse was that I hadn't even been back on campus for fifteen minutes, and I'd already broken my promise to myself.

I began to panic. I knew I had to do something to fix this. I had track practice in two days, and I felt too fat to walk, much less run. I feared that everyone on the team would stare at me, wondering why I was gaining so much weight. I felt that I could not live with myself if I gained any more weight in this horrible and disgusting way. I got up from the couch, walked to the trash can, and tried to vomit.

This was not my first time trying. I had begun trying to make myself throw up after binges several months before, but no matter how hard I'd tried, it hadn't worked. Sometimes I felt content after binges—like the one on Christmas night—and I'd go right to sleep; but other times, I felt desperate to get rid of the food. This time I was desperate. I gagged so hard, my face burned and my eyes watered, but nothing came up. I gave up after fifteen minutes.

I collapsed in tears on the couch. If I could just make myself throw up, it seemed to me, all my problems would be solved. Then I'd be able to binge—which was all I seemed to want to do and which seemed impossible not to do—without suffering the consequences. Inside myself, I knew that throwing up would only make things worse, but at the time, it seemed like an easier solution than my usual one: exercising the entire next day.

I was so exhausted at this point that I couldn't even think about working out. I felt too tired and sick to even make it back upstairs to my room. I only wanted to sleep. I curled up on my side on the couch and drank my Diet Sprite, thinking how ironic and ridiculous it was that I often ended my several-thousand-calorie binges with a diet drink. The carbonation made my stomach feel a little better, and the warmth of the basement made my eyes heavy.

THE LAST WRAPPER

I woke up near midnight, with that dampness on my shirt and with the usual aftereffects of a binge: swollen stomach, puffy face and hands, acid reflux, a sore throat, and a horrible taste in my mouth. All I could think about was how fat I felt and how much of a failure I was. In the darkness of the basement—among the shadows of a few boxes, some folding chairs, a splintered table, and an old piano—it all felt like a bad dream.

I picked up the soda bottle and Pop-Tart wrapper from the couch and made my way back toward the elevator. I can't bear another semester like last one, I thought, and this was already shaping up to be worse. I recalled the last several days of the previous semester, the worst week of my bingeing thus far. I had binged on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. I was up all night eating on Sunday even though I had a chemistry final the next morning. After my exam, I felt so fat that I decided to keep eating. There were free doughnuts in my dorm's lobby during exam week, so I downed eleven of them, plus two cartons of chocolate milk.

Now the dorm was quiet. There was no end-of-semester hustle and bustle, no doughnut table. It was a new start. But I felt the same—miserable and bloated. I boarded the elevator, rode up to the fifth floor, opened the door to my dorm room, and looked around the tiny, dark space, feeling sick and hopeless.

I threw the empty Diet Sprite bottle away, but I put the Pop-Tart wrapper in my desk drawer. I told myself that, since I would never binge again, I wanted to save the wrapper. It would be a memento of sorts—a token of my last binge food. It would remind me of these dark days, and one day I would be able to look back on them and laugh, or maybe cry—I wasn't sure which.

I closed the desk drawer and got into bed. My roommate (let's call her Julia) wasn't there; she was home with her family for a few more days. I felt such shame when I thought about her, because I had eaten so much of her food the previous semester. At first, I thought she hadn't noticed the small items I'd swiped here and there—a few cookies, a bowl of cereal, some crackers. I usually hurried to the store to replace the food, but as it turned out, she knew all along.

A few months into our first semester, Julia had begun hiding certain foods. In some of my binge eating episodes, I'd searched everywhere for her food, finding a pack of cookies in her clothes hamper, some snack cakes under her bed. She'd also kept an unopened box of honey buns in a small plastic drawer between our beds for over two months. She wasn't hiding those from me, simply storing them there until she got around to eating them. But that box taunted me. During binges, I would check to see if it was open yet, and I was always furious when it wasn't. If she would just open that box, I could sneak just one. ...

During one binge at the end of that semester, I decided that Julia would surely not eat those honey buns before we went home for the holidays. I opened the box and ate all but one, along with some of her hidden cookies. Then I went to the library to study. When I came back later that night, I noticed that something was wrong: all of Julia's food was gone. There was none on her food shelf, none in the refrigerator, none in her usual hiding places, no remaining honey bun in the drawer. It was all gone, and she was too. My heart sank with shame.

Until that point, Julia had been, at least outwardly, easygoing about me eating her food. "That's fine, you can have as much as you want," she would say after I told her I'd eaten a bowl of her cereal or a few of her cookies. But understandably, she had been getting annoyed over time as I abused her generosity. So that very night, I ran out to the grocery store and bought what I hoped was enough food to make it right—what I guessed I'd consumed all semester.

Back in our dorm room, I laid out all the groceries on Julia's bed, along with a self-help book for bulimics, which I was reading at the time. I added a letter, explaining to her that I had been diagnosed with bulimia and had a hard time controlling myself during binges. I apologized for my behavior and confided to her that I was seeing a therapist and a nutritionist. I told her if she had any questions or concerns about my disorder, she could talk to me or read through the book.

That night when Julia came into the room, I pretended to be asleep. I listened in embarrassment as she put all the food away. The next day, she wrote a kind letter in response to mine, forgiving me and offering encouragement and support. We never talked about the incident, and we'd both gone home for the holidays three days later. Now I stared at my roommate's empty bed, wondering if our relationship would ever be the same.

2: A Typical Day of Purging

I was glad my roommate wasn't back at the dorm yet, because I knew I couldn't face her just now. She had been one of my good friends in high school, and I hated the fact that I had wronged her by stealing from her last semester. I also hated that she now knew this embarrassing secret about me. I was also worried that I wouldn't be able to stop myself from eating her food again.

Surely I can control myself, I thought, even as I stared through the dark at all of the food Julia had left in the room.

As I tried to go to sleep that night, I thought about the first time I'd lain in this dorm bed, five months earlier. I'd been so thin then that I couldn't lie on my side, because my hip bone jabbed me on the too-firm mattress. Those were the days when my weight still reflected my anorexia, not my emerging bulimia. I hadn't had any misconceptions about how thin I was when I'd entered college. I hadn't had a distorted body image. I'd known I was underweight, and part of me liked it. I didn't have to feel guilty about eating or occasionally bingeing. My binge eating had just been starting to pick up then, but now it seemed totally out of control.

I could no longer feel my bones, even though I was still very lean. I knew I'd needed to gain the weight I had my first semester, but I didn't like the way I'd done it. I felt driven to binge by some force beyond my control, and I feared the scale would just keep escalating.

I have to somehow take control and make it stop, I told myself, reaffirming my vow that January 6 would be my last day of bingeing. I'd exercise the whole next day and then start over, getting back on my nutritionist-approved meal plan and returning to work on my therapy goals. At last, I fell asleep.

GYM PRISON

I didn't wake up until 11:00 a.m. on January 7, and the first thing I noticed was my terrible headache. I resentfully got out of bed and began packing for the gym: three sets of workout clothes and some fruit and crackers. On the days after binges, I wore only sweatshirts and sweatpants to hide my bloated body. I'd need three sets, because I always sweated profusely and had to change a few times during the day.

This day, I followed my typical post-binge routine, alternating working out on the stationary bike, the elliptical machine, the stair climber, and the treadmill. I stayed on each machine for an hour or two, then went to the locker room to change my sweat-saturated clothes and refuel with some healthy food before returning to the cardio area.

Throughout my first year of college, I'd do about four hours of cardio and lift some weights on days after binges; but as the years went by and the pounds piled on, I increased my load to about seven hours of cardio plus the weights. I hated it. I despised working out purely to compensate for a binge, and I resented having to spend my days at the gym. I passed the time on the machines by studying or reading, but it was still monotonous and exhausting. The binge was never worth the price, and it was during those long hours at the gym that I most wished I could be successful at self-induced vomiting.

When I finally finished my workout sentence on January 7, I showered, dressed, and felt a great sense of relief—the slate had been wiped clean. Even though I knew my exercise hadn't burned as many calories as I had consumed the day before, my tired body and the scale told me that most of the damage was undone. I always weighed myself before, during, and after my workouts, and I generally lost about five pounds. Most of it was probably water weight from sweating so much in my heavy clothing, but it still made me feel better to see the numbers on the scale go down throughout the day.

It was dinnertime when I finished working out that evening, so I drove toward the nearest sandwich shop. Even though I didn't eat much while exercising, I wanted to get back on track afterward with a normal, nutritious dinner because I knew that skipping meals or eating too restrictively would just lead me to binge again. Tired as I was, I had a new, more positive outlook as I drove away from campus and into town. Maybe this semester can be different after all, I thought. I told myself I would not spend any more days binge eating or overexercising, and I would eat normally and be healthy from now on.

As I continued down the road to the sandwich shop, however, my stomach began growling and my new confidence began to fade. My hunger made me anxious, because I felt my insatiable appetite was my enemy. When I was hungry, I couldn't trust myself not to overeat. After I finished a large turkey sandwich and baked chips, I was no longer physically hungry, but I still felt empty.

EXHAUSTING URGES

On the drive back to my dorm, I started wanting to eat more. I contemplated stopping at a nearby gas station—one of my regular spots—to get more food. I hated the fact that I had these incessant thoughts about bingeing. Why couldn't I just stop thinking about food? Why couldn't I just stop needing to eat unreasonable amounts of it?

I became very anxious as I got closer to my dorm, and I wondered if I would be able to fight my desire. Would I be able to resist my roommate's food all alone in the dorm room? I knew all the logical reasons I shouldn't binge again, and I certainly didn't want to undo my day's worth of working out and have to repeat the workout the next day. Furthermore, I couldn't afford to binge again because I had track practice the next morning, and I couldn't run well feeling sick and bloated.

But no amount of reasoning could turn off my desire to binge. In fact, nothing I had tried up to this point was effective in stopping my irrational thoughts and feelings. When I did manage to not binge, it felt like a painful struggle, as if I were denying myself something vital. That night was one of those times. From the moment I left the sandwich shop, I was consumed by cravings to binge, and I fought them most of the night. I tried using logic, I tried using strategies I'd learned in therapy, I tried distracting myself, I tried relaxing, and I tried sleeping. But I did not sleep much, I certainly didn't relax, I wasn't able to distract myself for more than a few minutes, I didn't make any important therapeutic gains, and I certainly didn't outsmart my urges with logic.

When the sun came up the next morning, January 8, I still had not binged, but I didn't feel victorious. I felt exhausted and depressed. The fight didn't even seem worth it. At least on the previous night when I'd binged, I'd gotten a good night's sleep. Now, instead of running at track practice feeling bloated and sick, I would have to run sleep-deprived. It seemed I just couldn't win. Even if I did resist my urges to binge, they still got the better of me. I knew it wouldn't be long before they would return, and I didn't feel capable of putting forth so much effort to cope with them day after day.

So only two days later, I broke all the promises I made to myself and binged again. I found myself back at all my regular snack shops and fast-food chains. Afterward, full of shame and self-disgust, I threw away the Pop-Tart wrapper from my desk drawer and replaced it with a potato chip bag—the last item I'd eaten during this binge—and told myself that it was truly over now. I again overexercised the next day to compensate for my latest lapse, and I again felt renewed after my workout, determined to start over. I was successful for a few days at a time, only to eventually succumb to my desire to binge. This cycle was repeated over and over.

I didn't understand why I was caught up in this pattern, despite my efforts to figure it out in therapy and in self-help books. I didn't understand why I was so ravenous, why I thought about food constantly, why eating normally was near impossible for me, and why I broke promise after promise to quit. I hated having to deal with my cravings day in and day out, and I hated that I was wasting valuable time bingeing and then compulsively exercising, yet I couldn't seem to stop.

This cycle—my pattern of bulimia—hadn't developed overnight. It was a process that had begun slowly, the summer before my junior year of high school, when I first began trying to lose weight.

3: Choice and Consequences

My decision to lose weight wasn't deliberate. I didn't think I was fat. I didn't tell myself I needed to lose X number of pounds to look good. Dieting was something I inadvertently fell into, then chose to continue.

I had always been a super-skinny kid, but when I entered high school, I started filling out, as teenage girls should. During my ninth- and tenth-grade years, I put on about 15 pounds, which put me at a perfectly healthy—and still thin—weight of about 118. I no longer looked like a skinny little girl, but more like a woman. The additional pounds didn't cause me much grief at first. At that time, some of my friends were becoming conscious of their weight and were beginning to diet. I actually thought dieting was ridiculous and wasn't afraid to tell my friends so. My diet was generally healthy and normal, and for quite a while, I didn't give it much thought. I ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and I stayed very active.

I was on the cross-country, basketball, and swim teams, and I was the pitcher on the softball team. I was, and still am, a person who can eat a lot and stay thin because of my activity level and metabolism; so although I usually ate more than my friends at school, I remained thinner than most. Nevertheless, as I saw the numbers creeping higher and higher on the scale throughout my first two years of high school, I began to worry. As my sophomore year came to a close, I was wondering when the weight gain was going to stop.

A month after tenth grade ended, in June 1997, I had a tonsillectomy that set off a change in my eating habits. After the surgery, I could not eat normally for a couple of weeks, so I quickly dropped some pounds. The first time I weighed myself after this, I was at a gym near my home. I had joined a few months before, so I could work out and lift weights to become a better softball pitcher. My goal at the time was a college scholarship to play softball; but that summer day would eventually change my life's direction. That day also marked an immediate change in my reasons for working out at the gym. I remember stepping on the scale, reading 111, and being unsure how I felt. Part of me was a little uneasy because I knew weight loss would hurt my strength as a pitcher, but another part of me was excited. The tonsillectomy seemed to have resolved my dilemma about the weight I'd gained in high school. It was a perfect solution because I'd lost weight without technically dieting.

My excitement was tempered by the knowledge that I would probably gain the weight back soon enough; my throat was healed and I could eat normally again. However, after seeing my weight loss, I was tempted to keep restricting my food intake. After all, I'd been successful at doing something many of my peers were trying to do—losing weight—so why would I want to gain it back?

There was another factor that tipped the balance in favor of dieting. I was, just at that time, not motivated to work on my strength because I was facing a change of coaches. The night before my tonsillectomy, I'd found out my high school softball coach—whom I admired and looked to for encouragement and direction—was no longer going to coach our team. I was quite upset about that and temporarily didn't care if my pitching would suffer if I didn't gain the weight back. So I decided not to go back to my carefree, healthy, normal eating habits. I instead chose to begin dieting—even though I didn't call it that.

I would not eat normally again for nearly eight years.

SUCCESSES AND FAILURES

I began restricting my food slowly that summer, first by cutting out most junk food, then by eating fewer calories and exercising more. My family—my mom, dad, and older sister—didn't seem to notice this change, most likely because they were busy preparing my sister, Corey, to move away to college. In no way was my behavior a cry for attention during this time; their distraction simply allowed my dieting to go relatively undetected.

I knew I would miss Corey when she left. We had a lot of good times together as kids, with only a two-year age difference; however, we were as different as sisters come, and we definitely had grown apart as we entered our teen years. She was outgoing, carefree, popular, and had a partying side; I was shy, intense, and preferred to be either alone, playing sports, or with one or two close friends. When I entered high school, I felt like I was known primarily as "Corey's little sister, " which was certainly not a bad thing, but I did look forward to shedding that label.

As Corey prepared for college, I heard more than a few comments and warnings about the "Freshman 15"—the pounds college freshmen tend to put on—from her friends and my family. Previously, comments about weight did not interest me; but now I started listening. Corey had always been thin—not as skinny as I was growing up, but her weight was never a concern. She was—and still is—beautiful, and it bothered me to hear others suggest that she suddenly had to start watching her weight. It seemed to justify my emerging impulse to control my weight too.

Beginning that summer, my motivation for working out became less about getting stronger for sports and more about preventing weight gain, so I upped the aerobic exercise (specifically, running) and decreased the weight lifting. My pitching suffered that summer, but my running improved by the day. Even before I started dieting, I'd been the best female cross-country runner my hometown, outside of New Orleans; and as I lost weight and trained, my times drastically improved. By the time the cross-country season began at the start of my junior year, I was becoming one of the top female runners in all of Louisiana.

Despite all my outward success, I was struggling with what seemed to be a monumental internal problem: my appetite. After I began purposefully dieting, I started feeling ravenous; I started thinking about food more than I ever had in my life. I began to fear my appetite, and although I tried to fend it off with healthy meals and snacks, I worried it would drive me to eat much more than I wanted to. So I didn't give myself much freedom around food, and I avoided places and situations where I knew I would be tempted to eat unhealthy foods. This only made things worse.

By the middle of eleventh grade, I'd begun slipping every now and then—eating more than I had planned or eating something very sugary or fattening. This made me very anxious about weight gain, so I began running more to compensate. Even after cross-country season ended that year, I continued my rigid and grueling training schedule. I didn't really like running much, but it suddenly seemed worthwhile to train even harder. Running more gave me freedom to indulge once in a while, and I wanted that freedom because my appetite seemed to be increasing exponentially.

By the time softball season started in February, I was down to about 105 pounds. My uniform from the previous year was sagging, and I had to tighten my belt a notch or two to keep my pants up. Most of my teammates' uniforms were tighter than they were before, and although they complained about gaining weight, I know now it was healthy and normal. My teammates and new coach noticed my weight loss, but they didn't make a big of a deal of it. I didn't think it was a big deal either.

My pitching that year was indeed much worse than it had been the previous year. I knew the weight loss and concentration on running were compromising my game—and softball was my favorite sport, the one I wanted to continue to the college level. But I didn't have the courage to turn back. I also didn't know how to turn back; normal eating, once so easy for me, had become elusive.

During softball season, I decreased my food intake even more. Without as much time to run due to softball practice and games, I remember not wanting to eat more than a couple of sunflower seeds on the bench, because I thought they were too fattening. I remember lying about my eating during that time to my parents, my coach, and my boyfriend. When our team went out to eat after a game, I'd tell my coach that I was going to eat when I got home; when I got home, I'd tell my parents I ate on the road with the team. On weekends when I went out with my boyfriend, I'd tell him I'd eaten at home; then, when I got home, I'd tell my parents I'd eaten with him.

The more calories I cut, the more ravenous I felt. Every time I skipped a meal, it fueled my appetite. Food became a priority in my thoughts. I lost the ability to truly focus on the rest of my life, such that school, softball, my friends, my family, and my boyfriend began to fade into the background. I was heading toward anorexia, even though I didn't believe my dieting was severe enough to qualify as an eating disorder. I typically had a large portion of fruit for breakfast, a couple pieces of bread and more fruit for lunch, some crackers after school, a normal-portioned and balanced dinner, and a small bowl of cereal before bed. I ate about 1,000 calories a day even at my all-time low; but with my activity level and fast metabolism, that was like starvation.

4: Introduction to Therapy *

The summer after my junior year, my weight was down to 100 pounds; my parents became so concerned that they sent me to my first therapist. I was reluctant to go, because I still didn't think my weight loss was a problem. But the therapist said I met the criteria for anorexia because I had dropped below 85 percent of my normal body weight and had missed my period for four months. She told me anorexia was an illness, and not about food and weight. She said my concerns with food and weight were symptoms of more difficult life issues. Treatment, she said, would involve uncovering the reasons why I was dieting, improving my self-esteem and body image, reducing my anxiety, evaluating me for depression and treating it if necessary, working on any family or relationship problems, and improving my social skills.

This was all new to me, but the idea that my weaknesses needed to be treated so that I would stop dieting seemed more than a little odd. Yes, it was true that my self-esteem needed work. I never thought I was a good athlete, even though I excelled in several sports; I never thought I was smart, even though I usually made straight A's; and I doubted people liked me, even though I had many friends. Yes, it was true that I had high anxiety. Even before I had begun dieting, I'd let tests, homework, softball games, cross-country meets, and many other things stress me out. Yes, it was true that my social skills needed work. I was always painfully shy and got nervous in social situations.

Those flaws were simply me, and I was willing to live with those flaws. I felt that my dieting was about losing weight, not about my life's problems. But I wasn't ready to stop dieting because I wasn't convinced I could trust myself to eat normally. I left the therapist's office vowing never to go back.

RAVENOUS

I continued to diet during the summer after my junior year. As my senior year began in August 1998, I felt I was losing control. I started slipping much more often, eating foods that were previously off-limits, and in larger quantities. To make up for these slips, I increased my running even more. I was well aware that my restrictive eating habits were the cause of my strong appetite, and I decided that maybe it was time to start eating normal meals again. I feared I would completely abandon control—yet I felt that was already happening, so what did I have to lose? Maybe, I reasoned, eating normal-sized meals and adding some fatty foods in moderation would help some of my cravings subside.

I started to eat meals that were more substantial, but it didn't feel right. A regular-sized meal in my stomach felt uncomfortable and wrong; it made me feel fat and want to go running to burn it off. Furthermore, eating normal meals and reintroducing sweets and fats into my diet didn't help my cravings subside, it only made them stronger. A normal-sized meal, even though uncomfortable, still left me wanting much more. Eating a few cookies made me want the entire box; eating a handful of potato chips left me wanting the entire bag; eating a bowl of ice cream made me want to polish off the entire carton.

I spent most of my senior year alternating between eating normal meals and restricting foods. On days when I ran more than four miles, I allowed myself to eat more; on days when I ran less, I ate less. I maintained my weight between 100 and 105 pounds for most of the year, bordering on anorexia. My running continued to improve, and I enjoyed my success, but I still felt that my heart wasn't in the sport. Nevertheless, after my senior cross-country season, I signed with a Division I university in Mississippi—the same university my sister already attended—to run cross-country and track. Part of me was excited about it, but another part of me was not.

I hated the fact that I'd given up my dream of pitching in college, when only a couple years before, that had been the only thing I wanted to do. I hated the fact that my weight and food obsessions were tied up with running, and I dreaded that the obsession would linger in my college years. I wondered if I'd be good enough to compete in college, or if the other girls would be much faster than me or thinner than me and better able to control their appetites. Part of me wanted to break free and no longer participate in a weight-control sport, but another part hoped that things would be different in college ... and that I would be different as well.

To prepare for college, I decided to run track at the end of my senior year—something I had never done because track interfered with softball. I still played softball, but a freshman pitcher all but took my position because I was no longer strong enough to be effective on the mound. It was difficult to participate in both sports at the same time, and the stress made me start losing weight again. It was during that time that I dropped below 100 pounds, and my appetite finally got the better of me. Throughout my dieting and weight loss, when I'd eaten a little too much, it had never been more than about 500 calories. It wasn't until March of my senior year that I binged for the first time.

* When I write about what I learned in therapy, in this chapter and throughout this book, I am simply repeating what my therapists told me. The things I learned in therapy are not unequivocal truths and are, by and large, very different from what I believe today.

5: My First Binge

My first binge was on sweet cereal—one of the foods I'd restricted for a long time and never felt comfortable reintroducing into my diet because I craved it more than most other foods. Nearly every night, my dad would eat a bowl of cereal, often the sugary kind that I craved. He always sat on the rocking chair on one side of the couch eating his cereal, and I sat on a recliner on the other side watching television, doing homework, or eating some bland cereal or low-calorie food. When I watched him eat the cereal, I always felt emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I wanted nothing more than to have some of it.

I feared my cravings. I thought that if I took one bite of sweet cereal, I would eat the whole box. So I didn't have any. That is, until that March morning when I binged for the first time. When I woke up that morning, I immediately began thinking about the cereal in our kitchen cabinet. It was not unusual for food to be the first thought in my mind on any given day, but this day, somehow, it was more compelling. I quickly got ready for school, thinking I could distract myself by just getting out of the house. I walked to the kitchen, trying to convince myself I would have only an apple, but soon I found myself staring into the pantry at the cereal.

I told myself I would just have a little bit, but I think I knew what would happen. My heart raced as I picked up the box, and my hand shook a little as I poured the milk. Before picking up the spoon, I told myself I'd have to run a few extra miles that afternoon to make up for indulging. I tried to eat the first few bites slowly, savoring the taste, but it was so good. I hadn't eaten sweet cereal for at least a year, so I began to chew more quickly, taking less time between bites. As I came to the last few bites in the bowl, I was eating faster than I'd ever eaten before.

I poured another bowlful and ate it much more quickly than the first. After the two bowlfuls of that cereal, I ate two of another, three bowlfuls of still another, then one more bowlful of the first. While I was eating, I felt as though an intruder had taken over my body. But when I finished the last bowl, my senses returned a little and I felt the first agonizing twinge of guilt for what I had done. I put the empty bowl in the sink and walked slowly out of the kitchen to the reclining chair in the den. I felt like I was in a dream. I still couldn't quite believe that I had eaten so much.

AFTERMATH

I reclined the chair, feeling a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. It felt so good to at last be really full, and I felt enormous relief from finally giving in to my cravings. But I also felt uneasy about gaining weight and shame for being so gluttonous. Temporarily, the comforting feeling of fullness outweighed the negative emotions, and I drifted off to sleep, not caring that I'd be late for school and feeling more relaxed than I'd felt in a long time.

When I woke up an hour later and drove to school, all the good feelings were gone. I felt guilty, fat, and foolish. The episode seemed to prove once and for all that I could not control myself around sugary or fattening foods, so I resolved never to let that happen again. I decided that I would be even more determined to keep my eating under control, and I vowed never to touch sweet cereal.

I thought about my first binge all day in school, unable to concentrate on my classes, my friends, or softball practice. I felt like a failure for ruining all of the work I'd done to lose weight. I skipped lunch that day, even though I was hungry again by lunchtime. After school and softball practice, feeling weak and tired, I ate an apple and some crackers, then ran six miles. I felt better about myself after my run, as though I had righted a wrong; but when I sat down to dinner that night, part of me wanted nothing more than to binge again. I didn't understand how, when just that morning I had been so full that I could barely move, I could want to stuff myself again. I was obviously not to be trusted around food, I thought. I would have to keep a tight rein on my appetite, or I might binge again. Little did I imagine at that time that bingeing would consume my life for six more years.

My bingeing increased gradually. I binged one more time in March and three times in April. During those months, I still managed to maintain my weight because I was running more than ever. In April of my senior year, my two-mile track time was the best in the state after two meets; however, my success came to an abrupt end at the third meet. As I crossed the finish line after my two-mile race, I felt a sharp pain in my left heel. I tried to ignore it and kept running for the next few days, but even walking became excruciating. The pain got so bad that I had to go to the doctor, and I was diagnosed with a stress fracture.

This was to be the first of five stress fractures I would stuffer in the next two years. My doctor said the injury was most likely from running so much at a low weight. He explained that, without sufficient fat cells, a girl's body cannot store enough estrogen; without enough estrogen, the bones weaken and can fracture. My low estrogen levels also explained why I hadn't had a period for a year. He prescribed hormone replacement therapy and told me not to run for at least three months.

I spent the remainder of my senior year on crutches and then in a walking boot. I feared my weight would skyrocket since I couldn't run, so I cut back on my eating and increased other types of exercise. I got permission from my doctor to ride a stationary bike at the gym; so I biked and biked, often for two hours or more. I also took up running in a pool with a flotation belt. I still went to softball practices and games and track meets, to cheer on my teammates, but when I got home, I immediately drove to the gym or the pool to exercise.

THE END OF HIGH SCHOOL

Less than a month after my stress fracture, my weight dropped to 93 pounds. This was the time when others began truly worrying about me. It seemed that my friends, family, coaches, and teachers could justify my low weight in their minds when it was linked to my dedication to being a successful runner. However, when I fractured my foot and then dropped weight rapidly, they began suspecting something more. A few of my teachers approached my mother to express their concerns; but by this time, she was already the most concerned of all.

She and my dad tried to talk me into returning to therapy, but I wouldn't hear of it, and I was good at reassuring them. I ate normal meals in their presence, so they saw that I was taking in calories. They knew I was driven to maintain a certain level of fitness due to my approaching collegiate athletic career, and they knew I had a high metabolism and had always been thin. Furthermore, I wasn't completely honest with them about the amount and intensity of exercise I was doing. They thought I was moderately riding the exercise bike and lifting some weights at the gym, when in fact I was biking at extreme intensity for long periods of time. I often showered before coming home and hid my sweat-soaked clothes to hide the evidence.

None of this was normal, as much as I tried to convince my parents and myself that it was. My increased exercise brought decreased desire to be with my friends and a loss of interest in the remaining weeks of high school, usually the high point of a teenager's life. I did go on my senior class trip to Orlando, but my clearest memories of that time are of being stressed about not being able to exercise and maintaining my diet while traveling. I packed a lot of healthy snacks for the trip and tried to order low-fat meals from the fast-food restaurants where we stopped. I have pictures from the trip of me smiling with my friends, but it felt like I wasn't really there. I mostly lived inside my head during that time, calculating calories and looking forward to my next meal and the small indulgences and desserts I allowed myself.

As high school came to a close, I withdrew from most of my friends and lost my first love. I graduated emaciated and unhappy in May 1999. I spent the summer before college completely devoted to exercise. I increased my aerobic exercise—running in the pool or riding a stationary bike, very strenuously—to about 2.5 to 3 hours per day. I bought my own stationary bike, and each day, I carried it outside to ride it on the back porch in the hot and humid summer weather. I felt I got a harder workout outside, and I thought I needed to stay acclimated to the heat for when I began running again. Looking back, I feel terrible knowing my mom had to watch me abusing myself through our sliding glass door every day. A few times that summer, she came outside crying, begging me to stop, because I was pouring with sweat and she was worried that my body could not take the strain any more.

I wouldn't stop. It didn't matter how hot or humid it was; I felt I had to keep up my routine. I didn't know why I felt so compelled to exercise and maintain an abnormally low weight. It became an obsession, an exhausting and self-perpetuating habit. I didn't believe I was vain or selfish at the time, but I was. I focused on my body instead of on more important or worthwhile things.

Those who were concerned about me approached me so delicately, as if I were fragile and had a problem I couldn't control. I didn't. I was strong and strong-willed. I was stubborn and deceptive. I placed exercise and weight control above most everything else in my life. I wish someone would have called me out on my foolishness, as people often do with teens who are using drugs or abusing alcohol. I don't know if it would have stopped me or not, but I certainly deserved to be reprimanded. I knew I could stop anytime I chose, but I was too good at it. I was too good at being super thin—a shallow goal that simply wasn't worth it.

Despite all the exercise and outward restraint around food, my only true desires were to rest and to eat—a lot. My infrequent and secretive binges continued, but despite that, I continued to lose weight. Aside from the binges, I maintained a structured and rigid diet—eating the same types of foods, in the same amounts, in the same places, every day. It seemed as though whenever I gave myself the slack to eat a little more or eat something different, I overindulged and sometimes binged.

In early July, my weight dropped to 86 pounds, and my parents began trying to force me into therapy. I probably would have finally agreed to it, but in mid-July, I began gaining some of the weight back ... not by choice.

DOUGHNUTS

I worked at a bakery that summer, and until mid-July, I didn't eat any of the foods there. To an outsider, it must have looked like I had remarkable control; but it didn't feel like control to me. To me, it was the opposite—I felt so tempted that if I let myself have just one bite of a cookie or a cupcake, I feared I'd devour much of the counter. The manager let the workers take home leftover doughnuts, because we could not resell them the next day, but it was too risky for me to take any. One day, though, I decided to bring a half dozen to my parents. They never even saw them. Two hours after I got home, I ate all six of them.

Just as when I'd eaten eight bowls of cereal, it was such a relief to finally give in and not fight my cravings anymore. All my anxiety about the bakery, my exercise, and my weight temporarily vanished while I ate; but after the last doughnut, I panicked. I was terrified at what I had done, and I had to find a way to undo it. A promise to myself to work out more tomorrow was not enough this time. My binges were becoming too frequent, and eating six doughnuts was intolerable in my mind. I needed immediate relief, so I went to the bathroom and tried to make myself throw up for the first time. I tried for about ten minutes, gagging until my eyes watered profusely and I had sharp pains in my stomach. But my first attempt at self-induced vomiting failed, like all my future attempts would—thankfully.

I'd heard of bulimia before, and as I was shoving my fingers down my throat, that word came to mind. However, I did not want to consider the possibility that I could be becoming bulimic. That wouldn't happen to me, I vowed—I would get control of my eating, and I'd never binge again. For nearly a week, it seemed I was in control again. On the day after eating all six doughnuts, I worked out for four hours and ate only fruit; then I got back to my regular eating and exercise routine. But six days later, and again five days after that, I binged.

I began to crave not only food, but the act of binge eating. Once I'd tasted what a binge felt like—how wonderful it felt to have the pressure of dieting lifted for a few brief moments, to give in to all my cravings and just stuff myself—it became even harder to resist. When trying to fight an urge to binge, I'd remind myself how guilty and fat I always felt afterward; but I remembered the pleasure much more. It was as though part of me knew the consequences but another part of me didn't care.

I steadily put on weight through the rest of July and August as I binged more and more. My parents were glad to see that I was gaining weight, but they were unaware of the terribly unhealthy route that was leading me there, and how I was exhausting myself desperately trying to burn it off.

By the time I packed up and left for college at the end of August, I was binge eating about twice a week. I thought that college would help because I could occupy myself with school, new friends, and—now that my stress fracture was mostly healed—running; but instead, I only binged more as I began college. I didn't have much of a desire to make friends or go out because my daily struggle with food consumed my life. I didn't like running on the cross-country team, mainly because I had to do so much extra exercise to compensate for my binge eating that I had no energy left to run. Also, many of the girls on the team were concerned about their weight; I didn't like being in an environment where there was so much talk of weight, calories, and diets.

During the first several weeks of college, I broke vow after vow to stop binge eating. I also broke my promise to never return to therapy.

6: Accepting Therapy

I began therapy only four weeks after starting college, on the insistence of my new cross-country coach. During a practice in September 1999, as the team was about to begin running, my coach asked me to follow him. He led me to the office of a sports psychologist, telling me that I was too thin (at 94 pounds) and needed to get some help for my problem. I didn't feel I could argue with my new coach as I could with my parents.

My parents saw that I indeed ate—not enough to support my high activity level, but decent amounts of food nonetheless—and they knew that I was naturally very thin. It seemed I could convince them that being super skinny wasn't such a huge problem for me as it would be for someone else with a lower activity level, slower metabolism, or genetically larger body shape. I couldn't convince my coach of any of this. He probably thought that I rarely ate—a conclusion most people who saw me at the time would understandably draw. I felt like I had no choice but to follow him to the psychologist's office. But it wasn't only that—it occurred to me that maybe he was right, maybe I did need professional help. I certainly wasn't having any luck stopping binge eating on my own.

Maybe therapy is exactly what I need, I thought as I walked behind my coach. Maybe the therapist I saw when I was sixteen was right all along and I do have a disorder that I can't control. Maybe I am somehow defective, flawed, or diseased.

So, over a year after I'd walked out of my first therapist's office, I stepped into another one. This time, unlike the first time, I was willing to listen. I was willing to do what it took to stop my binge eating, because I felt out of control.

Over the course of a few meetings with the sports psychologist, he diagnosed my condition. Officially, I met the diagnostic criteria for anorexia, binge eating-purging type,15 which is used when bulimic behavior (binge eating or purging) exists in an underweight person. As I put on more weight from binge eating in the next few months, my diagnosis shifted to bulimia, nonpurging type.16 In the diagnostic criteria for bulimia, nonpurging type means that the bulimic uses diet, exercise, and/or other compensatory behaviors but does not regularly engage in self-induced vomiting, misuse of laxatives, diuretics, or enemas.17 Based on my symptoms, the psychologist recommended that I see the campus nutritionist and a campus therapist with experience treating eating disorders. I was hesitant, but I made the appointments, and by October 1999, my days of therapy and recovery had officially begun.

THE THEORY THAT EATING IS NOT THE PROBLEM

What I heard in my first appointment with my new therapist, Jim, was very similar to what my first therapist had told me: my eating disorder was not my fault, and it was not about food and weight. I was told that binge eating was only a symptom of deeper problems in my life that I needed to uncover—problems like low self-esteem, depression, anxiety, and family and social life issues. Jim said I was using food to cope with feelings. He said my eating disorder was an illness that had hidden benefits for me, which explained why I was unable to stop. He said my binge eating was fulfilling some of my emotional needs, and I needed to learn to meet those needs in other, noneating ways.

Although I do not believe this explanation today, at the time I felt slightly relieved to hear my eating explained in this manner. It felt good to learn that my binge eating wasn't my fault, but was instead a sign of illness. It felt better to think of myself as a victim of a psychological problem than as simply a gluttonous individual. It felt better to think that my binge eating was a complex disorder rather than a sign of my stupidity and lack of control.

Even though all this made me feel less culpable, it still didn't feel right to me. Intrinsically, I knew my eating problems were indeed about food and weight, as I always had. I thought back to how I'd first begun dieting after my tonsillectomy, merely to lose a few pounds. I thought about how this habit had gotten out of control, making me crave food more than anything. I thought about my first binge—eating eight bowls of cereal before school—which I knew was only a consequence of depriving myself for so long. I hadn't thought my eating problems were complicated then, so why did they seem so complicated now?

Despite my doubts, I decided to go forward with treatment. The first goal of my treatment, directed by my nutritionist, Debbie, was to get on a meal plan to regulate my eating. Even though I was already eating meals and snacks at regular intervals, they weren't substantial enough to sustain all of my exercise, so Debbie created a dietary plan with me to make sure I met my daily caloric needs. She said if I ate filling meals, it should take away some of my desire to binge.

I did my best to follow the meal plan, even though I felt the meals were too big; however, that didn't take away my desire to binge eat. Simply adding more calories to my diet and incorporating a variety of foods—including binge foods—didn't solve the problem. If anything, the plentiful meal plan made it worse because I had to keep more food in my dorm room. Now I allowed myself access to some of my binge foods on a daily basis, which only served as a temptation that I wasn't able to deal with.

Maybe eating more food would have helped me years before, by preventing me from ever binge eating in the first place; but now it seemed to be too late. I knew that simple hunger wasn't the problem anymore, because my urges to binge were just as likely to come when I was full. But if hunger no longer drove my binge eating, I didn't know what did.

Debbie wasn't at all surprised that the meal plan didn't put a stop to my bingeing. She told me I was doing this for psychological reasons, not purely physical ones. She said that wanting to eat after I was physically satisfied was a sign of emotional hunger and that I needed to work on those emotional issues with my therapist, Jim.

I saw Jim twice a week during my first semester of college. We talked about my past and what could have led to the development of my problem, but we also talked extensively about what could be driving my binge eating in the present. During this semester, I also began reading self-help books for binge eaters/bulimics and numerous materials pertaining to eating disorders.

THERAPY'S ANSWERS

One of the first techniques I learned in therapy was journaling for self-analysis. In my journal, I was supposed to self-monitor by exploring my thoughts, feelings, and moods to determine which ones led to binge eating. I looked for patterns in my bingeing: At what time of day did I binge the most? What thoughts preceded my binge eating episodes? What feelings did I have in the moments before binge eating? What situations and interactions preceded binges? My therapist explained that if I knew my triggers—the feelings, thoughts, or situations that led me to binge—I could learn other ways to deal with them.

Now each binge became an event to analyze and a problem to solve. After a binge, I tried to figure out the emotional reason why I had binged. I asked myself: Did I binge today to soothe an emotional upset? To relieve stress? To avoid a problem? Did I binge to escape a feeling? Was I feeling particularly bad about myself in the moments before the first bite? What happened today that could have driven me to the refrigerator? What need was I trying to fulfill?

I often came up with compelling reasons for my binge eating, but I always thought of these reasons after a binge. Before a binge, all I knew was that I desperately wanted to eat. I learned this was normal. My therapist said it would take me a very long time to figure out, in the midst of an urge, why I wanted to binge, and even longer to learn to substitute positive behaviors. Furthermore, I learned it wasn't realistic to expect myself to resist urges to binge. Instead, my therapist said I should try to prevent those urges to binge from surfacing in the first place.

Now, that caught my attention, because all I really wanted was to be free of my nonsensical and intrusive urges. They seemed to come so automatically, and I couldn't reason with them. No matter how much I tried to fight my desire to binge or to distract myself from it, it wouldn't go away until I finally gave in. My abnormal need to eat massive amounts of food was ruining my life, so I wanted to believe that working on therapy goals could prevent those urges.

My therapist said that all of the information I was gathering through self-monitoring would eventually help me prevent the urges to binge. Even if I couldn't decipher why I had binged until afterward, there was a lesson to be learned from each binge. Once I figured out what thoughts, feelings, emotions, moods, stressors, and situations triggered my urges, I could address each of them, either with Jim or through journaling. I would then need to learn ways to cope with my triggers in my everyday life. The key to preventing urges to binge, as I understood it, was to deal with triggers before they led to the urge to binge, because once the urge arose, it was usually too late.

I began to think about and record very specific situations that seemed to occur before bingeing. For instance, I discovered that being stressed about an upcoming exam often preceded a binge; therefore, I labeled "academic stress" as a trigger. I learned ways to avoid academic stress by studying in advance and better organizing my notes; I also learned ways to cope with such stress by doing deep-breathing exercises and taking frequent breaks from studying. Feeling lonely, too, often preceded binge eating, so I labeled "loneliness" as a trigger. I developed a plan to deal with loneliness, which included calling friends, going for walks, going shopping, and writing letters or e-mails.

This effort turned into a monumental task for me. I discovered countless triggers. My urges to binge appeared in so many different situations and I found them to be associated with so many different feelings and thoughts and stressors that it was difficult to narrow down the true issues. My urges to binge surfaced when I was sad, but sometimes when I was otherwise happy. My urges arose when I was lonely, but often when I was with friends or family. My urges came up when I was angry, but also frequently when I was calm. My urges appeared when I was stressed, but sometimes when I didn't have much anxiety at all. My urges surfaced when I was hungry, full, or somewhere in between; and when I was feeling fat, thin, or just right. My urges came when I was feeling hopeless or hopeful; cynical or faithful; invisible or important. Even though there were some distinguishable patterns, there was also inconsistency and unpredictability.

It didn't really seem possible for me to tackle every potentially triggering thought or feeling, but I certainly tried. I wrote countless journal entries in which I recorded the trigger I was encountering, then detailed a plan of action to deal with that trigger. In theory, all this made some sense to me, but in the end, it wasn't practical, efficient, or effective in my recovery from bulimia. Although it was certainly worthwhile to deal with negative thoughts/feelings and problems, that usually didn't prevent my urges to binge. Further, it seemed that if I successfully dealt with one triggering thought or feeling, another would be sure to follow. As it turned out, dealing with all the triggers required more vigilance and time than I had while trying to maintain a good grade point average and compete on the cross-country team.

Again, my therapist was not overly concerned. I learned it would take patience, practice, and hard work to get in touch with my triggering feelings and cope with them. Moreover, coping with triggers wasn't the only plan of action; there was a bigger picture to consider, my therapist said: considering the deep-rooted causes of my eating disorder.

Jim told me that people who are generally fulfilled in their lives—emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually—don't seek fulfillment in eating disorders or other addictions. I learned that my eating disorder was symbolic of a lack of fulfillment or unhappiness in one or many aspects of my life. I also learned that my eating disorder signaled a lack of true identity, direction, and self-love; it symbolized hidden pain from the past that needed to be worked through and resolved. In addition, I learned my eating disorder was a symptom of long-standing problems with depression, anxiety, and perfectionism.

In sum, I learned that my eating disorder was an outward manifestation of complex and deep-rooted inner turmoil. That turmoil was the true cause, but the disorder was maintained on a day-to-day basis by triggers. So, in order to recover, I would need to address both.

I didn't learn all of this in one day, or even in my first year of therapy, but this is how I came to understand my eating disorder as the professionals explained it to me. I didn't take all of this as hard fact, and I internally questioned much of what I was told and what I read. In fact, during the first year of college, I held on to the idea that I could indeed "snap out of it" and start acting responsibly, which is why after each binge, I promised myself that it was the last time. I saved the wrappers of countless "last binge" foods, only to replace each one a few days later with another food wrapper. Sometime during the beginning of my sophomore year, I stopped saving the last wrappers and resigned myself to the fact that each binge probably wouldn't be my last; recovery would be a long process.

I came to accept the idea that it could take me many years to finally resolve all the root causes of my problem, learn to deal with the daily triggers, and learn to eat normally again. I still made some resolutions to quit but only on big occasions like my birthday and New Year's Eve. I came to accept what I was learning in therapy: there were no easy answers, no quick fixes.

I don't blame any specific therapist or other professional, any specific book or resource; but the consensus seemed to be that my bulimia was complicated and recovery wouldn't be easy, and this idea turned out to be harmful to me. In therapy, I came to believe that I needed to travel a road of self-discovery and self-transformation in order to be fully free from my problem. I came to believe I needed to change many aspects of my personality; find purpose and meaning in my life; find spirituality and emotional fulfillment; learn to love myself; establish my identity; cure my depression, anxiety, and perfectionism; resolve my past; and find happiness—all in order to free myself from bulimia.

Therapy didn't suggest that I should be perfect in this journey of self-discovery; however, it was still a large undertaking for me. I was just starting my life as an adult and trying to find my way in a big and unknown world. Some days I was more motivated toward recovery than others, but day in and day out throughout college, I worked on my therapy goals, trying to better myself so that my urges to binge would go away. I tried to fix everything that I thought might be giving me those urges. I tried to improve my self-esteem, took antidepressants, practiced assertiveness, learned relaxation techniques, worked on new ways to cope with my emotions, learned to meditate, and sought spirituality.

I talked endlessly to my therapists about my family life, relationships, past failures and pain; but it didn't stop the cycle of binge eating and over-exercising. In fact, my binge eating only increased throughout my four years of college. It seemed that no matter how many deep-rooted reasons I found for my bulimia, no matter how well I followed my meal plan, no matter how well I coped with daily stressors, no matter how much I tried to find peace and fulfillment, the urges to binge kept coming; and I again found myself in front of the refrigerator or on my way to the nearest fast-food restaurant.

I didn't know it at the time, but my therapists didn't have all of the answers. I trusted them, and they certainly wanted what was best for me; but no one knew then what eating disorders were all about, and we still don't know. In a comprehensive book about eating disorders published in 2003—four years after I began treatment—experts said that no one understood precisely how or why eating disorders occur.18 To date, researchers are still uncertain of the underlying causes and nature of eating disorders.19 The explanations my therapists gave me for my bulimia were based on theories and conjecture, not on fact. Moreover, their suggestion that I needed to resolve the hypothetical root causes to recover wasn't sound either, as there is no scientific proof that resolving underlying psychological problems leads to recovery.20 Without knowing this, I accepted therapy and put my faith in it.

CONFUSION AND LACK OF PROGRESS

As my therapy progressed, I came to feel that I wasn't making any progress toward my true goal: to stop binge eating. Sure, I was discovering many useful things about myself and learning new ways to deal with a variety of problems, but my bingeing remained. My therapists never suggested that I just stop binge eating abruptly or tried to explain how I could do that. I learned that I would most likely take a few steps forward, then fall backward many times before fully recovering; but my therapists assured me that the work I was doing in therapy would eventually pay off. It never did.

My therapists did encourage me to reduce my binge eating episodes. They did encourage me to set small goals, like putting off binge eating for ten minutes or bingeing one less time per week; however, this simply wasn't good enough. I wanted to stop for good, but no one could tell me how.

I'm not sure what consumed me more during college: my bulimia or my efforts to recover. Both swallowed so much of my time and energy that the rest of my life seemed to shrink. I quit the cross-country and track teams after my sophomore cross-country season, because of my bulimia and because I suffered four more stress fractures while running for my university. The damage I did to my bones during high school by losing weight probably caused all the fractures, and the injuries made it nearly impossible for me to run competitively. To this day, I try not to think about what my running career could have been.

I remember sitting in my cross-country coach's office, crying, as I told him I had to quit in order to focus on recovery, to get away from the pressures of a sport that demanded a certain body type, and to let my own body and injuries heal. He was disappointed but supportive. I didn't feel he blamed me for my failure; I felt he blamed the eating disorder, because like my therapists, he believed eating disorders were illnesses that needed professional help to cure.

Despite my doubts and better judgment, I, too, began believing my bulimia was an illness, not a lack of willpower. After much therapy, I accepted the idea that I needed to travel the road of self-discovery to completely cure my disease. I traveled that road for a long time, trying desperately to get control of a behavior that I didn't understand. At the end of my senior year, I was up to 140 pounds and binge eating about four times a week. I was consuming about 8,000 calories per binge and exercising six to seven hours the next day to purge. My habit took up much of my life.

Despite four years of therapy, college ended just as it had begun—I was still eating other people's food in secret, stopping at gas stations and fast-food restaurants to get more and more food, using all my spare change in vending machines, exercising for hours on end, trying unsuccessfully to make myself throw up, and gaining weight.

I could write endless stories about the friendships I lost, the relationships I never formed, the wasted time, the missed opportunities, the health problems I caused myself, the pain I caused my family, and the food—how good it tasted and how horrible it made me feel afterward. But I won't. I have given a glimpse of what my life was like as a bulimic, and anything more would be repetitive and tiresome.

I don't want to give the impression that my college years were all bad. There were moments, sometimes days, and once over two weeks when I was not caught up in my bulimia. I did make many friends, a few of whom I remain close to; I did date occasionally and fell in love once. I laughed often; I went to bars with my sister and her friends occasionally; I drank every now and then; I enjoyed many of my classes and got good grades; I had a few good cross-country races; I played intramural softball and tennis; I attended football and baseball games, concerts, parties, and church. I had moments when I felt like a normal college student, and those are the moments that I try to remember. I've found there is no use lamenting all the time I lost to my bulimia, because I can't get it back. I can only hope that by sharing my experiences, another young woman doesn't waste some of the most promising years of her life.

7: Topamax to the Rescue

The day after my college graduation in May 2003, I was alone, my stomach painfully full, in my apartment. My family had been in town for the ceremony but had since gone home. I was going to move back home in a week, so I'd given away most of my furniture. All I had left was a computer desk and a folding chair, a blanket and a couple of pillows, and my dresser. I was lying on my side on the floor with a pillow under my bloated stomach. This was something I often did when I was really full because this position relieved some of the pressure.

I began thinking about my college years. I had graduated with a degree that I didn't really want or know what to do with. I originally went to college planning on majoring in meteorology, but after my freshman year, I changed it based on something I learned in therapy. My first therapist, Jim, and I talked extensively about learning to live life to the fullest. I admired his apparent ability to enjoy the moment and not let work or responsibilities squelch his zest for life. Jim told me several stories about his most fulfilling adventures and encouraged me to try to find fulfillment in ways besides binge eating. I took the wrong message away from these interactions with him. I took away the idea that I needed to live life to the fullest in order not to binge. I thought living life to the fullest meant having fun, enjoying each moment, welcoming adventures, and living easy—free of any major workload.

So I asked myself what major and career path I could choose that would allow me to live life to the fullest. Meteorology, I thought, wouldn't allow it because I would have been required to take difficult science and math courses in college. Furthermore, I saw the work of a meteorologist to be interesting, but also complicated and perhaps tedious. So I chose to be adventurous and change my major. I decided, since I loved music, I could be happy as a publicist for an alternative rock band, and so I chose to major in communication. That would have been a fine career path for someone else, but it didn't fit my strengths or personality.

I didn't care. I was determined to find fulfillment so I could stop binge eating, even if that meant risky decisions for my future career. At eighteen, I didn't understand that fulfillment could run deeper. It didn't have to mean fun or adventure; instead, fulfillment could mean hard work, diligence, or making a difference. My dad protested my change of major and tried to convince me otherwise, but I didn't listen to reason. Instead of considering his advice, I thought it was an affront to my independence and my desire to recover from bulimia. This was one of the most ridiculous connections I made between my life and my bulimia. I honestly thought promoting a rock band—the most out-of-character job for me—would allow me to stop needing to binge.

Eventually, in my junior year of college, I came to my senses and realized that wasn't the career path I truly desired. But I wasn't sure what I wanted to pursue. By this time, I felt so lost in my eating disorder that it was tough to consider my future at all. School had become an afterthought. My daily struggle with food was so pressing, it was tough to keep up with my classes. I briefly considered changing my major again—to what, I didn't know—but I felt it was too late. It would have required an increase in academic stress and extra time in college, which I didn't think would be conducive to stopping bulimia.

For a long time, I had felt that college was getting in the way of my recovery. I looked forward to the day when I didn't have to study or write papers; maybe after I graduated, I thought, I could get well. I would be able to go to more therapy appointments, spend more time journaling and doing the emotional work I needed to do. I knew my major wasn't for me, but still I pushed through classes, bingeing and purging all the way. When graduation day finally arrived, I felt no pride walking across the stage because I knew I was a failure.

The next day, lying on the floor of my apartment with a pillow under my bloated stomach, I felt like even more of a failure. I looked at my diploma in the corner of the room; the notes from my last final on the floor by my computer; the medal I'd received for maintaining a 4.0 grade point average hanging on the folding chair; and the gifts and cards from my family piled by the door. I felt relief and regret at the same time. I knew I had to get myself back up—figuratively and literally—and continue the long, hard journey of recovery, because I had no more excuses.

A "MIRACLE" CURE

The next week, I moved back into my parents' house and began seeing a new therapist, psychiatrist, and nutritionist in my hometown. I did not get a job, so I could devote my time to therapy, but even without the stress of school, my bulimia remained. My treatment at home was very similar to my treatment in college. I continued working on dealing with the daily triggers and the deep-rooted emotional reasons for my behavior. I still worked on curing my other problems, like depression and anxiety, and I still followed a meal plan. I still binged.

I began to think I wasn't getting better because I simply wasn't good at therapy. I wanted to be less anxious, less depressed, manage my emotions well, have a good self-image; but this was very difficult for me. I worried that I'd never change and therefore be doomed to binge for the rest of my life. Sometimes I felt like I was making progress, and sometimes I didn't. Sometimes I felt I understood why I was bulimic, and sometimes it was still a mystery to me. My new therapists were supportive and knowledgeable, but the result was the same: there was no marked change in my binge eating.

However, I did learn one valuable lesson that would become vital to my eventual recovery. This lesson was about the link—really the lack of a link—between my bulimia and my emotions. In June 2003, my psychiatrist put me on a new medication called Topamax (topiramate). This particular medication was traditionally used to treat epileptic seizures, but at the time, it was beginning to be used in bulimics and showing decent results. Although I was wary about using an anti-epileptic drug, considering I had never had a seizure, I was desperate and decided to try it out. I used it in conjunction with my antidepressant, which I had been taking on and off throughout college.

I was amazed that, within a week or two of starting Topamax, I didn't want to binge eat very much. My appetite decreased, and I cut my bingeing down from four times a week to once a week, then to once every two weeks, where it remained stable. By September of that year, I had lost about 15 pounds, putting my weight at about 125. Even though I was still binge eating a little, I felt better than I had in years. The constant shame and disgust were suddenly nearly gone.

I began an internship at a local news station and volunteered to do media for a local church, in an attempt to find something fitting to do with my communication degree. I also got a part-time job working with children and adults with special needs. I helped a 12-year-old girl with cerebral palsy do her homework a few times a week, took care of an 8-year-old boy with learning disabilities for a couple afternoons a week, and organized field trips and activities for adults in assisted living community homes.

Ever since I was six years old, my mom had taken care of special needs citizens in and out of our home. One of my best friends growing up—Eden, who passed away during my sophomore year of college—was physically disabled and in my mom's care a few days a week. She was like a part of our family, and her death was difficult for me, not only because I would miss her terribly, but because I felt like I neglected her during the last few years of her life while I was caught up in my eating disorder. As young girls, Eden and I used to play for countless hours in my room, creating the elaborate, imaginative lives of our Wish World Kids—small figurine dolls who had rooms that transformed into beauty salons, pizza parlors, and playgrounds. We also played video games, watched countless hours of Disney movies, and memorized every word and song in The Little Mermaid.

As a child, my greatest interests were doing active things outside—going to our neighborhood pool; playing basketball, football, and baseball with the boys on our street. But a few days a week when Eden came over, I mostly put all that aside—not because I had to, but because I wanted to and loved our time together. However, when I began dieting restrictively and exercising excessively, I selfishly placed my focus on weight ahead of most everything else in my life. When I was eight, I would not have considered leaving Eden to go outside to play with the boys, but when I was an upperclassman in high school, I often skipped hanging out with her so I could go to the gym or run.

Then, when I began binge eating and became consumed with my eating disorder and therapy in college, I didn't make much of an effort to contact her, or any of my other friends from home. An eating disorder can be very secluding and can make even the most important people in your life fade into the background. I regret that I wasn't a good friend during that time, especially to Eden, because it turned out to be our last few years together.

I thought about Eden a lot during the summer after college, as I still do today. While on Topamax and temporarily unconsumed by the binge eating, I suddenly had time and mental space to think about meaningful things, even if some of those things were painful. I often wished I could stop by Eden's house, which was less than a mile from mine, just to talk or play a video game. I felt the capacity—for the first time in a long time—to be a true friend, to possibly build lasting relationships.

That summer, I did start trying to make new friends in my hometown and I reconnected with some old ones. I also began a long-distance relationship at that time with Greg—the cousin of one of my college friends and the man who would later become my husband. It was amazing to have a life again, and surprisingly, it wasn't due to any changes I had made in my personality. It had nothing to do with any progress I'd made in therapy. I simply stopped having those all-too-frequent urges to binge, all because of a medication that somehow regulated my brain.

Topamax was not without side effects, however. I experienced a constant tingling in my fingers and toes, my head felt cloudy much of the time, and I got jittery often. Even though the side effects were preferable to the constant urges to binge, I worried about the possible long-term consequences of using Topamax. I had wanted to quit on my own, and I was concerned that I would become dependent on the drug. Despite my doubts, I continued to take Topamax because, after a taste of being somewhat normal again, I didn't want to go back.

UNCONSUMED

I visited Greg in Chicago in 2003; we became closer and arranged for a few more trips to see each other. In September, we met in Missouri, which was halfway between our homes and about an eight-hour drive for each of us. I remember driving alone from my home to our meeting point, listening to music and some audiotapes about world religions—one of my budding interests at the time. I was amazed that I did not contemplate binge eating even once.

As I drove, I thought about how different this trip was from the many drives I'd taken between my home and my university, when I'd thought about food constantly and stopped at nearly every exit to get more of it. On my way to meet Greg, I stopped to eat only when I was hungry, and I ate only enough to satisfy me physically. It was as if my mind was all of a sudden free to focus on other possibilities. In Missouri, we went on a canoeing trip, hiked in the Ozarks, and simply enjoyed our time together. I suddenly felt like myself again.

The veil that I'd been under for so long was nearly lifted, and although my life's problems didn't disappear, my biggest problem had faded almost completely. I still had low self-esteem; I was insecure in my new relationship with Greg; I was still confused about my career direction; I still had unresolved family stressors; I still didn't cope well with many of my feelings; and I was still prone to depression, anxiety, and perfectionism. Yet I'd nearly stopped binge eating in spite of all that. Topamax improved my real problem—my urges to binge—even though my other problems and flaws remained.

GOOD-BYE TO THERAPY

This experience made me question everything I'd learned in therapy. Why had I sat in therapists' and nutritionists' offices for four years if taking Topamax could make my urges to binge disappear so quickly and easily? It made me angry with my therapists, who'd led me to believe that my flaws, insecurities, upbringing, and stress were to blame. But even with all that mostly still intact, this drug had basically eliminated the central issue that had consumed my life for years.

Maybe there was no link between my bulimia and my emotional state after all, I thought, or maybe it was simply unnecessary for me to resolve those internal problems in order to stop bingeing. Still, I wondered what would happen if I stopped taking the drug. Would my urges return as quickly as they had dissipated, or would the effects be enduring? Those questions were answered soon enough. My honeymoon on Topamax was short-lived, as I suspected it probably would be. After roughly four months on the drug, in October 2003, the positive effects seemed to wear off, and I began having more and more urges to binge. My binge eating increased rapidly through October and November, until I was bingeing about as much as I had before graduation. My psychiatrist suggested that I increase the dose of Topamax, but I wasn't willing to take the risk of more side effects; plus, I had no idea what the long-term consequences could be. I would have to find another way.

My therapists remained constant in reminding me: neither Topamax nor any other drug could be a miracle cure for my bulimia; to be fully cured, I would have to resolve the underlying causes and triggers. Even though I had accepted this theory for a long time, it was difficult to swallow now because my experience on Topamax had taught me two very important lessons: first, that my urges to binge were the real problem; and second, that self-improvement work wasn't necessary in order for me to stop binge eating.

For four months, my urges had nearly gone away even though I had faced many stressors during that span—albeit nothing major, but still, there was the emotional roller coaster of starting a new relationship with Greg, the tension of my internship and of living with my parents again. But through it all, I'd rarely binged. The whole experience was remarkable, yet very confusing and unsettling to me.

I realized that maybe there was something going on within my brain that generated my urges to binge, something that Topamax had somehow temporarily suppressed. I began to think that maybe my eating disorder was all in my head, or more accurately, all in my brain—not the result of my upbringing or my personal weaknesses at all. I knew this was an important insight, but I wasn't quite sure at the time how it could help me recover. All I knew then was that I wouldn't return to therapy. After seeing that I could stop binge eating without it, I just didn't see the point. Therapy had not helped me with binge eating thus far, so I figured I couldn't do much worse on my own.

I stopped taking the medication at the end of November 2003, and I promised myself I would never reenter a therapist's office for help with my eating disorder. This time, I kept my promise.

8: Some Things Change, Some Remain the Same

Shortly after I stopped taking Topamax and vowed never to return to therapy, I made another very important decision in my life. I decided to move to a new city, 1,500 miles away from home, with Greg. He'd landed a good job in Phoenix, and I would go with him, take classes at the university there, and eventually attain a master's degree in religious studies. Although I wasn't exactly sure what I'd do with such a degree, the subject interested me greatly. I thought that the move and new academic goals would help me focus attention away from my struggles with food.

There was one big problem, however. I wondered how I would face Greg daily when I was binge eating so much. Living far apart as we had been, it had been easy for me to hide my bulimia; but I knew if we lived together, there would be nowhere for me to hide. I was afraid Greg could never love me as a bulimic, so only a few weeks before I was to move, I called him on the phone to tell him I was reconsidering. I told him that we might have begun our relationship under false pretenses, because I'd been taking Topamax then and was temporarily uncontrolled by my eating disorder. I told him I thought I had to get well before we could live together.

Greg was supportive and understanding from the moment I told him about my eating problem. He urged me to move in with him despite my doubts, saying we'd get through it together. He said he didn't care how much I weighed or how much I ate, he'd still love me. I was reluctant to believe him, feeling altogether unlovable while my behavior was so out of control. So I was just going to tell him that my decision was final, that our plans were off, but I couldn't get the words out. I clutched the phone and started to cry, and my crying turned into sobbing, and I couldn't speak for a few minutes. It hurt that my eating disorder was again stripping me of opportunities, ruining any hope I had for a normal life. As I was sobbing, trying to spit out I can't move, something else came out instead: "I love you." A few weeks later, at the beginning of January 2004, I packed my bags and drove from Louisiana to Arizona to be with him.

BACK IN FRONT OF THE PANTRY

My dad drove with me. We took our time, stopped at a few landmarks and one very odd western museum. I'll always remember those two days with him. Ever since I stopped running in college, I felt my relationship with my father had changed. He was also a runner until a severe hip injury stopped him, and I know he loved it when I became serious about the sport. We were always close, but running seemed to draw us closer. He'd ride his bike with me while I ran around our hometown, and even in silence, we had a connection on the road. Now, driving westward, there he was at my side again, still supporting me in the biggest decision of my adult life thus far, even though I knew he didn't want me to move away and certainly didn't agree with me moving in with a man prior to marriage.

We stopped in New Mexico for the night after our first day of driving, and after he went to bed, one of my urges to binge got the best of me and I ate many of our snacks for the next day's drive. I knew I couldn't eat everything or he would notice, so I managed some semblance of control. I had to find a way to undo the damage of the mini-binge, so I woke up the next morning an hour before him to quietly do exercises in our small hotel room. I was in the shower by the time he woke up, my sweaty clothes tucked away in my bag. We got on the road again, and within hours, we had crossed the Arizona state line.

My dad took a picture of me by the welcome sign. I still have that photo of me, on the side of the highway, wearing my baggy sweatshirt to hide the previous night's binge. It had been hard enough hiding the extent of my bulimia from my parents all those years, from my dad on just this two-day journey; I again worried about how in the world I was going to deal with the daily reality of it while living with Greg.

Once we arrived in Phoenix, my dad stayed a few days for some sightseeing, then Greg and I brought him to the airport. I hugged him goodbye, and then he walked toward airport security. He turned around one more time, and I could see the tears welled up in his eyes. I waved bravely and held tight to Greg's hand. As my dad walked out of sight down the terminal, Greg hugged me for a long time as I cried too.

Then my new life began. Greg never pitied me for my eating problems, as others had done, but he showed support and love whether I was or wasn't doing well with my binge eating. I thought that perhaps having a friend, ally, and lover in him would help my urges go away, but I kept binge eating, even as our love and friendship grew stronger. Greg wasn't the healthiest eater, and he kept a lot of my favorite binge foods in our apartment: sweet cereal, cookies, doughnuts. Just like I'd done to Julia, I stole his food. Of course he said I could eat any of his food that I wanted, but binge eating his food was stealing in my mind. It was wasteful, indulgent, and selfish.

I replaced his food as quickly as possible, and I told him not to stop buying what he liked on account of me—that never worked anyway. Even in the absence of easily accessible binge food, I still got it one way or another. I remember feeling so guilty because I often wished he would leave the apartment or go to sleep so I could satisfy my urges to binge. When I binged while he was sleeping, I felt too ashamed afterward to get into bed, so I would sleep on the floor. Often in the middle of those nights, I'd wake up to find him sleeping next to me on the floor. At the time, this bothered me because I felt so disgusting and unworthy of affection; but now I can appreciate this show of unconditional love.

Greg and I really didn't talk much about my eating disorder; he didn't want to be intrusive, and I didn't want to discuss it. I'd done enough of that in therapy. I knew he would always be there to listen, but I was burned out on the whole situation. I wanted to move on, but I remained stuck. Although I didn't intend it, my eating disorder hurt Greg often. I cancelled several dinner dates because I had binged that day and no longer felt like going to a restaurant. I cancelled weekend plans—to go shopping, sightseeing, hiking, take a road trip—because I had to work out for hours on end to purge.

At times, Greg took this as an affront to him, as if I'd rather binge than be with him. That was certainly the case when my urges were present; but otherwise, it was not true, and I hated that I made him feel that way. But even when he was hurt, he didn't get angry or ridicule me, as another guy had done in college. I had a brief relationship with a guy named David during my senior year, and I decided to open up to him about my eating problems. It usually just made me feel foolish, but my therapists were encouraging me to confide in people I trusted, to garner their support in my recovery efforts, so I heeded their recommendation. When I told David, he asked sarcastically, "So you'd rather eat chocolate cake than be with me?"

Despite his insensitivity, David was right. Yes, when my urges to binge hit, I certainly would have chosen to eat cake over hanging out with him. Likewise, when my urges were present in that small apartment with Greg, I longed to leave him so I could eat the way I wanted to. No relationship, no other form of fulfillment, ever satisfied my urges to binge once they hit, and nothing else—besides the temporary relief I got from Topamax—seemed to be able to stop those urges from coming in the first place.

MARRIAGE

Even though I loved Greg, loved living in our new city, and loved my graduate school studies, it all became too much to handle. I couldn't keep up with my coursework, my part-time job caring for a man with cerebral palsy, and my relationship while I was binge eating four times a week and spending six to seven hours at the gym on days after binges. Something had to give, so I dropped out of my classes in March 2004, less than three months into the semester, feeling like a failure again for letting my eating disorder get in the way of my future plans.

I felt lost when it came to my career direction. I had gone from wanting to be a publicist for a band to possibly wanting to be a teacher of world religions, and there were countless other ideas in between, none of which I felt capable of pursuing while bulimic. I had this pervasive idea in my head that once I recovered from bulimia, I'd figure everything out. Then I'd be able to choose and pursue a meaningful career, get married, and have children.

A therapist had once suggested that I used the eating disorder as an excuse to stay stagnant and not pursue goals. The theory was that I was afraid to fail, so I used my binge eating and purging to avoid trying. If I could always blame my lack of success on my eating disorder, then I'd never have to bear the ego hit of failure. I don't believe this was true. I blamed my eating disorder for my failures, not to avoid feeling personally inadequate, but because my eating disorder made me feel personally inadequate.

Around the time I dropped out of grad school, Greg proposed to me. After work one day, he told me to meet him on a nearby mountain we loved to hike. He brought a picnic so we could eat and watch the sunset. This would have been very enjoyable, but I had just finished binge eating. I felt bloated and uncomfortable and couldn't take pleasure in the dinner he'd prepared. I told Greg that I'd binged and that I was sorry I wasn't in a good mood. He reiterated what he'd been telling me all along: that he supported me and that he'd stand by me and help me in any way he could.

Then, to my surprise, as the sun began to set, he got down on one knee at the top of the mountain and pulled out a ring. We'd talked about marriage before, but since we'd known each other for only eight months, it seemed a little premature. Greg is five years older than me, and he was ready for marriage at the time. I was unsure. If I hadn't binged that day, I truly believe I would have said yes. I loved him, and even though we hadn't known each other all that long and I was still young, it felt right. But that day, feeling bloated and worthless, I told him no—or more specifically, "not yet." In my mind, "not yet" meant I needed to wait until after I'd recovered, although I doubted recovery would come anytime soon.

We talked more about marriage over the next month, and he made me realize that recovery wasn't a prerequisite; still, he'd wait until I was ready. To his surprise this time, I made my decision quickly, proposing to him only a month later. We had a civil marriage right away, then six months later, a very small church wedding with only our family present—me wearing dressy pants and a white blouse.

There were practical reasons for our decision to have a nontraditional wedding; however, my eating disorder factored into it as well, as it had factored into most aspects of my life since high school. I didn't feel capable of making it through the traditional process—the pressure of fitting into the perfect dress, of being the center of attention, of all the work required to plan a big wedding.

Shortly before our church ceremony in November 2004, we moved into a new house. As we unloaded boxes, I resolved that I'd change. I won't binge in this house, I thought. It wasn't a dorm or an apartment with access to vending machines or workout centers. It was our home, and I'd act like an adult, putting foolish ways behind me in our new life together. But as with all other major changes in my life, it brought the same pattern of binge eating and overexercising.

I didn't understand it—I had everything I could have hoped for. I had even found a job close to our new house as a teacher's assistant in an elementary school special education classroom. The job fit my skills and personality; I found meaning in it; I liked all of my co-workers; and each of the kids I worked with touched my heart and my life. I'd found a small place in the world—with my new husband, our new home, and my new job—and although it wasn't a perfect life, it was a good life.

And yet I kept binge eating. Why couldn't I stop?

THE COPING QUESTION

When I concluded that making major life changes or finding personal fulfillment still wasn't the answer to curing my bulimia, I briefly considered going back to therapy. Maybe my therapists had been right all along, I thought. Maybe I really did need to get to the root psychological causes of my eating disorder; maybe some complex inner need was yet unfulfilled. After all, there were things about my life in Arizona that left me wanting more. I missed my family and friends, and although I talked to my mom on the phone every day, and talked to my dad and sister at least once a week, I still wanted to see them. I didn't have much of a social network outside of work, and anxiety and depression hit me from time to time. So maybe I wasn't as content as I seemed on the surface, and maybe there were some hidden emotional issues causing me to binge? Although my intuition and my experience on Topamax suggested otherwise, I began to slip back into what I'll call the "therapy mind-set"—the belief that I was diseased and somehow needed to binge eat to cope with life.

Most of the time, it sure felt like I needed to binge eat. But no matter how right a binge felt in the moment or shortly afterward, before long I felt that eating had done nothing to satisfy me—as if it were all some kind of dirty trick that I'd been dumb enough to fall for again—and I felt fat, disgusting, and shameful. Then, as always, I felt equally compelled to undo the damage, so I exercised frantically, which always helped a little. Exercise made me feel that I'd showed whoever or whatever pulled that dirty trick on me that I wouldn't let myself become fat without a fight. However, I worried that eventually I wouldn't be able to do this anymore; that I would eventually start to binge without doing anything to compensate. After all, my body was getting tired, and the strenuous exercising was becoming more difficult for me over time.

I intrinsically knew that binge eating really didn't help me cope with anything in my life; instead, it only made my problems worse. I knew that whatever temporary benefits binge eating gave me—like tranquil sleep, pleasure, excitement, or numbness—weren't worth the cost. I knew that binge eating only made my relationships suffer and wasted valuable time, and I truly wanted to stop; but I couldn't. It only seemed logical, then, to conclude that I binged for very complex psychological reasons. Otherwise, I thought, it would be easy to stop.

So, about six months after Greg and I moved into our new house, I began again to search for a complex answer to the question of why I binged. I asked myself: What is the deeper reason for all of this? What is binge eating helping me cope with?

It wouldn't take me long to finally find the true answers to those questions—the answers that would propel me quickly into lasting recovery. Nevertheless, the answers were very surprising to me because they weren't complex at all. The answers were very simple, and they solved the mystery of my bulimia once and for all.

9: A New Book and New Hope

It was a warm day in May 2005, the beginning of an extremely hot summer in Arizona. I had binged horribly the night before and was driving to the gym, planning to do six hours of cardio and some weights. I was exhausted and felt sick at the thought of working out; so instead of going directly to the gym, I stopped to procrastinate at a bookstore.

I made my way to the psychology/self-help section—a section I'd visited many times before looking for a solution to my eating problems. Over the course of my bulimia, I'd read about twenty books that I thought might offer help or a cure. I'd read self-help books on eating disorders, books about finding happiness, developing self-esteem, relieving stress, finding spirituality, and overcoming depression. Although some of them helped me with other problems, none of the books stopped my binge eating.

This particular day, I also wandered into the addiction/recovery section, thinking that I might find something more useful there. I felt as though my behavior was indeed an addiction, not so unlike alcoholism or drug addiction. I looked over the titles and came across Rational Recovery: The New Cure for Substance Addiction by Jack Trimpey, which claimed to be an alternative to Alcoholics Anonymous. I picked it up out of curiosity, because I had experienced Overeaters Anonymous (OA)—a spin-off of Alcoholics Anonymous (AA)—about six months before.

I'd attended a few OA meetings and read some of the OA literature. But OA hadn't felt right to me, mainly because the group advocated a very strict diet that excluded all white flour and sugar. I knew that restricting food groups, like fats and sweets, had helped develop my problem in the first place, so more restriction wasn't the answer for me. Certainly, I wanted to stop bingeing on sugar, white flour, and many other things, but I didn't want to stop eating them altogether.

OA, as I understood it, asserted that eliminating those food groups was necessary because overeating was a disease that caused one to lose control when eating white flour and sugar. OA's position seemed to be that the disease could never be fully cured, only managed by eliminating the problem foods. I already disliked being on a meal plan—which I thought was necessary for my recovery—and I especially didn't like the idea of a meal plan that excluded foods I really liked. I found the OA members to be very nice, but the meetings were discouraging to me. No one in the group, except the moderator, seemed to have had much success with remaining abstinent from problem foods or giving up overeating.

OA was also unappealing to me because of what I thought was a religious overtone. OA does not claim to be religious, but I interpreted the "Higher Power" to mean God—the Judeo-Christian God that I learned about as a child. I had turned to God for help with my bulimia in my freshman year of college, but it didn't help. I had naively expected God to take away my desire to binge, but eventually, I came to believe that God does not do favors; and although people can derive strength from spirituality and prayer, we ultimately have to help ourselves. By the time college ended, I struggled to have any belief at all and saw religion as primarily an academic pursuit. OA, then, seemed like the wrong fit for me.

Because of my lack of interest in OA, I was very interested when I found Rational Recovery (RR). Since the book claimed to be an alternative to AA, maybe it could be an alternative to OA as well, I thought. One sentence on the back cover caught my attention. It explained that RR disagreed with the idea of alcoholism as a disease and could give hope to those whom traditional treatment fails. This simple synopsis was enough to make me want to buy the book. Even if it turned out to be useless, at least it would distract me during the many hours on the treadmill, stair climber, and stationary bike. I purchased the book and drove to the gym.

RR did much more than distract me from my workout. In fact, it did more to help me than anything else I'd tried before over the years. RR finally made me take full responsibility for my binge eating, then taught me how to do something about it—something specific and targeted to my real problem. I didn't know it at the time, but the ideas in that book would lead me to complete recovery from bulimia.

10: My Two Brains

Within five minutes of starting my workout, Rational Recovery in hand, I learned the book's central tenet: anyone can recover from alcoholism or another addiction whenever they want, without treatment. The author, clinical social worker Jack Trimpey, believes that AA does a disservice to alcoholics by promoting the disease concept: the idea that drinking is not under an alcoholic's control, but a chronic disease. The author points out that society at large also embraces this disease concept of addiction, which only encourages and excuses addiction by failing to foster individual responsibility.

Trimpey explains how he once shared AA's and society's view of alcoholism and how this only served to help him avoid responsibility for stopping his destructive behavior:

I believed that my desire to drink was irresistible, and that my own moment-by-moment drinking behavior was a symptom of something unknown and beyond my control. I sincerely believed it would take something besides my own critical judgment and self-control to take care of the problem. ... I surrendered to a highly gratifying belief that I drank for hidden causes and would need outside help of some kind to stop.21

When I read this, I immediately recognized that Trimpey's former beliefs about his alcoholism were quite similar to my beliefs about my bulimia. Like him, I believed that my binge eating had hidden causes and was a symptom of deeper problems. I decided to read Trimpey's words again using a technique I'd learned from my brief experience in OA. I replaced the word drink in the text with the word eat. OA members perform this word substitution when they read material originally meant for alcoholics, like the 12 steps and the Big Book.

Read that way, it was as if the passage came straight from my own experience in therapy. An eating disorder is different from an alcohol or drug addiction, but the similarities are plentiful. Whether someone is addicted to binge eating, drugs, alcohol, or any other vice, that person wants to quit but continues to drink/use/binge despite efforts to stop. Furthermore, the act of binge eating, the feeling of pleasure, the relief from desire, and the numbing effect of large amounts of sugar and fat can certainly be as reinforcing as the effects of alcohol.

I decided to read the rest of the book using the word substitution; however, I decided that for me, it was more useful to substitute the words binge eat for drink and bulimic for alcoholic (OA members traditionally replace alcoholic with compulsive overeater). I will use this word substitution throughout this chapter and any other time I refer to RR, even though I realize that substituting binge eating/bulimic for drinking/alcoholic does not create a perfect analogy.

As I read further, I began to think about my own treatment and how I'd come to believe that I was flawed, defective, and not in control of my own binge eating. I thought about how I believed I ate because of my depression, anxiety, and low self-esteem. I thought back to my first experience in therapy when I was 16, when I'd first encountered the disease concept of an eating disorder. I remembered the therapist telling me that my dieting and eating behaviors were merely symptoms of more difficult problems and part of an illness called anorexia. I'd been so put off by this concept of my eating disorder that I made a vow never to go back to therapy. Yet, when I'd returned to therapy in college, I'd come to accept the idea that I had some sort of illness and ate to cope with more difficult life issues. Even though my experience on Topamax had made me rethink what I learned in therapy, I still clung to the disease concept in many ways.

Not only does the disease concept foster addiction, says Trimpey, but the treatments that stem from the disease concept are not effective. This is because treatment for [bulimics] assumes [binge eating] is the result of hidden causes; therefore, therapy attempts to treat those causes instead of the [bulimia] itself and does not offer a direct way to stop [binge eating]. The treatments assume if you correct the hidden cause, the [bulimic] behaviors will unexplainably disappear. This was, in fact, what I had been trying to do in therapy for many years, without good results.

Trimpey says that therapists convince [bulimics] that [binge eating] is a symptom of another problem. Therapists say that you cannot be free of [bulimia] until you reach other important goals, so instead of working directly on your addiction, you work on reaching other goals in hopes that your [binge eating] will go away. But the [binge eating] does not go away, Trimpey says. Even if you solve such problems as "self-worth, self-awareness, relationships, and childhood conflicts, deprivations, and traumas, you are still left with your original desire to [binge eat]."22

THERAPY'S IDEAS MAY HAVE BEEN HARMFUL

I was overwhelmed by what I was finding in RR, because this was the first time I'd read something that contradicted what I'd learned in my own treatment. For so many years, I searched for a hidden cause of my binge eating and tried to solve every problem I could think of; yet all my self-improvement work had done little to reduce my desire to binge eat. This was the first time I'd read something that suggested I could stop my destructive behavior without therapy or a long journey of self-discovery. It was the first time I'd read something that said recovery was not a difficult and life-consuming process. In fact, Trimpey says that trying to solve personal problems before recovery only wastes time and resources.

Part of me agreed with every word I was reading, because it explained why therapy had not worked for me. But another part of me resisted the information in RR. Maybe alcoholics could just quit, I thought, but eating disorders were more complicated. Wasn't it nearly impossible to self-recover from them?

That warm spring day at the gym, I realized that the answers weren't clear and had never truly been clear. I had sensed something was wrong with eating disorder treatment when I was 16; even after I'd accepted the idea that binge eating was a coping mechanism that fulfilled inner emotional needs, a small part of me had remained unsure. The doubtful part of me didn't know how to express the problem I sensed in therapy through the years; but RR finally made me understand why therapy had not been effective for me. Therapy was not solving the real problem.

If it hadn't been for my experience on Topamax in the summer and fall of 2003, I probably would not have been as open to the ideas in RR as I was. I probably would have resisted the concept that I could stop binge eating without solving my personal problems and without therapy. However, when Topamax was working, it temporarily corrected something in my brain that was generating my urges to binge, even as my other problems remained. Although the medication's effects weren't lasting, the experience had caused me to leave therapy, even though I still held to many of therapy's ideas.

Reading RR made me wonder if those ideas were actually hampering my recovery instead of helping it along. I began to wonder why therapy had led me around the problem instead of targeting it directly. Maybe I could get better, I thought, only if I stopped believing that I needed to travel a long journey of self-improvement in order to stop binge eating. Maybe I could get better only if I stopped trying to cure myself in a roundabout way. Maybe I could get better only if I stopped believing that I was using food to deal with unsettling emotions. Maybe I could get better only if I stopped believing that I had an illness and that I needed to become whole or become happy before I could give up my bulimia. I realized that solving my other problems might take a lifetime, but I needed to solve my real problem quickly.

ADDICTION IN LIGHT OF THE BRAIN

RR suggested that this could be done by first understanding my own brain. Trimpey says that addictive behavior is understandable when viewed in light of this remarkable organ. He explains that addiction comes from a part of the brain that is older in terms of evolutionary history. This area, which Trimpey calls the "animal brain" or "beast brain," is responsible for maintaining our basic biological functions and ensuring our survival. The animal brain/beast brain is the primitive brain region that generates our survival drives for food, water, sex, oxygen, and other things that it senses are necessary for survival. The animal brain is automatic, unthinking, and irrational. It is buried in the central region of the brain and surrounded by the wrinkled outer layer—the cerebral cortex.23 The animal brain is often referred to as the subcortex because it lies below the cortex; but I will continue to call it the "animal brain" and, later, the "lower brain." The animal brains of humans are nearly identical to the brains of animals, as well as to much older species.

The animal brain's function in humans is indeed fundamental to our survival as individuals and as a species; but when it comes to addiction, the animal brain works against us. When someone is addicted, the animal brain falsely believes that the addictive substance is necessary for survival and therefore drives the addicted person to the substance, as though it is just as vital as water or oxygen.24 In my case, my animal brain believed that binge eating was a necessity, so that an appetite for binge eating got mixed in with all of my other valid survival appetites.

The animal brain expresses itself through what Trimpey has termed the Addictive Voice (AV). The AV is "any idea, feeling, or behavior that supports [binge eating]."25 He says that a [bulimic] must be able to recognize her AV and separate herself from it, because the Addictive Voice is not really her voice. It is merely the voice of the animal brain. My animal brain was in control, directing my life as if large amounts of food were oxygen; I blindly followed the messages urging me to binge eat, unaware of their origin.

Trimpey encourages [bulimics] to observe their own thoughts and feelings using a thinking skill he calls AVRT® (Addictive Voice Recognition Technique). The thoughts and feelings that encourage [binge eating] are the AV, and those that support quitting are the true self. When a [bulimic] recognizes and understands her AV, then completely separates herself from it, recovery becomes effortless. She must get apart from it, Trimpey says, realizing that "it" is merely an appetite that originates in the "biological, animal side of human nature."26 "It" is not really you.

"It" is housed in the animal brain, but the real you is located in a different part of the brain. The real you, or the true self, resides in the newer and more sophisticated part of the brain—the human brain, which is the part of the brain that developed most recently in evolutionary history. The human brain makes you yourself because it gives rise to your consciousness, self-awareness, identity, reason, memory, and intelligence. The human brain also controls your voluntary behavior because it houses the voluntary motor center, which controls any body part you can move voluntarily, including arms, legs, hands, mouth, and swallowing muscles.27

To stop [binge eating], Trimpey says, you must know that your animal brain cannot make you do anything, because it doesn't have control over your voluntary muscles. Because the human brain houses your true self and your voluntary muscle movements, you—your true self—have ultimate control. In the case of bulimia, "it" cannot control whether or not the bulimic will open the refrigerator or drive to the nearest fast-food restaurant to binge. The only thing the animal brain can do on its own is send messages urging the bulimic to binge eat, but ultimately, the true self—residing in the human brain—is in control of what that person does upon hearing the call of the animal brain. Trimpey says that given the right information, the human brain is "able to suppress any appetite, able to defeat any addiction, any time you choose."28

Trimpey says that once you decide to quit and fully commit to stopping your [binge eating], all you have to do is recognize the AV, realize that is not really "you" but instead "it"—the voice of the animal brain—and simply stop listening to it and letting it direct your actions. Even though you can hear and feel the AV urging you to [binge], you know the animal brain cannot act on its own, so you know you can always choose whether or not to binge.

Attempting to argue or reason with the AV is futile, he writes, because the animal brain is not rational and doesn't listen to reason. You only need to recognize it, ignore it, and it will soon fall silent. Trimpey says that once you learn to separate yourself from the animal brain and realize you are in control, your urges to [binge] begin to taper off, and stopping your addiction for good becomes easy.

11: I Had Control All Along

This theory of two brains—the human brain and the animal brain—that Trimpey presented seemed reasonable to me. It seemed to explain why I sensed my urges to binge were not really me, but instead an imposter taking control of my mind and body until I gave in and binged. It seemed to explain why part of me wanted to binge more than anything and part of me truly wanted to quit. There were two brains in conflict within me.

The most important thing I learned while reading RR at the gym that day was that I had ultimate control over my actions. My human brain—the seat of my intelligence, reason, language, and voluntary movement—was the only part of me capable of the voluntary act of binge eating. This new and rather simple information gave me a feeling of power. It gave me new hope that I could overcome my urges to binge eat. It gave me reason to believe I had a choice when the urges arose.

In a sense, the information in RR was something I already knew but hadn't been able to express. I'd already known that I didn't have to act on my urges to binge even before reading the book; but until that point, I'd felt powerless against them. In therapy, I learned that I needed to develop alternative coping skills or fulfill my emotional needs in other, noneating ways. Yet when the urge to binge arose, it always seemed that nothing else but food would do.

MY URGES WEREN'T REALLY ME

RR seemed to explain why my urges were so irresistible. Maybe it was because I thought those urges signaled a real need, whether that need was physical, emotional, or even illness-based. Maybe I believed the thoughts and followed the feelings that were urging me to binge because I thought they were my thoughts and my feelings. It only made sense that I believed this, because the urges certainly seemed to be coming from me.

When I had the urge to binge, I heard enticing thoughts, in my own voice, saying things like, It won't hurt to binge just one more time. ... You can work out tomorrow and then start over. ... You've had a hard day and need to relax. ... You've done so well for the past three days, so you deserve it. I heard myself giving all the reasons that it would be OK to binge just one more time, and sometimes they seemed like very logical reasons. As the urge grew stronger, my feelings of anxiety and craving mounted and I felt I truly needed to binge in order to feel normal again. My feelings felt like my own as well, and like my thoughts, they expressed what I sensed to be a true need.

RR made me realize that perhaps the thoughts and feelings that encouraged binge eating didn't correspond to any of my needs—real or symbolic—and that maybe those thoughts and feelings didn't even come from me at all. Maybe they were an automatic and unthinking voice coming from the more animalistic part of my brain and didn't have any power over me or my actions. Maybe all I needed to do was separate my true self from that lower part of my brain for the urges to go away on their own.

As I continued exercising and reading RR, I came to a significant realization. All through the years of therapy, I had been trying to make my urges go away or prevent them from ever arising. But what if that was the wrong approach? What if I didn't need to make them go away, but just needed to change how I reacted to them? What if I could separate myself from my urges and choose not to follow them anymore? Perhaps, I thought, in spite of even the most powerful urge, I could choose not to open the refrigerator, not to drive to the convenience store; and maybe if I did that over and over, the urges would simply go away on their own.

I decided to try what I'd learned from RR and my own insights that day. After all, what could it hurt? I wasn't having much success resisting my urges any other way. I decided to view any thought or feeling encouraging binge eating as an automatic function of my animal brain, believing that it had no power to affect my actions. I decided I would separate myself from my urges to binge and use the power of my human brain to choose not to follow them.

IT WAS ABOUT THE FOOD

When my day of working out was complete and I had nearly finished reading RR, I drove home with a new perspective. This was not the same "new perspective" I usually had after successfully purging by working out—that feeling was all too familiar, and it never lasted. This perspective was different because, during the seven hours I'd spent at the gym, I had reinterpreted my eating disorder. Thanks to information from RR and my own self-reflection, my bulimia suddenly stopped being a mystery. I felt as though a curtain had been lifted and I could finally see my behavior for what it was: a terrible habit.

That evening in May, I stopped believing, once and for all, that my urges to binge were about anything more than food. I decided that there was no deep emotional meaning there. I began believing that I binged because I'd created a habit—possibly an addiction—by doing it so many times. I began to see that I binged primarily to relieve my cravings and also for pleasure, but certainly not to satisfy some symbolic inner need. A part of my brain had become dependent on binge eating, and that was why I found it so hard to stop.

As I now understood it, a lower part of my brain—my animal brain—believed I needed to binge to survive and was therefore generating urges for this beyond my conscious awareness. I couldn't control these thoughts or feelings, but I could recognize them for what they were. Although I knew binge eating was wrong and unhealthy, my animal brain thought it was as necessary as oxygen, because I'd taught it that by binge eating so many times. Although I couldn't talk my animal brain out of these demands, I didn't have to follow its lead. I, residing in my human brain, could control my actions.

As I approached home that night, I decided that I was going to try to stop reacting emotionally to my urges and stop acting on them. I decided I would just let my thoughts and feelings about food surface, then observe them as if they were not coming from me. Then I would not do what they told me to do. This seemed like an easy plan, and part of me thought it was too simple and would never work. But little did I know as I got out of my car that evening, my bulimia was almost gone forever.

12: Resisting the Urge

It didn't take long for me to get the opportunity to practice my new strategy. I walked into my house after my day at the gym, put my workout bag on the floor, placed Rational Recovery on the kitchen table, and began making dinner. Greg called and said he was running late, so I was left alone to eat. After I finished a normal meal and dessert, I began hearing a few enticing thoughts encouraging me to continue eating. What happened then was truly surprising. I heard all the familiar reasons I should binge, and I felt the craving, but I told myself those thoughts and feelings were not my own. I told myself those thoughts and feelings were coming from an automatic, unthinking part of my brain that mistakenly sensed that I needed to binge to survive.

I told myself that I was completely separate from the part of my brain that generated these cravings, and I reminded myself that I had complete control. I pictured myself standing outside my own brain looking in, listening to those thoughts as if they were distant from my own, and knowing that my cravings had absolutely no power to make me act. I reminded myself that I—my higher brain, my human brain—was the only one who could walk to the refrigerator and begin to binge. And I chose not to.

It felt strange to form a divide between me and my urges to binge, but it also felt empowering. As I experienced my urges with detachment, it became immediately apparent that I didn't have to make them go away. I didn't have to try to talk myself out of my thoughts or feelings; I didn't have to reason with them or fight them; I didn't have to try futilely to distract myself; I didn't have to try to figure out what triggered my urge; and I didn't have to determine what emotional need my urge symbolized. Observing my brain in this way allowed me to see that my urges to binge symbolized nothing. They were not laden with deep emotional significance or hidden meaning. They simply were automatic functions of my brain, expressing an appetite for binge eating, an appetite I'd been feeding for much too long.

That night, I decided not to feed the urge, and a remarkable thing happened: the urge just went away. I remained detached from those thoughts, and they simply subsided on their own. I didn't get caught up in my feelings, and they died down. I'm not saying it was completely effortless, but it was certainly not the painful struggle that resisting binges had been before this night. I experienced the urge to binge for only about an hour at most, which was a major improvement. Furthermore, the hour wasn't distressing. It was actually quite interesting to observe the thoughts and feelings that had gotten the better of me for so long.

Listening with detachment made the urge to binge infinitely less intense. I did not get anxious, fearful, or angry as in the past; instead, I just listened without reacting emotionally. I went on with my normal activities: I watched TV, did some dishes, and checked my e-mail. Then I spent some time just sitting on the couch paying attention to what was going on in my head. I didn't feel I needed to do or not do anything in particular while the urge was present. The only thing I needed to do was not binge.

Throughout my urge, I truly felt the control I had over my actions. I didn't try to convince myself I had control without truly believing it, as I had done in the past. This time, my control was tangible. Maybe it was because I knew—based on the simple discussion of the anatomy and functions of my brain in RR —that I really did have control. I knew that no matter what crazy reasons my animal brain generated, I didn't have to act on them, because my human brain gave me the power to say no.

I realized there was no hidden disease, underlying emotional problem, or trigger that could make me walk to the refrigerator to take that first bite. There was no mysterious force that could take control of my body and commence the binge. It was my choice, and it had been my choice all along. I simply hadn't known how to exert that choice over the intense messages coming from my brain. I realized I was the only one to blame for keeping up my behavior, and I was the only one responsible for stopping it.

I BINGED TO COPE WITH MY URGES TO BINGE

After my urge to binge subsided that night, I thought about something I'd read in RR. Trimpey said that the only thing a [bulimic] is coping with when she [binge eats] is not [binge eating].29 When I'd read this statement earlier at the gym, I wasn't sure I quite understood what it meant; but now, after experiencing an urge and riding it out successfully, I saw exactly what Trimpey was talking about. Throughout my years of binge eating, I had binged primarily to deal with the negative effects of not bingeing. When I'd tried to resist urges to binge, I'd experienced anxiety and discomfort, and bingeing successfully, albeit temporarily, had quelled that anxiety and discomfort.

In the past, binge eating had immediately turned off my urges to binge; it gave me relief from irrational but unremitting cravings; and it brought me immediate relaxation because I no longer had to struggle against my urges. It was the only thing that satisfied my desire, so in effect, I'd binged to cope with my urges to binge.

I binged to cope with urges to binge, I thought over and over that night, wondering how such a simple truth could have eluded me for so long. It made so much intuitive sense; but it also seemed too simple compared to all the explanations of binge eating I'd gleaned during therapy. However, none of those explanations had ever helped me simply resist an urge to binge, as I had done that night after reading RR.

After over six years of binge eating, I seemed to finally have a viable answer to the question I'd been pondering for so long: What was binge eating helping me cope with? I saw clearly that if I had binged that night, it would have been primarily to turn off the thoughts and feelings urging me to do so. It would not have helped me cope with any of my other problems or emotions; it would have only served to quiet the messages from one part of my brain. But I hadn't felt desperate to quiet that part of my brain that night, because I'd stayed detached from it. I hadn't reacted emotionally to my urge to binge, so I hadn't had any extreme anxiety or discomfort that I wanted to get rid of; and I hadn't felt the need to make my thoughts or feelings go away. In other words, I hadn't needed to cope with my urge by binge eating; in fact, I hadn't needed to cope with my urge at all.

This was not the answer I expected to find after all those years of therapy. I expected the answer to be far more complex, possibly related to my past, my depression, my social anxiety, my brain chemicals, or my personality. But every complicated answer I'd come up with over the years did not ring true to me. This simple answer did.

I realized that I was healthy, my brain was healthy, and I'd been healthy all along. There was no longer a mystery as to how I would stop my bulimia. Now that I knew my urges were the real problem, and now that I knew these urges weren't really me, I realized that all I had to do was completely separate myself from them and not act on them.

13: The End of My Bulimia

The night after reading Rational Recovery and successfully resisting a binge, I went to sleep with newfound confidence and hope. However, I woke up the next day feeling apprehensive. I knew what I had to do to recover, but I still feared that I would end up bingeing again. Furthermore, part of me felt anxious at the thought of giving up binge eating for good. I had been binge eating for so long that I wondered if I could live without it. I wondered what my life would be like if I quit, and part of me felt great sadness when I thought of completely giving up my bulimia, because, after all, part of me did relish every bite.

I reminded myself that the part of me that didn't want to quit was the animalistic part of my brain. Wasn't I more than that? My higher brain—my human brain—could certainly give up the pleasure, the feeling of delirium and numbness that came with being too full, the peaceful sleep that often overtook me after a binge. I had the ability to, as Trimpey put it, resume my life as someone who simply does not [binge eat].

I moved forward through my doubt, and for the next few days, I stayed vigilant. I recognized the many ways my urges to binge presented themselves and noticed the many thoughts, feelings, and moods that had led me to binge in the past, but I did not act on them. It was eye-opening to observe these thoughts as if they weren't coming from me, because they sounded absolutely ridiculous. Observing my own thoughts without connecting myself with them gave me a sense of dominance over my problem, and as I listened to my own brain, I wondered how I had ever taken it seriously.

I felt separate from my bulimia and capable of choosing a different path for the first time in many years. Now I wanted more for myself—I had dreams, goals, and ambitions, and I wanted nothing more than to be free from binge eating. I wanted to decide the course of my own life instead of blindly following my urges.

MY LAST BINGE

I did find it relatively easy to stop acting on my urges, but I did find it a bit tricky at first. My brain was often deceptive in trying to convince me to eat. It tried to tell me that it was really me who wanted to binge, that I couldn't quit without intense therapy, that I really did need to binge eat to cope with some inner need, and that I really did have a disease. Sometimes thoughts told me I was not separate from the part of me that wanted to binge. Sometimes I felt that it didn't matter what part of my brain generated my urges, because I wanted to binge nonetheless. However, I found that if I stayed detached from any thought or feeling that encouraged binge eating—no matter how reasonable or logical it sounded at the time—no thought or feeling could make me act.

I was not perfect at using my new thinking skills, and a few times during the first week, I did begin to relate to my thoughts and feelings, blurring the line between myself and the part of me that wanted to binge. I remembered the pleasure that certain foods brought me, and I began to think I was one and the same as my animal brain. Sometimes I believed I wanted what it wanted, and at the end of May—two weeks after reading RR—I acted on one of my urges to binge. I simply got swept away in the wave, and temptation took over. But this binge was different than any other, because during the binge and afterward, I saw clearly that it wasn't really me that wanted to eat.

I knew I wanted to quit; and I knew exactly what had gone wrong. I could trace the sequence of thoughts and feelings back to one point at which I stopped observing my thoughts from outside and figuratively stepped back inside my head, relating to my cravings. Instead of listening to my thoughts as an observer, as I had been doing, I began to react emotionally to them. I temporarily felt it really was me that wanted to binge, and I did.

I didn't view this binge as a setback, or as proof that I somehow needed to binge. Instead, I unmistakably saw that part of my brain had temporarily gotten the better of me, and now I was even more determined not to let it happen again. So the next time my brain provided a craving, I recognized it; I was able to listen to my thoughts and feelings without acting on them, and they dissipated quickly.

I was binge-free for the entire month of June 2005. I was pleased and rather amazed at my success, because prior to reading RR, I had been binge eating at least three times a week. I was intrigued at the way a simple thinking skill had changed my behavior so suddenly. Everything else in my life was the same and all my other problems remained—just as when I was on Topamax—but I no longer saw my other problems as related to my binge eating.

I binged only one more time—at the beginning of July—and then my binge eating was over for good. To this day, I don't even consider my last binge a true binge; in my mind, it was more of a test. When I got the familiar urge to binge on that July day, an interesting idea arose.

I am going to choose to binge, I thought. I know I am not trying to fulfill any emotional need. I know I am not out of control. I am going to choose to listen to these automatic thoughts from the lower part of my brain. I know it's not me that wants to binge, but I am going to do it nonetheless.

It was as if I had said, OK, animal brain, let's go.

I went to the refrigerator and started eating, but something different happened. Eating wasn't exciting. The food wasn't all that good. I didn't eat quickly as I had in the past, and the process wasn't very pleasurable. I stopped eating long before I would have stopped on any previous binge, because it simply wasn't the same. I don't have a firm explanation as to why this was so, but I believe it was because "I"—my human brain—remained present and separate from my animal brain during the binge. This allowed me to experience the binge with volition; throughout the binge, I knew it was my choice and I never felt out of control.

This was different from all my previous binges, because during them, "I" had disappeared the moment I gave in to my urge. With the animal brain in control, I hadn't thought about what I was doing, but had eaten quickly and mindlessly, experiencing the temporary pleasure that went with eating large amounts of food and being indifferent to everything else. My last binge was different because my eating was not mindless. I knew that every bite I took was my own, and I found that I simply didn't want it. This last binge proved to me something that I had sensed for years: that I didn't want to binge, but I felt driven to do it by some force beyond my control. This time, with the choice back in my hands, I found it nearly impossible to binge.

For the next month, I got frequent urges to binge, but I recognized them and didn't react emotionally to them or act on them. I noticed that if I separated myself from my thoughts and feelings about binge eating before they turned into cravings and powerful urges, not bingeing was completely effortless. I noticed that the only times my thoughts and feelings turned into powerful urges was when I related to them and started believing them. Then it required a little more effort to step back and detach myself. Nonetheless, my desire to binge had decreased markedly by August 2005, and by September of that year, it was nearly nonexistent.

I no longer had cravings or urges to binge, only random thoughts and feelings that didn't require any effort to resist. These popped up from time to time for another five months or so, but they no longer bothered me or caused me any distress. As 2005 was coming to a close, I felt that my bulimia was becoming a distant memory.

NO MORE RESOLUTIONS

On December 31 of that year, I was visiting Greg's family for the holidays. It was around ten o'clock at night, and I was alone on the couch in the home of one of Greg's relatives. I was watching TV and babysitting Greg's young cousins, who were sleeping upstairs. As I lay on the couch, I heard a familiar voice in my head. You're all alone, and you've done so well not bingeing for so long. There is so much good junk food in this house, and no one will even notice it's gone. Bingeing just one more time won't hurt. You deserve it, the voice said. New Year's Eve is a perfect time to binge because you can just make a new resolution tomorrow. Plus, you are feeling lonely and scared in this dark house, you've been stressed trying to fit in with Greg's family, and you're angry that you had to be the one to babysit tonight while everyone else went out. Eating will make you forget all that and help you sleep.

In reality, I chose to babysit and felt good about that decision. I wanted my husband to have a good time with his family, whom he is very close to yet doesn't get to see very much, living on the opposite side of the country. I'm not a fan of going out to bars, and I much preferred be home alone than in a crowded, loud place, even if it meant a little anxiety being in an unfamiliar house. I may have been a little stressed over the past several days socializing with Greg's family, but that was pretty typical for me and altogether manageable. However, when generating thoughts about binge eating, my brain had a way of turning any situation into a "poor me" story. My brain picked up on anything that would make me feel sorry for myself and tempt me to binge, even if it was blatantly false.

Although thoughts like these had led to cravings and urges and binges so many times before, I knew this time would be different. I knew I did not binge eat anymore, no matter what crazy reasons my brain generated; so I stayed on the couch, listening to the thoughts running through my brain. There was no need to argue with them, no need to stop them, no need to grab my journal and write about my feelings, no need to hurry to find other ways to cope with them.

I just lay there, relaxed, listening to my brain. Only a little over seven months earlier, my thoughts would have taken over, sending a cascade of reactions through my whole body until every part of my being felt it needed to binge. The most powerful urges had been like waves that started with a little swell of thoughts, growing into desire, then need, then desperation. The waves would sweep over my body—my heart speeding, my stomach feeling like a void, my mouth yearning for food, and my arms and legs feeling almost too paralyzed to do anything but head toward the refrigerator.

But lying on the couch in Greg's family's house, my body was unaffected. It amazed me that a simple thinking skill could stop the thoughts from taking over, stop them from becoming irresistible urges. Knowing that my thoughts were automatic allowed me to prevent the cascade of reactions in my body, stopped the wave from building. My thoughts remained just that—thoughts—and they didn't affect what I chose to do.

In the past, I might have curled up on the couch, gritting my teeth, trying to fight off my dangerous thoughts. But this time, I knew I didn't have to do that. My thoughts were not dangerous at all. I could easily choose to listen curiously but not react to or act on them. I knew my thoughts were not under my control, but my actions were. It was simple to control my actions that night, because I didn't identify with my thoughts or give them any power to affect my decisions. I knew it was not truly me who wanted to eat, but a lesser part of me acting up.

All I had to do that New Year's Eve was lie on the couch and let thoughts about binge eating run through my head like a tape recorder. All I had to do was listen with detachment until they fizzled out, which took only a matter of minutes. After my thoughts faded, I watched the New Year's Eve coverage on TV and thought about how I'd made a resolution to stop binge eating every New Year's Eve for the previous five years. But that night as the clock struck twelve, no resolution was necessary. I already knew I would never binge again.

PART II: My Bulimia Redefined and Recovery Explained

14: Investigating the True Story Behind My Bulimia and Recovery

It seemed that a simple change in thinking had completely changed my life. Still, I sometimes worried that it was too good to be true, that it wouldn't last, just like my experience with Topamax. I wondered if my spontaneous recovery was even real. Maybe my eating disorder was just lying dormant, waiting for an opportunity to pounce again. But as the days and months of 2006 went by without any desire to binge eat, I began to think my spontaneous recovery was indeed real. I didn't see how it would be possible for my urges to return, and even if they did, I was confident I'd recognize them and not feel compelled to act on them. I honestly didn't feel I had any risk of relapse. I felt my bulimia was just a memory, and I wondered how it had ever consumed my life. If I had known such an abrupt, complete recovery was possible from the moment I entered therapy, I would have saved much valuable time.

I began to wonder how I had managed such a simple recovery. How could I have stopped my bulimia so abruptly, without fixing all my emotional problems and flaws? How had it been possible for me to suddenly stop acting on my urges to binge? How had my urges to binge disappeared so quickly after I'd stopped acting on them? It didn't seem as though I'd done anything special, but I couldn't help but feel that there had to be something more to it.

I wasn't satisfied with just recovering and moving on with my life. I needed to know exactly how Trimpey's advice in Rational Recovery had helped me to quit so quickly. I thought that if I could understand how I was able to recover, maybe I could one day share my story and help other people recover from bulimia as well. So I set out to find some answers.

I decided that I needed to start by determining what my eating disorder had been all about, from its inception. If it had truly been about my personality, my upbringing, my emotional problems, or even genetics—as my therapists had said—then it didn't seem likely that I could have quit so easily.

Beginning in April 2006, I began redefining my eating disorder with a new perspective, as a recovered bulimic. I was able to look back on the whole experience and finally see (through my own insights and a little bit of research) exactly what had happened—why my eating disorder had developed and why I had maintained it for so long.

The answers I found turned out to be very different from those I'd sought in therapy. This time, my "whys" were answered in terms of my brain, not my supposed underlying psychological issues.

RR's discussion of the brain and how it works in addiction had made me interested in determining how my brain worked in my eating disorder. As I learned a little about this, I discovered that I had simply been a victim of my healthy brain—a brain that was only doing its job—for all the years I was bulimic. In this part of the book, then, I'll describe how I redefined my bulimia in terms of my brain function, pinpointing the real reasons I began to binge and why I maintained my binge eating for so long. Then I'll explain how I used my brain to stop so quickly, easily, and permanently.

Throughout Part II, it's important to stress that I am not an expert on the brain. I am simply a recovered bulimic with an undergraduate liberal arts degree. Nevertheless, I have learned enough to completely free myself from bulimia. My discussion of the brain and how it functions in bulimia is meant to be useful, not overloaded with scientific or technical information. The way that bulimia develops in the brain is actually very simple, and it's completely fascinating how that same brain can wipe it away. I hope that by sharing some basic information, I can help many people overcome binge eating as quickly and easily as I did.

15: Was I Really Recovered?

Because I recovered so quickly and easily, it's natural that some people will question the legitimacy of my recovery, so here I'll address the question of whether or not I truly recovered. I had to grapple with this question in the weeks and months after I stopped binge eating, because as I've mentioned, I'd thought that a full recovery would require a major personal transformation or resolution of certain issues. However, after I stopped binge eating, I felt basically the same—minus the binge eating, purging, and all the problems that went along with it. So was I still a bulimic at some level? True, I didn't binge and didn't purge anymore, and my urges to do so had completely disappeared, but was that enough to claim a full recovery?

WHAT IS RECOVERY, ANYWAY?

I've found that the answer to this question often depends on who you talk to, and through my years of disordered eating and recovery, I've encountered endless definitions. Here are a few of them:

Recovery means resolving the root causes of the eating disorder.

Recovery means coping with life's struggles in healthy ways.

Recovery means maintaining a healthy weight and eating regular meals and snacks.

Recovery means having skills to deal with feelings, emotions, and problems.

Recovery means loving yourself.

Recovery means being assertive in relationships.

Recovery means finding spirituality.

Recovery means forming an identity and having purpose in your life.

Recovery means living happily.

Recovery means something different for each person.

In therapy, I learned that recovery could be defined as one, all, or some combination of the above statements. The quotes below are typical of some things that I believed during my years of therapy:

Recovery means that, instead of using eating-disorder behaviors to cope with [negative] feelings, you will be able to use constructive techniques to make your way past them. When you have regained possession of your life and you can live happily without the eating disorder, you will have recovered.30

You will understand the underlying emotional reasons for your eating disorder and learn to take care of yourself in ways other than overeating, undereating, or obsessing about food and weight. You will discover a new and loving relationship with your body, honoring it no matter what size, shape, or age. You will explore how to set boundaries, say no, and nurture yourself in ways that feed your soul. You will deepen your connection with your spiritual self and listen to your inner voice that can guide you to live in your own truth and create your own dreams.31

The ultimate goal is to increase your self-esteem, change your belief system so that you no longer place such a high value on appearance, and find healthier ways of dealing with stress.32

Recovery from disordered eating is about accepting the wholeness of your being. It is about accepting all of who you are, all of your emotions, thoughts, and desires, even those you may not like or those that bring discomfort. It involves recognizing that certain attributes you have viewed as liabilities are actually assets, realizing that your sensitive nature is part of your beauty, and understanding that your uniqueness does not have to lead to isolation, rejection, and loneliness.33

The above definitions make recovery seem a rather daunting task. When recovery included such goals as connecting with my spiritual self, coping well with problems and feelings, living happily, accepting the wholeness of my being, or improving my self-esteem and body image, recovery became a difficult, complicated, and long-term process.

My lengthy therapy was not an exception; in fact, it is common for eating disorder therapy to last two to five years or even longer.34 I believe this is due to overly broad definitions of recovery—such as the examples above—that are popular in traditional therapy today. But, as I learned for myself, recovery need not be so daunting. If defined in practical and commonsense terms, recovery can be simple, quick, and completely self-directed. In order to arrive at this new definition of recovery, I asked myself three important questions.

QUESTION 1: WHAT WAS I TRYING TO RECOVER FROM?

I was trying to recover from bulimia—which, over the years, I learned to be a complex psychological problem. However, the definition of bulimia is rather simple:

Bulimia Nervosa is a serious, potentially life-threatening eating disorder characterized by a cycle of bingeing and compensatory behaviors such as self-induced vomiting designed to undo or compensate for the effects of binge eating.35

Bulimia is defined by binge eating—eating an excessive amount of food in a discrete period of time and feeling a lack of control during the excessive eating. Without binge eating, bulimia cannot exist in an individual. The purging aspect of bulimia consists of compensatory behaviors to offset the binge eating; without the binge eating, purging becomes unnecessary. I'll talk about purging specifically in Chapter 36; for now, it's sufficient to know that, without binge eating, purging does not characterize bulimia.

The definition of BED is basically the same as bulimia, minus the purging:

Binge Eating Disorder (BED) is a type of eating disorder not otherwise specified and is characterized by recurrent binge eating without the regular use of compensatory measures to counter the binge eating.36

Nowhere in the above definitions of bulimia and BED is there any mention of an inability of the patient to deal with emotions, cope with life, think positively, love herself, or build healthy relationships. Nowhere in the above definitions is there any mention of an inability to achieve happiness or live life to the fullest or even maintain a healthy weight and healthy diet. It simply does not follow that recovery is then defined to include such broad goals. The meaning of recovery should fit the definition of the disorder.

Sure, dealing with such other problems is a worthy goal, and it would have been fine for me to tackle them outside of the context of recovering from bulimia. But my recovery taught me something that had eluded me for many years: if I wanted to recover from bulimia, I absolutely had to stop binge eating. Which brings me to the next question I asked myself.

QUESTION 2: WHAT IS RECOVERY FROM BULIMIA OR BED?

Since bulimia and BED do not exist without binge eating, the following definition of recovery is the only one that makes sense:

Recovery from bulimia is the termination of all binge eating.

I've defined recovery from bulimia as a termination of all binge eating, even though to be formally diagnosed with bulimia, a woman has to binge/purge two times per week for three months.37 Technically, if a woman reduced her behaviors so that she binged/purged less than that, she would not be formally diagnosable as bulimic. However, it would be nonsensical for a woman to claim full recovery if she reduced her binge eating just enough to fall out of the clinical diagnosis; and furthermore, the twice-a-week criterion is likely to be dropped from the next version of the DSM.38 The defining characteristic of bulimia is binge eating and the compensatory behaviors that accompany it, regardless of how frequently it occurs. This is why I consider recovery to be a termination of all binge eating, not merely a reduction in binge eating.

I only wish I would have learned this simple definition of recovery as soon as I entered therapy, because it would have allowed me to target my problem directly. It is true that the termination of all binge eating was a goal of my therapy, but it was not the driving force of treatment. To the contrary, my binge eating was supposed to stop only as I reached other therapy goals. A termination of binge eating was certainly expected ... eventually; but it was to be an afterthought, a pleasant side effect of the recovery process. Yet the termination of my binge eating was not an afterthought—it was the only thing that brought me true recovery. It was not a side effect of other therapy goals—it was the only goal I needed to accomplish all along.

Now I turn to the last and most important question I asked myself to define my recovery.

QUESTION 3: WHAT DID I NEED TO DO TO ACHIEVE RECOVERY?

In light of my new definition of recovery, the answer to this question was:

Stop binge eating.

Done. I am recovered.

I truly believe I could have recovered at any point during my years of bulimia if I had only had the right information. I didn't know it was entirely in my power to stop binge eating at any time I chose. Stopping binge eating was the only clear-cut and practical solution to my bulimia. Now that I am recovered, I still have many other problems—like everyone else in the world—but I do not binge eat. That's the only true proof of recovery from bulimia.

Stopping my binge eating was not simply treating the "symptom" of a deeper problem or disease. Binge eating was the problem. Some may say that if I stopped binge eating without resolving the underlying issues, I will inevitably relapse or I will turn to other unhealthy means of coping—like drugs, alcohol, or other self-harming behaviors. Some may say stopping behaviors is only one aspect of recovery from an eating disorder, and by just doing that and calling myself recovered, I am selling myself short. I hope to put these criticisms to rest in the remainder of this book.

I used to believe these common criticisms as well. While I was in therapy, I used to think: Stopping my binge eating will only be the beginning of my recovery. I need to conquer my self-esteem issues to have a full recovery. I need to be a healthy weight and eat a healthy diet to achieve a full recovery. I need to cope with the pain from my past and learn to manage the problems in my daily life to achieve a full recovery. A full recovery won't be possible until I can be happy.

Because of what I learned in therapy, I often confused what was recovery from bulimia with what was just life. Therein is one of the major pitfalls of my therapy: it simply required too much. It was too complicated and unnecessary, especially considering my age at the time. Recovery should have been as simple as possible.

So I've learned to replace the word recovery with the word life in my thoughts: Stopping my binge eating will only be the beginning of my life. I need to conquer my self-esteem issues to have a full life. I need to be a healthy weight and maintain a good diet to achieve a full life. I need to cope with the pain from my past and learn to manage daily problems to achieve a full life. A full life won't be possible until I can be happy.

Wouldn't it have made more sense for my therapists to help me quickly and easily end my binge eating, so that I could get on with the business of living? That, after all, is why I decided to try therapy in the first place.

During my years of therapy, I resented any friend or family member who suggested that I simply quit binge eating. Once I was vested in therapy concepts, I viewed anyone who thought I could stop bingeing anytime I chose as unenlightened. They didn't understand eating disorders, I thought. Now I'm here saying they were right. I guess now I'm officially unenlightened—because I believe that, if I can do it, any bulimic can stop binge eating anytime she chooses.

ANOTHER DIAGNOSTIC CRITERION

Besides the binge eating and compensatory behaviors (purging), the DSM-IV-TR includes another criterion for the diagnosis of bulimia: weight and body shape are extremely important for self-evaluation. This means that a bulimic places excessive value on her body image. However, as I will discuss more fully in Chapter 32, this criterion is not exclusive to bulimia. No one can be bulimic or have BED without binge eating, regardless of how that person feels about his or her body. This is why, in my definition of recovery, I do not include "improve self-image" or "learn to place less emphasis on body weight." These are obviously worthy goals, but they are not necessary for recovery.

WHAT IF THE DSM DEFINES EATING DISORDERS INCORRECTLY?

This is a question I had to grapple with after my recovery, because if I'm questioning everything I learned in therapy, I should also question diagnostic criteria for eating disorders. It is true that bulimia and BED cannot exist without binge eating, but should binge eating be the defining characteristic of these disorders? Traditional therapy teaches that bulimia and BED are not truly about food and weight, but one look at the DSM criteria for diagnosis tells a different story. My therapists seemed to treat me as if the DSM was wrong, or at least vastly insufficient.

If eating disorders are really not about food and weight, then we shouldn't define them as such and we should redefine them based on whatever therapists think they are really about—possibly an inability to deal with negative feelings, a lack of happiness, low self-worth, an abundance of family conflicts, or a flawed personality. From a more scientific perspective, eating disorders could possibly be defined on the basis of biological or genetic risk factors, or the neurochemical processes involved in conditions that can occur alongside bulimia, such as depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder.39 In other words, if the experts are going to treat eating disorders as if eating is not the problem, then they should also define eating disorders as if eating is not the problem.

Personally, I believe the disorders are defined correctly. If treating all of the supposed underlying psychological causes and risk factors cured everyone, then maybe I would change my mind; but until definite proof comes out that eating disorders really have nothing to do with eating, I will continue to believe they have everything to do with eating. I will continue to believe that if I don't binge, I am not bulimic.

16: Why Did I Binge?

As soon as I stopped binge eating, it became clear to me why I had binged for so many years—and the answer was a far cry from what I learned in therapy. I didn't binge to satisfy deep inner emotional needs. I didn't binge because I had a disease that I was powerless against. I discarded the hypothetical and convoluted reasons why I binged, and I realized that there was only one concrete and clearly identifiable reason:

I binged because I had urges to binge.

Although this reason seems obvious and overly simplistic, it explained every binge from the time I ate eight bowls of cereal that March morning in high school, to the times when I drove to countless fast-food restaurants and gas stations in college, to my final true binge shortly after reading Rational Recovery.

My urges to binge eat were not symptoms of anything—they were the problem. There was nothing about my poor body image, low self-esteem, high anxiety, depressive tendencies, family stressors, or any other problem for that matter that made me binge eat. The urge to binge was the only direct cause of every single binge—regardless of when, where, how, or why the urge surfaced.

Once I stopped acting on my urges to binge, I saw clearly that the real problem wasn't my life, personality, or family history. The problem was that I had strong urges to binge eat, at many different times and in many different places; and I gave in to those urges again and again. If, at any point during my bulimia, I would have been able to take away the urges to binge, I would have taken away my bulimia. I first learned this lesson while on Topamax.

If I hadn't had a desire to binge, I wouldn't have binged for all those years—it was that simple. At times during my bulimia, I did not have high anxiety, but I still binged. At times during my bulimia, I wasn't depressed, but I still binged. At times, I felt OK with my body and myself, but I still binged. Working on my other problems in order to stop binge eating was a waste of time, because it wasn't addressing the real cause of binge eating: the urges to binge.

I learned in therapy that the causes of binge eating were the thoughts, emotions, interactions, moods, or life events that supposedly triggered the binges. Once I stopped binge eating for good, I realized this was glaringly untrue. Triggers were—at best—an indirect link to my binge eating, not the cause. I'll discuss triggers in detail in Chapter 35; but for the time being, I'll just say that it was possible for certain thoughts, feelings, interactions, moods, or life events to give rise to my urges. However, once the urge surfaced, it was the urge that was the real problem. It was the urge—and all the thoughts, feelings, sensations, and cravings that came along with it—that caused me to binge; and whatever may have theoretically caused the urge to surface was no longer relevant.

Of course, all of my thoughts, emotions, interactions, moods, and the events I faced mattered significantly to my life; but they did not matter to my recovery from bulimia. What I learned to do with the thinking skills from RR was to target the real problem—the urges to binge. Since an urge to binge always appeared before a binge, it only made sense for me to learn how to manage those urges and eliminate them, which I was able to do rather easily.

Through the years of my binge eating, sometimes my urges were predictable—such as when I came home from school or work to an empty house, while trying to go to sleep at night, when I woke up in the middle of the night, during meals that contained fattening or sugary foods, after drinking alcohol—and sometimes my urges to binge were more erratic, surfacing when I least expected them.

My urges to binge were not simply needs to indulge in a little extra cheesecake, another piece of chocolate, or some more potato chips with lunch—the mind-set was different, much more fierce, animalistic, focused, and seemingly uncontrollable. These urges were much more powerful, much more consuming, and much more relentless. They were nonsensical desires to stuff myself, to eat all I could as fast as I could, to swallow very large amounts of food until I was well past the feeling of fullness.

Although my urges to binge were very different than the wish to indulge in a little treat, they were often preceded by a rather innocent craving for a small indulgence. But, often, as soon as I gave in to the craving for the small indulgence, the all-powerful urge to binge appeared. It was as if the small indulgence kindled the urge, setting me aflame with desire for more; and more often than not, I quickly found myself eating much more than I had planned and spiraling into a binge. Sometimes I knew beforehand that a small indulgence would inevitably lead to an urge to binge, and sometimes I was honestly caught off guard. The problem wasn't the small indulgence; the problem was the urge to binge that occurred as I gave in to innocent cravings.

On the other hand, my urges to binge often occurred in situations where there was seemingly no good reason for me to be thinking about food—times when there was no food around me, such as in the middle of class or the middle of the night. Sometimes ideas about food simply popped into my head, and one thought led to another until I was experiencing a strong urge to binge. The little ripple of thoughts about food led to a wave that often swelled to its full height in an instant; but other times it grew over several minutes, hours, or even days—so that my urges to binge sometimes began a long time before the actual binge.

The urges to binge didn't always have to be strong to convince me to indulge. Sometimes I began binge eating at the first hint of a craving, and in those instances, the urges were barely perceptible. At other times, it seemed like I simply found myself in front of the refrigerator without consciously wanting to be there. However, no matter how mindless my binge eating felt sometimes, there was always some inkling of desire, some tempting thought that preceded each and every binge.

So when I speak of an "urge" to binge, I'm not always talking about an all-consuming craving; because sometimes, I'd simply think, I'm going to buy some food and binge tonight, it's no big deal, and I did. There were many weeks during the course of my bulimia when I resigned myself to my problem, didn't bother fighting my desire to binge, and even planned binges at predictable times. Allowing scheduled binges kept my more powerful cravings in check, but even a plan to binge was a form of an urge. Urges ranged from a simple thought to desperation—and everything in between.

Regardless of the specifics, the bottom line holds: no binge ever occurred that was not preceded by an urge to binge. No matter how much time passed between my urge to take that first bite and when I actually took it, the urge was the only cause of each and every one of my binges. As much as a binge felt like an out-of-body experience, it was not. My binges did not result from some mysterious force that took over my body. Prior to each binge, I chose—whether it was over several hours or in an instant—to follow my urge.

Bulimics and all binge eaters are worthy people who simply become temporarily engulfed by urges to binge. Anyone in a bulimic's situation would probably do the same thing, because the drive to binge can be so incredibly compelling. It made me forget about all of my commitments, all the reasons I wanted to quit, all the shame and guilt I would experience after the binge, and all the people I would let down by binge eating. The urge to binge seemed to transform me into something that I was not: a ravenous, greedy, gluttonous, disgusting individual who cared more about getting large amounts of food than my family, my career, my health, or my life. I knew I was not that; and I know that no bulimic is that.

Sure, urges to binge caused my binge eating; but it certainly wasn't normal for me to have urges to binge. Before I explain how my recovery was possible, I need to explain why I had those urges in the first place. In the next five chapters, I'll talk about the reasons why I developed and continued having urges to binge, and why I kept following them.

17: What Caused My First Urges to Binge?

Since urges to binge were the only one true cause of each and every binge, there was only one true cause of my first binge: urges to binge. But why did I develop those urges in the first place? Why did I have such strong cravings for food? Why did I feel compelled to eat eight bowls of cereal on that March morning of my senior year of high school?

Was I trying to stuff down emotions? Was I trying to comfort myself during a stressful time? Was it because of depression? Anxiety? Did I have a disease revealing itself through my urges to binge?

The answer was none of these.

My urges were not symbolic of unmet emotional needs, underlying psychological issues, character flaws. Yes, I had some problems and emotional stressors in my life at the time my first urges to binge appeared, but that alone did not give rise to those urges. There was only one true cause of my first urges to binge, and that cause was dieting. My restrictive eating habits, which I maintained for over a year and a half before my first binge, were the reason I felt compelled to eat so much sweet cereal that spring morning.

Dieting precedes nearly every case of a bulimia,40 as it did mine. Not every teen who diets develops an eating disorder, so there are other factors involved; but even though there are some genetic risk factors,41 biological factors, societal influences, personality features, and family characteristics42 that put certain girls and women at higher risk of developing bulimia, bulimia rarely develops without a history of dieting. (Binge eating disorder, on the other hand, develops more commonly without an initial diet, a fact discussed extensively in Chapter 20.)

There indeed may have been factors that made my dieting in particular such a problem, which I will discuss in the next chapter; but without dieting, I would not have developed urges to binge, and I would not have developed bulimia. For the purposes of this chapter, it doesn't matter why I began dieting in the first place. All that matters is that I began restricting my food intake, limiting my calories, and this caused a problem in my brain.

Even though dieting and weight loss made me feel good about myself, something in my brain told me I was doing something terribly wrong. I started to obsess about food and think about it constantly, when prior to dieting, food simply hadn't been an issue in my life. I felt intense hunger and cravings for the types of foods I tried to limit, and I began having cravings to eat abnormally large amounts of food.

I'd chosen to diet at an age when my brain—more specifically, what I've been calling my "animal brain"—was sensitive to any form of food restriction; and in a strong survival reaction, my animal brain began sending out strong food cravings and urges to binge. My urges to binge were only my brain's normal and healthy reaction to dieting, and my binge eating was an "adaptive response"43 to compensate for the food restriction.

Biologically driven binge eating is a phenomenon not exclusive to individuals with eating disorders. Prisoners of war, laboratory subjects, and other groups have shown similar excessive eating behavior after periods of chronic food restriction or starvation.44 Furthermore, laboratory experiments with rats show that animals previously food-deprived but allowed to refeed to satiety and normal weight will binge eat if they are presented with highly palatable (tasty) food,45 just as I did.

SURVIVAL INSTINCTS AND THE ANIMAL BRAIN

My first urges to binge were the result of my survival instincts. Survival instincts are our inherited tendencies to behave in ways that maximize our chances of survival. They are our automatic, primitive, and often powerful responses when one or more of our basic biological needs are not met. When the brain—specifically, the animal brain (see Figure 1)—senses a threat to survival, it automatically reacts, driving us to take action to protect ourselves. As I explained in Chapter 10, the animal brain is the automatic, unthinking, and irrational part of the brain that lies deep within, under the cerebral cortex, which is the higher-functioning, rational, human brain. True to its name, the animal brain directs the behaviors that are considered animalistic and instinctual. Its function and role in eating behavior and binge eating thus warrants a fuller analysis.

The animal brain interprets a diet as a threat to survival, and it naturally and forcefully attempts to protect the body from starvation. Even if the diet isn't severely restrictive and there is no danger of starvation, dieting is still against our nature, and our animal brain will put up a fight. Our body and brain switch into survival mode when food is deprived or limited. The body's metabolism slows down to get the most use out of every calorie, and other bodily processes change to conserve energy. The animal brain seems to focus on one supreme purpose: convincing us to eat.

The animal brain is a specific area of the brain, but its influence extends far beyond its boundaries. Probably the most dominant part of the animal brain is the hypothalamus, which has complex neural connections with other parts of the brain, giving it extensive influence and even a role in emotions and behavior.46 The hypothalamus has been called the "chief subcortical center"47 —the chief of the animal brain. The hypothalamus exerts its effects on the body through the autonomic nervous system, the somatic motor system, and the endocrine system.48

The hypothalamus constantly monitors the body's internal and external environment, and coordinates appropriate behavioral and emotional responses that help ensure our survival. The hypothalamus is most certainly involved in eating behavior,49 as well as in controlling other essential functions like body temperature regulation, control of blood pressure, and electrolyte composition.50 Its job is to maintain a "relatively constant internal body environment"—what is called "homeostasis."51 One way it maintains homeostasis is by regulating energy metabolism by controlling food intake, digestion, and metabolic rate.52

Different parts of the hypothalamus have varying effects on the amount of food to be eaten.53 The hypothalamic region involved in feeding has been called the "appestat," and within this appestat, there is a specific "hunger" center and a "satiety" center.54 Stimulation of the hunger center in the hypothalamus increases an animal's urge to eat, but destroying this same hunger center produces an animal that refuses to eat. In contrast, destroying the satiety center produces an animal with ravenous appetite, and stimulating it inhibits the animal's desire to eat.55 This shows what a large role the hypothalamus has in controlling the desire for food—and, quite likely, the urges to binge.

THE BRAIN IS NOT THAT SIMPLE

As appealing and helpful as it would be to point out one specific part of the brain and say, That's where urges to binge arise, it's not that simple. If the hypothalamus—or any other pinpoint part of the brain or specific neurochemical—was the only culprit in creating the strong urges to binge in a bulimic, the cure would be simple. We would only have to diminish the activity of that part of the brain or that neurochemical to cure bulimia (or, reversely, activate it to cure anorexia); but this is not the case.56 Although regions in the hypothalamus have a large role in regulating eating behavior, there is not just one hunger center in the brain, nor is there just one neurochemical that controls appetite and satiety.57

Eating is a complex process that involves not only the central nervous system (the brain and spinal cord), but the peripheral nervous system as well—the portion of the nervous system that extends to all parts of the body. There is a growing list of nervous system processes and neurochemicals that play a role in regulating eating.58 Because of this, eating behavior is not simply explained, and to try to do so with precise accuracy on a brain map would be overstepping what is currently known in neuroscience. To say exactly where urges to binge arise in the animal brain would be oversimplification and speculation that is not currently supported by brain research. The brain, in general and in relation to eating disorders, has yet to be completely explored and explained, and it won't be completely explored and explained anytime soon.59

However, this complexity and our incomplete understanding of the brain and nervous system as it relates to eating behavior does not mean we can't work to find solutions. As it relates to finding treatments for eating disorders, "[a] suitable understanding of a mere fraction of the complex equation may be sufficient to permit a novel and effective clinical approach to the problem."60 This is where I humbly try to interject my ideas—not presenting them as unequivocal scientific facts, supported by countless studies, but as useful concepts, based on sound theories and research—that helped me escape bulimia. Just understanding a fraction of my brain's function allowed me to recover quicker than I ever thought possible, and to share my eating disorder and recovery story only requires me to explain that fraction—in simple terms.

We can make progress in treating eating disorders even if we don't have a precise explanation of how the brain and nervous system organize behaviors.61 I believe I have made progress, if only in understanding my own problem—or a fraction of my own problem. So, as I discuss the survival instincts and the hypothalamus here (and later on, the neural pathways of habit), I know there are limitations, but that does not prevent using what information we can to our advantage.

MY EXPERIENCE WITH SURVIVAL INSTINCTS

The animal brain—and specifically the hypothalamus located there—is focused on survival. The behaviors directed by this area of the brain are "less easily modified than the more deliberately planned, finely tuned responses generated in the newly acquired cerebral cortex above it."62 Behavior directed by the hypothalamus and the animal brain as a whole is much like the behavior of animals that do not rationalize before acting, like the behavior of the binge eating rats.

I felt my survival instincts fully when I tried to diet, and the more I tried to restrict food, the more I wanted to eat. My survival drives led to exactly the opposite of what I wanted from my diet: they made me want to eat more than I ever had before I dieted. That was merely my animal brain's way of protecting me. Since I didn't understand my survival instincts, I thought I was crazy for craving food as much as I did. I thought I was cursed with an insatiable appetite that I had to keep a tight harness on at all times. So I planned my meals very carefully and took extra care to avoid certain foods and situations that tempted me. This wasn't me symbolically trying to control my life by controlling my food intake, or me trying to distract myself from other problems by turning my attention to food, as I learned in therapy; it was me attempting to restrain my survival instincts.

There was nothing abnormal about my strong cravings for food. My animal brain was only doing its job—the same job it's done for millions of years. Thousands of years ago, a strong appetite during times of famine served an important purpose. It drove our ancestors to hunt and capture food, and to consume as much as possible to build up caloric reserves. The problem today is that we are still wired to protect ourselves when food is scarce, but food isn't truly scarce for most of us who live in wealthy nations.

When I dieted, it was as though I was telling my brain that food was scarce. I created a situation of artificial scarcity, but my animal brain didn't know the difference, so it strongly compelled me to eat. Then, when I eventually followed my animal brain's powerful demands, I didn't have to work hard to get what I desired, as our ancestors did. I didn't have to hunt or capture food to satisfy my cravings, because whatever I wanted was easily available.

IT WASN'T JUST ME

For the average adult just trying to drop a few pounds, the survival instincts are merely an annoyance that makes dieting difficult. The casual, adult dieter usually just abandons the diet and starts eating normally again, regaining the weight. Other dieters end up overeating, but not binge eating. The vast majority of diets fail. In fact, 95 percent of all dieters gain their weight back within two years, and 98 percent gain it back within five years.63 This does not mean that 95-98 percent of dieters lack willpower; it only means that the animal brain is very effective in making sure we don't threaten the body's food supply. Restrictive and fad diets often backfire, or simply don't work, in the majority of cases. I truly hope that this becomes common knowledge and that restrictive and fad diets fall out of favor in society.

The survival instincts are a much bigger problem in fervent dieters and anorexics. Depriving the body of sufficient food for a long time, or trying to maintain a weight that's too low for too long, causes those instincts to kick into high gear; and it's only a matter of time before the brain takes extreme measures. In fact, a full 50 percent of anorexics become binge eaters "when their bodies revolt against their rigid, restrictive diets."64 Binge eating makes sense in a fervent dieter or anorexic. A binge is compensation for an extreme calorie deficit, and it gives the anorexic or extreme dieter stored nourishment in case she starves herself again.

THE ADOLESCENT BRAIN IS PRIMED FOR BINGE EATING

The problems caused by dieting are, I believe, compounded in young people. Pressure to fit a cultural standard of beauty is highest during the teen years, and it's also during those years that dieting is most likely to cause strong and hard-to-resist urges to binge. This is because, until early adulthood (around the age of 20), the brain is more survival-oriented. The primitive part of the brain that generates survival instincts—namely, the hypothalamus—is ready to function right from birth. "Biologically speaking, if this area was not given top priority, the animal may not survive for long."65

On the other hand, the higher-functioning, rational human brain—the part that has the ability to override the animal brain—does not completely develop until early adulthood. Studies of the teen brain have found that the frontal lobe—which contains the prefrontal cortex (a vitally important part of the brain for the purposes of this book, discussed extensively in Chapter 23) and controls thought, planning, decision making, goal-directed behavior, and stifling inappropriate responses—is less active in teens than in adults.

Instead, the lower, primitive part of the brain that is responsible for emotional responses and automatic or "gut" reactions has priority in an adolescent. Because of this, the prefrontal cortex—where our civilized selves reside—is often "asleep at the wheel" in an adolescent, because it is one of the last brain structures to fully develop.66 The prefrontal cortex is the agent of control within the brain and central nervous system,67 but this agent of control is not yet fully functioning in the teen brain. Furthermore, the survival region of the brain is a "hot area" in adolescents, due to hormones, environment, and learning.68

This means that adolescents have less perceived control, and perhaps less actual control, of their survival instincts. Biologically speaking, binge eating is a natural result of a young person dieting, which is why the initial development of bulimia is mostly age-specific; it most commonly begins in the teen years.69 This is the unfortunate impact of society's pressure to be thin on the teenager's underdeveloped prefrontal cortex. Even though dieting is common in our society, it doesn't lead to full-scale binge eating as frequently in adults as it does in younger people—otherwise, we would see much higher rates of bulimia arising in people in their thirties, forties, fifties, and so on. Since adults have a fully developed prefrontal cortex, they can better temper their survival responses.

In other words, if adults have an urge to overeat or binge, they are better equipped to resist it. This does not mean that recovery is only possible after age 20, or that a young person possesses no control over his or her survival instincts. The prefrontal cortex is indeed capable of resisting urges from the animal brain even in young people, or else we couldn't expect appropriate behavior from them. But in a teen, resisting such urges takes much more effort, knowledge, and guidance. The "capacity for volitional control over one's actions is not innate."70 Instead, it "emerges gradually through development."71 In modern Western societies, around age 18 is when we are—by law—held responsible for our own actions as adults. This corresponds closely to when our brain development is nearly complete and to when the pathways that connect the frontal lobe to other brain structures become functional.72

There was nothing wrong with me or my incompletely developed teen brain when I began binge eating, and I don't blame myself for commencing binge eating. After all, my brain anatomy and function didn't provide for much perceived control of my actions at the time of my first binge; however, this does not translate into an excuse for me or any other teens. I believe, with the right information, I could have overcome base drives, even with an underactive prefrontal cortex.

FEELINGS AND THE BRAIN

I certainly didn't know what was going on in my brain when my first urges to binge appeared; and without that information, I felt that I didn't have much power to resist them. As much as I tried to tame my appetite, it got stronger and stronger until I finally gave in to a powerful urge on that March morning of my senior year. Then, after I gave in, another group of feelings surfaced. My feelings surrounding my first binge (and all my other binges, for that matter)—like the sense of being out of control, excitement and pleasure, and guilty feelings afterward—are easily explainable in terms of the brain.

As I began pouring that first bowl of sweet cereal that would begin my first binge, I felt out of control. This was due to the fact that I let my animal brain take over immediately before and during the binge. Temporarily, my human brain, which was capable of free choice even then, was absent. I surrendered to a lesser, more primitive part of myself; and my true self temporarily felt powerless to stop the binge eating.

Even though I felt out of control as I ate bite after bite, it temporarily felt so right to binge. It was a great relief to finally give in to my desires for food, and even though I would have never admitted it at the time, I felt great excitement and pleasure. That was also easily explainable in terms of the animal brain, which not only generates survival drives, but intense feelings and emotions.73 When I binged, I gave the animal brain what it wanted; and it rejoiced, leading to those pleasurable and exciting feelings. Eating, and especially eating highly palatable/sugary foods, releases "feelgood" chemicals in the brain.

One of these feel-good neurochemicals is the opioids, which have been shown to have a large role in mediating binge eating.74 Eating causes opioids to be released in the hypothalamus,75 which is highly rewarding. Regardless of the biochemical cause of those pleasurable feelings during my first binge, they were all too fleeting. When my true self, residing in my human brain, returned after the binge, I felt terrible and ashamed. The parts of my brain that had driven the binge settled down, and my true self began to feel the effects of what I'd done.

Had I known what was going in my brain then, I would have realized that I wasn't crazy, but a normal teenager who happened to be caught up in a divided-brain crisis. Instead, in therapy, years removed from my first binge, I struggled to come up with many theoretical causes of my first binge. I hypothesized many reasons for it: I was feeling pressure about going away to college, so I binged to comfort myself; I was seeking guilty pleasure in food because I denied myself many other pleasures in life; I was feeling inadequate in a relationship, so I binged to make myself fat and unattractive to avoid intimacy; I binged out of anger at my parents for always being on my case about eating.

The theories I came up with in therapy were endless, but none of them rang true to me. It seems to me now that, on some level, I always knew what my first binge was about—food and my body's lack of it. The experience of bingeing for the first time was certainly unsettling, but I felt it was not complicated. I knew I had binged because of strong cravings that I hadn't been capable of resisting. I was angry and ashamed at what I had done, but at that time, I believed there was nothing more to it.

After I recovered, I came full circle. Just as I did when I was a senior in high school, I realized my motives for my first binge weren't complex. My needs were physical. I simply needed food, and lots of it, to make up for my dieting; so my healthy and powerful animal brain drove me to overeat, in a world of food abundance—a world where my parents' pantry was stocked with boxes of sweet cereal. Nothing was wrong with me or my brain. This simple information finally gave me a true explanation for my first binge, one that made sense to me.

18: Why Did I Diet and Why Was It Such a Problem for Me?

My first urges to binge were not a symptom of anything more than dieting, but was my dieting a symptom of something more? Was my dieting a signal of some sort of illness or emotional problem, as my therapists said? What caused me to diet in the first place? Then, what made me take my diet too far?

My therapists believed that my dieting and my binge eating were both part of a much bigger problem, that they were both symptoms of a disorder or illness, which I was somehow using to cope with my life. Although I initially resisted that idea, I came to believe that my dieting played not just a physical part in the commencement of my binge eating, but a symbolic part. In therapy, I learned that depriving myself of food for so long was symbolic of depriving myself of something emotional—like enjoyment, pleasure, love, or freedom. I also learned that dieting was a symbolic way I attempted to gain control of my life.

The idea that dieting was part of a bigger problem within me seemed to make sense because, after all, others I knew dieted without a problem or did not diet at all. I came to believe that my restrictive diet in high school was another sign that something was wrong. However, after my recovery, I saw clearly that this was simply not true. My diet was not a sign of disease or a result of emotional problems. It was a choice—a choice that brought serious consequences. There were certainly some factors that led me to that choice, and there were also factors that made the consequences more likely. I don't believe there is anyone or anything specific to blame, but here I will do my best to speculate on a combination of reasons why I dieted and why I took that diet too far.

THE TEMPTATION TO DIET IN ADOLESCENTS

The first reason I began dieting is the most clear-cut: my age simply put me at risk. I do not fault myself for choosing to diet as a teenager. In hindsight, I wish I had not made that choice, but given the fact that many of my peers were dieting, it wasn't surprising that I, too, began restricting my food intake.

Dieting is a cultural problem among young girls and women, and especially teenagers, because our society glamorizes thinness and praises those who lose weight. One study found that two out of three high-school-age females try to lose weight.76 In fact, teenagers in all cultures attempt to meet their cultures' standards of beauty. This is not just a result of peer pressure; it is the result of a biological drive. Young women are biologically predisposed to want to do what it takes to be beautiful in their given culture.

Humans have an innate tendency to begin working on "mating display"77 when hormonal changes occur during puberty, meaning humans begin to pay attention to their attractiveness to the opposite sex—whether they are aware of it or not. For young women, this involves paying more attention to their physical appearance; they have worked on improving their appearance throughout recorded history and across a variety of cultures.78 This biological drive isn't dangerous; and it's advantageous for the survival of our species, except, I believe, in cultures where the standard of beauty is unrealistic, as in the United States, where the standard of beauty is a body that's too thin.

I wish I would have rejected our cultural standards and left my body alone, but I can't change that now. Dieting seemed like a good idea at the time, and I had no idea dieting was going to cause biological havoc in my body and brain. Furthermore, I didn't have much internal defense against the temptation to diet, because of some risk factors from my upbringing and some of my personality traits.

NURTURE AND NATURE

The other factors that swayed me to choose dieting and take that diet too far were rooted in nurture and nature. I know some life events led me to believe thin was preferable and weight loss was a worthy accomplishment; I know my family didn't always have healthy attitudes toward weight; and I know my background in athletics made me place a high value on extreme fitness. In addition, some aspects of my personality—especially perfectionism and low self-esteem—put me at risk for dissatisfaction with my body and thus the commencement of dieting.

Once I began dieting, my low self-esteem and perfectionism made things worse. I probably liked feeling successful at weight loss because my low self-esteem made me feel like a failure in other areas of my life; I probably continued dieting long past when others would have stopped—because my perfectionism drove me to do so. Also, there could have been some biological and genetic factors at play. Maybe weight loss simply came faster and easier to me because of my metabolism; or maybe I enjoyed weight loss more than others—possibly because of brain chemical differences.

My point in listing all of these hypothetical risk factors is to say that, of course, there was something different about me that made me choose to diet and made that diet problematic, just as there is something different about everyone who develops an eating disorder after a period of dieting. However, I cannot speculate too much because research has yet to fully explain the etiology of eating disorders. Today, we can't yet say definitively what developmental, social, and biological factors predispose someone to bulimia or anorexia, although the factors are presumed to be complex and interactive.79

There is evidence that eating disorders are heritable80 and that there are some genetically based temperament and personality traits that make one vulnerable to develop bulimia in adolescence,81 but there is not yet a reliable way to predict who will develop an eating disorder and who will not. So yes, I was probably more susceptible for one reason or another to overly restrictive dieting—and thus to anorexia, binge eating, and bulimia—than my friends who dieted and didn't develop eating disorders; but stating exactly why I developed an eating disorder while someone else didn't would be impossible.

IRRELEVANCE TO RECOVERY

Whatever was "different" about me did not mean I was diseased, and whatever made me susceptible to an eating disorder didn't matter when it came to recovery. The risk factors from my upbringing and my inborn nature did not make my eating disorder inevitable. The factors I have mentioned, along with others, only made me more susceptible to choose to diet and choose to take that diet too far, which, in turn, triggered my survival instincts and led to my urges to binge and then to bulimia.

The simple fact is, if I never had dieted, I never would have developed strong cravings for food, I never would have binged, and I never would have developed bulimia. Whatever risk factors I may have had for developing an eating disorder meant nothing until I began to diet. Even with a perfectionist personality, low-self esteem, and all my other faults, I was OK before I began restricting my food intake.

It is possible that addressing low self-esteem, perfectionism, and other hypothetical risk factors a long time ago could have prevented me from ever dieting in the first place and, therefore, prevented my eating disorder. But whatever the causes of my problematic diet, those causes didn't matter once I got caught up in the cycle of bingeing and purging. It was too late to go back and try to fix whatever factors had caused my dieting, as I tried to do in therapy. Even if I could have somehow solved all of those factors, it wouldn't have turned off my urges to binge.

19: Why Did I Continue Having Urges to Binge?

Reason 1: Persistence of Survival Instincts

If I binged for the first time because dieting triggered my survival instincts and caused my first urges to binge, that still didn't explain why I kept binge eating for six years. If my animal brain drove me to binge to compensate for my dieting and protect my body against future dieting, then wouldn't one binge have been enough? Why did I repeat such a disgusting behavior again and again? Why did my brain keep sending out those relentless urges week after week, month after month, and year after year?

There are two reasons for this, one I'll discuss in this chapter and one I'll discuss in the next. The first is the same reason I began having urges to binge in the first place: survival instincts.

My survival instincts didn't just turn off after my first binge, especially because after that first binge, I continued my restrictive eating habits and tried to control my appetite even more. I didn't just sit back and accept the binge—no one who ends up bulimic accepts their binges—but instead, I tried to rectify the situation. Understandably, I was worried about gaining weight; so I chose to eat very little for the rest of the day and run six miles in an attempt to undo the damage.

In other words, I followed my first binge with my first purge. It wasn't a drastic purge, like self-induced vomiting or taking laxatives, but it was a purge nonetheless. My purge temporarily made me feel better about having binged because I felt I had avoided gaining weight. However, my purge sent a dangerous message to my animal brain—the message that I was still depriving my body of food. My purge only served to keep my survival instincts in full force and fueled my animal brain's natural drive to protect my body from starvation.

By restricting food and running so much after my binge, I effectively created another artificial food shortage, and my animal brain—more specifically, my hypothalamus—sensed I was starving again. I had essentially proved to my animal brain that binge eating was necessary and vital to my survival. Even though my purge temporarily made me feel better about myself, it made my animal brain even more determined to defend against future starvation so that, by the time I sat down to dinner the night, my survival instincts were already in overdrive, working to make me binge again.

I didn't understand why my appetite was as strong as it was before my first binge, perhaps even stronger. I didn't understand why I still craved large amounts of food even after eating so much cereal that morning. At the time, I thought it was just because I was weak or my appetite was insatiable. I disparaged myself for not being able to control my appetite, not realizing that it was only natural and healthy for my brain to react this way.

Furthermore, after I purged for the first time, I certainly didn't begin eating a normal, sufficient diet. When the dust settled after my first purge, I went right back to restricting food. My binge seemed to prove once and for all that I couldn't be trusted around food, which made me more determined to control myself around it. I resolved to get back on track and keep a tight harness on my appetite, which only served to strengthen my survival instincts and create more urges to binge.

After I had already binged once, I had another powerful enticement to binge again: my memory. Although my first binge made me feel guilty and fat and out of control, I couldn't deny that it felt good to let go of restraint, give in to my cravings, and finally be full. I found it much easier to remember how pleasurable it had felt than remember the negative feelings. This selective memory also made sense in terms of my brain, as humans tend to remember pleasure more than pain. Further, feeding and memory are closely related in the brain. Certain neuropeptides (chains of amino acids in the nervous system that neurons use to communicate with one another), notably neuropeptide Y and peptide YY, that stimulate eating also stimulate memory, learning, reinforcement, and reward.82 My enhanced memories of the rewarding aspect of binge eating provided me the temptation and motivation to binge again.

My animal brain generated emotions and intense feelings despite my better judgment, so that no matter how much I tried to talk myself out of wanting to binge, I wanted to nonetheless. The animal brain and survival drives don't listen to reason. My animal brain was not my enemy—it only encouraged me to binge because it sensed I needed to binge in order to survive. It was effective, because I certainly did binge again, only two weeks after the first time.

Just like the first, my second binge was unsettling but pleasurable; and just like the first time, I felt awful afterward. Riddled with the same guilt and fear of gaining weight, I purged for the second time, eating very little on the following day and running to compensate. Once again, my survival instincts kicked in and I began experiencing urges to binge and pleasurable memories of binge eating. Again, I tried to fight and reason with my cravings, but it wasn't long before I binged yet again. This cycle of binge eating and restricting/overexercising began repeating over and over.

While caught up in this cycle, it was very difficult for me to see what was happening. All I knew was that I couldn't get a handle on my appetite; the more I tried to control it, the stronger it became. I knew that my purging behaviors weren't healthy and were probably only making the problem worse, but I couldn't just sit back and do nothing after a binge. In therapy years later, I was told that my purging behaviors were only another symptom of my disorder. I learned that restricting/overexecising after binges were just other ways of attempting to cope with problems or avoid certain emotions. There was even a more disturbing theory: that I was purposefully inflicting harm on myself because of self-hatred.

After my recovery, I realized that those theories were untrue. My purging behaviors were in no way a sign of disease. It only made sense that I would try to do something to make up for my binge. My purging was actually a rational attempt to undo the perceived damage of binge eating and quell my fears of weight gain, and the purging was initiated by the higher functions of my brain. I'm not saying that exercising to exhaustion and restricting food (or, in the cases of other bulimics, inducing vomiting or taking laxatives) was intelligent; but it was a conscious choice. I felt out of control during a binge, so once I got control back, I had to do something about it.

Throughout my years of binge eating, it was obvious to me that my urges to binge were inconsistent with my true self—the person I believed myself to be in the present and the one I wanted myself to be in the future. My urges felt intrusive, often arriving when I least expected them and taking over my mind and body like a thief, driving me to do something I knew I'd regret. My true self felt powerless to resist; but there was one thing I could do, and that was purge—usually in a fit of desperation and shame. Purging seemingly took away the biggest consequence of binge eating: weight gain. Purging was like a safety net, and it brought me comfort to know that I could just starve myself and exercise a lot the next day, and all would be "OK." Each purge, however, only compounded my problem.

I was never successful at making myself throw up, but I can imagine the relief that some binge eaters feel when they discover self-induced vomiting. Through my years of binge eating, I felt that if I could only make myself throw up, life would be so much easier. Vomiting, I thought, would be so much less time-consuming than overexercising—albeit disgusting and painful. I can imagine that self-induced vomiting only encourages more binge eating because the effect is so instantaneous, bringing immediate rectification for the binge and instant relief from worry about weight gain. For this reason, I am thankful every day that I could never make myself throw up, because I'm sure I would have binged much more, and maybe I wouldn't even be alive today to write this book.

Regardless of the method of purging, the binge-purge cycle can be relentless. I have termed this the "cycle of the divided brain," illustrated in Figure 2 below. The cycle of the divided brain is the cycle of "I" versus "it." These aren't just symbolic concepts—they are real, physical parts of the brain. "I" is the human brain, and "it" is the animal brain—more specifically, the hypothalamus. As I'll discuss in the next chapter, "it" can change as bulimia progresses and survival instincts become less of a factor, but "it" is always separate from "I"—the human brain.

There is nothing diseased about the binge-purge cycle. Yes, it is a terrible cycle to be caught up in, but it's completely natural when viewed in light of the brain. However, when this cycle is not properly understood, it can seem impossible to break.

This cycle was in place during roughly the first eight to ten months of my binge eating, but eventually, I stopped dieting.

SURVIVAL INSTINCTS DON'T LET UP EASILY

By the end of my freshman year of college, I was eating a sufficient number of calories in my normal diet, and I'd stopped cutting calories on the days after binges. During that year, I gained back all the weight I'd lost by dieting, about 30 pounds; I was no longer underweight. I did continue one form of purging, however—exercising for hours on end to make up for the binges.

I didn't understand why my urges to binge persisted in spite of my weight gain and in spite of eating enough. The answer I learned in therapy was that if I binged despite eating a sufficient number of calories, I must be binge eating for emotional reasons. In reality, this was just not the case. I was, in fact, still following my survival instincts. It was perfectly normal that I kept having urges to binge even after I stopped starving myself, because survival instincts are extremely persistent.

My fervent dieting and anorexia had made my animal brain more defensive, so that it drove me to gain more and more weight to guard against future starvation. Simply stopping the diet wasn't enough, because I had already taught my animal brain that food shortages were common. It learned to take necessary precautions by urging me to store up food and fat.

This human pattern I experienced is supported by some studies of animal behavior. Even though human behavior is more complex than animal behavior, the human brain is more similar to an animal brain than it is different.83 Studies of rats have shown behavior similar to that of long-term bulimics; they keep binge eating even after a food shortage has passed.84 Food deprivation changes the brain of a rat just as it changes the human animal brain, by putting it on heightened alert and causing it to seek out more and more food to protect the body from future starvation. One experiment found that rats, subjected to restrictive feeding schedules that reduced their body weight, later showed an increase in eating that continued even after they were no longer food-deprived—even after they had gained back the weight they had lost.85 In other words, the rats continued to overeat long after it was physically necessary for them to do so.

Another study found similar results when rats were subjected to severe food deprivation for four days. Once a normal diet was reintroduced, the deprived rats ate more than the nondeprived rats even after they returned to their normal weight.86 These two studies are not the only ones that explain how survival instincts drive overeating long after food deprivation. There have also been human studies showing that food-deprived individuals will remain preoccupied with food and overeat even after the threat of starvation has passed—for example, in the Minnesota Starvation Experiment.87

In the rat studies, the deprived animals binged on highly palatable foods—tasty, sweet foods such as sweetened milk, Oreo cookies, and sugary cereal—not on their standard bland diet.88 Sweet foods are the most palatable, the most pleasurable; additionally, foods high in sugar and fat are dense with calories, making them attractive to the food-deprived and adaptive for survival. In fact, "Like a history of caloric restriction, the presence of HP [highly palatable] food also appears critical to binge eating,"89 and access to highly palatable food is necessary for continued binge eating.90

So it was no coincidence that I typically binged on sweets. In therapy, I was told that craving sweets was symbolic of the need for some sort of emotional comfort or sensual satisfaction, but it was not. Eating sweets was indeed pleasurable, but there was no deep emotional significance there. Just like the rats, I chose sweet food primarily because I was following my instincts. We all have an inborn and instinctual sweet tooth, stronger in some people than others. Babies, who have no prior experience with food or its emotional significance, have a preference for sweets, and nature even made breast milk sweet.

Having said all this about instincts, I must point out again that I was more than just an animal acting on instinct. After all, I am human. I tried to reason myself out of binge eating, I felt strong emotions accompanying my binge eating, I reflected on my behavior afterward, and I felt guilt and pain following a binge. An animal just acts; it does not reflect or think about how it should behave. The rats in the studies above were only following their primitive brains—they did not try to fight their cravings, reason with themselves, try to distract themselves from the desire to eat, or regret their decision to overeat. They merely followed the automatic signals from their brains in order to maximize their chances of survival.

Humans, on the other hand, do not have to follow every instinct or automatic signal from their brains. We have the unique capacity to think about what we do and change what we do. But it is difficult to change if we don't know what's going on in our brains, as I found out through all those years of binge eating. I didn't realize that I had the capacity to override the automatic and instinctual functions of my brain.

20: Why Did I Continue Having Urges to Binge?

Reason 2: Habit

So far, I've explained that my urges to binge began and continued because of survival instincts, originating in the animal brain; however, this was not the only factor in the maintenance of my bulimia. Certainly, if survival instincts had been the only reason, those urges would have eventually let up. My body and brain would have eventually received the message that starvation was no longer a threat, especially after I gained almost 55 pounds from binge eating throughout college. What else was keeping my bulimia going? What else made my urges to binge persist month after month and year after year?

As I've said, my therapists said that emotional problems drove my binge eating for all those years; but during my experience on Topamax, and during and after my recovery, I discovered that this was not the case. I had similar emotional problems even while I was on Topamax and my urges temporarily faded, even after I read Rational Recovery and learned to resist my urges to binge, even after those urges disappeared completely and my bulimia was just a memory. The emotional problems that did improve were predominantly the ones that resulted from binge eating—like shame, guilt, disgust, isolation, and self-hatred.

While it simply isn't plausible that emotional problems drove my binge eating all those years, survival instincts don't explain the whole picture either. This is because my dieting and the consequent survival instincts only began the binge-purge cycle, setting my bulimia in motion and keeping me binge eating long after it was physically necessary. Then, after I'd binged and purged for a prolonged period of time, survival instincts became less and less the problem and another brain function took over: habit.

When I say the word habit, it probably conjures up an image of some annoying behavior, like biting one's fingernails, chewing gum, or thumb sucking. But here, I am talking about much more. Habits aren't only little annoyances; habits are how we survive. The brain has a remarkable ability to create and maintain habits, giving us the ability to easily repeat actions that are necessary for our very existence, but habits also have a dark side.

We create our own habits—good or bad—by repeating behaviors, and those habits—for better or worse—then govern our lives. When we create good habits, it only makes our lives easier, because we can then unconsciously and easily perform the behaviors that are consistent with our goals and identity. On the other hand, when we create bad habits, we can become ensnared by them—performing destructive behaviors automatically, even though we know better and despite our best efforts to change.

Bulimia and BED are but two examples of the dark side of habit formation. There are countless examples of destructive habits, but the worst kind of habits often involve tempting and pleasurable substances. These habits—like drinking to excess, smoking, drug abuse, and binge eating—are sometimes called "addictions" and occur when the body and brain become dependent on and crave the habit. Binge eaters, smokers, drinkers, and others who are ensnared by destructive habits experience powerful urges (akin to the urges I felt to binge) to perform the behavior, to get more of their substance of choice, even when they know they shouldn't.

Intense and unwanted urges to perform a behavior are primarily tied to bad habits, even though there are certainly urges to perform good behaviors as well. For example, if you get in the good habit of exercising every day, you will automatically crave daily physical activity; or if you create a good habit of flossing every night, you will have involuntary urges to floss nightly—especially if you try to go to sleep without doing it. The cravings and urges in the case of good habits are not problematic but instead very fruitful, in that just a small amount of craving convinces you to perform a beneficial behavior, and you are always glad you did. But in the case of bad habits, the cravings and urges are extremely problematic in that they drive you to perform a harmful behavior you regret.

My destructive habit was nothing more than my body and brain becoming conditioned to expect and demand binges. I have identified three possible habit types to describe my binge eating—termed the "habit of excess," the "habit of pleasure," and the "habit of impulsivity"—all of which have a physical basis in the brain. I believe my binge eating was at least one (and most likely a combination) of those three habits, discussed in detail below. But first, a fuller discussion of the concept of habits is necessary so that I can explain how my binge eating became a destructive habit.

THE NEUROSCIENCE OF HABITS SIMPLIFIED

Habit formation is a simple, yet remarkable, process in the brain. A habit works like this: When we repeat a behavior many times, it causes physical changes in the brain—changes that make that behavior easier to repeat. Soon, we become so adept at performing the behavior that we can do it without much conscious thought. This is when the behavior becomes habit. Habits are unthinking and automatic, but most habits are adaptive, healthy, and necessary for our existence. To explain habits properly in terms of the brain, I'll delve here into a bit of simple neuroscience.

Our brains have billions of cells called neurons. All of our physical functions, thoughts, feelings, sensations, perceptions, moods, memories, and actions are the results of signals passing through the neurons. Neurons form connections with one another known as synapses. When a neuron fires, it transmits its electrical signal across a synapse to the next neuron, which must fire to continue transmitting the signal.

No single neuron works alone, but with the coordinated activity of many others. In order to perform any physical or mental task—from the simple act of taking a step to the more complex one of throwing a curve-ball; from saying hello to a friend to solving a complex math equation; from recalling an elaborate memory to simply feeling sad or glad—neurons have to fire in a coordinated way. "Each experience and each memory are composed of a multitude of neurons firing together at different levels of the brain and in diverse areas."91

When patterns of neurons fire simultaneously many times, the synapses become stronger and better able to transmit signals. As one neuroscience maxim has it: "Cells that fire together, wire together,"92 meaning that patterns of neurons that are used repeatedly to perform any function become connected in such a way that makes that function easier to repeat. This is a testament to the amazing efficiency of our brains.

Patterns of neurons that are strongly connected form neural pathways. We have virtually unlimited numbers of neural pathways in our brains that are responsible for our behaviors, thoughts, memories, perceptions, and, most importantly for the purposes of this book, our habits. Habits are nothing more than efficient neural pathways, created when patterns of neurons fire together repeatedly, forming powerful bonds. The habit, whether productive or unproductive, becomes easier and easier to repeat as connections between the neurons in the pathway become stronger and stronger.

The formation of habits in the brain is "analogous to the way that traveling the same dirt road over and over leaves ruts that make it easier to stay in the track on subsequent trips."93 Neurons become so well connected that the habit becomes automatic, which is advantageous when the habit is a good one, but harmful when the habit is a destructive one, like my binge eating. Once the pattern of bingeing became established, the neurons involved in it became coordinated, organized, and strong, so that I felt compelled to continue the behavior. In a real physical way, my brain became hooked on binge eating.

My habit didn't begin as a conscious choice, like many productive habits do. In stark contrast to someone who consciously practices a skill—such as playing a musical instrument, solving algebra problems, or learning to type—I felt propelled into my habit by some force beyond my control. That force was my survival instincts. What began as a survival reaction to food deprivation turned into a terrible habit because, by binge eating many times, I programmed my brain to become dependent on binge eating.

The neurons that "fired together," driving me to binge eat those first few times, eventually became "wired together," ensuring the persistence of my urges to binge. What began as a way of dealing with the threat of starvation became physically stamped into my brain, so my brain kept urging me to binge even after the threat of starvation was long gone and even after all of my weight gain. I continued to binge because I was caught up in a destructive habit—the expression of something physical going on in my brain. I didn't know that each time I followed my urges and binged, I only strengthened the neural pathways involved, making the habit stronger and making it more and more difficult to quit.

This brings me to a very important concept for understanding my eating disorder, the concept of neuroplasticity.

NEUROPLASTICITY AND MY BINGE-CREATED BRAIN-WIRING PROBLEM

In simple terms, neuroplasticity refers to the brain's ability to rewire itself.94 Neurons are not fixed, but instead have the ability to "forge new connections, to blaze new paths through the cortex, even to assume new roles."95 Only a little more than twenty years ago, neuroscientists thought that only brains of infants and young children were plastic and that the adult brain could not change. However, we now know that the adult brain can be altered too; it retains some of its plasticity throughout life.96

It is said that the brain "learns as it plays,"97 physically changing based on one's experience. The following passage from Sharon Begley's Train the Mind, Change the Brain gives a telling explanation of neuroplasticity:

The actions we take can literally expand or contract different regions of the brain, pour more juice into quiet circuits and damp down activity in buzzing ones. The brain devotes more cortical real estate to functions that its owner uses more frequently and shrinks the space devoted to activities rarely performed. That's why the brains of violinists devote more space to the region that controls the digits of the fingering hand. In response to the actions and experiences of its owner, a brain forges stronger connections in circuits that underlie one behavior or thought and weakens the connections in others. Most of this happens because of what we do and what we experience of the outside world. In this sense, the very structure of our brain—the relative size of different regions, the strength of connections between one area and another—reflects the lives we have led. Like sand on a beach, the brain bears the footprints of the decisions we have made, the skills we have learned, the actions we have taken.98

The importance of this concept in understanding my eating disorder and recovery cannot be underestimated, so I will include another explanation here—this from neuropsychiatrist Jeffrey Schwartz in The Mind and the Brain:

[T]he brain's ensembles of neurons change over time, forming new connections that become stronger with use, and letting unused synapses weaken until they are able to carry signals no better than a frayed string between two tin cans in the old game of telephone. The neurons that pack our brain at the moment of birth continue to weave themselves into circuits throughout our lives. The real estate that the brain devotes to this activity rather than that one, to this part of the body rather than that one, even to this mental habit rather than that one, is as mutable as a map of congressional districts in the hands of gerrymanderers. The life we lead, in other words, leaves its mark in the form of enduring changes in the complex circuitry of the brain—footprints of the experiences we have had, the actions we have taken. This is neuroplasticity.99

So, where we focus our attention and the actions we take physically change our brains. For example, if I concentrated on learning a musical instrument, and practiced consistently, more neurons in my brain would be allocated to that task. Neurons would form new connections as I—the musician—became more proficient, and the connections would grow stronger and more efficient with practice. It was the same with my bulimia. The more I binged due to survival instincts, the more my brain changed to accommodate the behavior. As I focused attention on food and followed my urges to binge, my brain devoted more and more neurons to my habit and strengthened the connections between those neurons. Indeed, "habits are behavioral expressions of plastic changes in the physical substrate of our minds."100

Sports coaches often say that "practice makes permanent." They use this saying in contrast to the cliché "practice makes perfect" to illustrate that practice doesn't make perfect if you are practicing incorrectly. If, for instance, a tennis player practices serving with incorrect form over and over again, the incorrect form becomes permanent. "Practice makes permanent" has a real biological basis in the brain. By practicing incorrectly, the tennis player trains groups of neurons in his brain to send incorrect signals to his muscles. The incorrect serve becomes wired into his brain as a habit.

Although it may seem difficult to think of the similarities between bulimia and an incorrect tennis serve, the two habits form in much the same way. Each time I binged and purged, I made the neural connections driving my behavior stronger and more efficient. Each binge-purge cycle was like practice that eventually made my problem permanent. During every binge, and during every purge, the behaviors and all the thoughts and feelings that went along with those behaviors got programmed into the very structure of my brain; and once that happened, my habit took over. It automatically produced urges to binge no matter how much I wanted to change.

My habit-driven bulimia was what I'll call a "binge-created brain-wiring problem." I'll use the term frequently through the remainder of the book, so I will define it here for reference:

A binge-created brain-wiring problem is a harmful brain condition that develops due to the repeated destructive action of binge eating. It is the physical expression of the bulimic habit in the brain.

By binge eating enough times due to my survival instincts, my bulimia became part of the very physical structure of my brain, which ensured that my body and brain continued to expect and demand the binges. I had wired neurons together in a way that was harmful to me. My brain was never faulty or diseased, but I had created unwanted, but fine-tuned and strong neural connections that produced destructive urges and compelled me to perform unwanted behaviors for many years.

The development of my habit of bulimia looked something like this:

Dieting —> Survival Instincts —> Urges to Binge —> Binge —> Purge —> More Urges to Binge —> Repeated Survival-Instinct-Driven Bingeing (and Purging to Compensate) —> Habit Formation in the Brain —> Brain Automatically Produces Urges to Maintain the Binge Eating Habit

I cannot pinpoint exactly when survival instincts stopped driving my behavior and habit started driving it, but I'm sure it was a gradual process. By the time my survival instincts died down, the habit of bingeing was already firmly established, which made the gradual change mostly imperceptible to me. However, looking back, I can identify one difference in survival-instinct-driven binges and habit-driven binges. In habit-driven binges, I seemed to eat a little less frantically than I did during those first several months of binge eating when I was underweight. It seems my body knew—at some level—that I didn't truly need so much food anymore, but I still felt driven toward it. Despite this minor difference, habit-driven binges still made me feel out of control and the urges still felt like a terrible intrusion in my life.

WHERE AND HOW DID THE HABIT FUNCTION IN MY BRAIN?

If I had access to neuroimaging devices, I may be able to give a firm answer to this question. But no one scanned my brain at the time, so I can't be sure where and how my habit functioned. In other words, I can't pinpoint exactly where my binge-created brain-wiring problem took hold, just as I cannot pinpoint exactly when it took hold. The specific neural pathways that drive eating disorders haven't been identified, but more researchers are studying the neuroscience of eating disorders in order to better understand them in terms of the brain.101

It's likely that an eating disorder "involves abnormal activity distributed across brain systems,"102 but currently, little is known about these brain abnormalities.103 Although we can't precisely locate where the habit of bulimia takes hold in the brain, there are still a few possibilities to present, based on what is currently known in neuroscience.

I received clues to where my habit existed during my experience on Topamax (topiramate), which provided a temporary reprieve from my urges to binge. As I talked about in Chapter 7, Topamax is an anti-epileptic drug that is sometimes used to treat bulimia and binge eating. Topamax has effects on weight and appetite and "on neural systems important in regulating eating and weight control."104 The drug is associated with decreased appetite and weight loss, at least in the short term.105

Topamax seemed to nearly shut down my binge-created brain-wiring problem for a short time; so knowing how Topamax works gives me an idea of the nature of my habit. The exact brain mechanism through which Topamax exerts its effects in bulimics isn't known at present,106 but there are three possible mechanisms that apply to my experience, all of which result from neuroplastic changes in the brain.

A Habit of Excess

Some researchers hypothesize that Topamax reduces binge eating by simply decreasing appetite and enhancing fullness107 through several possible neural pathways. One possibility is that Topamax reduces neuropeptide Y (NPY) activity in the hypothalamus.108 NPY is a powerful feeding stimulant in the nervous system, and researchers have found elevated levels of NPY in bulimics.109 Furthermore, Topamax suppresses the glutamate system—a system that stimulates appetite.110

It could be that by binge eating many times due to survival instincts, I conditioned a very strong appetite, mediated by NPY, the glutamate system, or another mechanism in my brain and nervous system. I simply made my body and brain physically dependent on excessive amounts of food. In this way, my binge-created brain-wiring problem resulted from strengthening neural pathways and affecting neurochemicals that supported this extreme appetite; and it is possible that Topamax temporarily tamed those pathways and neurochemicals.

A Habit of Pleasure

Another theorized mechanism through which Topamax works is by reducing the reward of binge eating.111 Binge eating is certainly motivated by the pleasurable properties of food, and like I said in the last chapter, highly palatable food is necessary for binge eating to occur. Topamax has been shown to reduce nicotine-induced increases of the pleasurable brain chemical dopamine in the brain of rats,112 and it could have a similar affect in reducing the pleasurable brain chemicals associated with binge eating, as well as other addictions.

As I've mentioned, the opioids—one class of pleasurable brain chemicals—are a possible culprit in the rewarding nature of binge eating.113 A history of caloric restriction can alter opioid-receptor function and make one more susceptible to binge eating.114 Then the rewarding properties of highly palatable food activate the altered opioid system, and binge eating can result.115 Further, eating foods high in carbohydrates increases serotonin, a neurotransmitter that produces feelings of relaxation and calmness, giving binge eating a soothing, mood-altering quality.116 Yet another feel-good brain chemical—dopamine—could be involved as well.117

Whether it's through opioids, dopamine, serotonin, or a combination of the three, binge eating activates a pleasure process in the brain and is therefore very rewarding to bulimics. Indeed, it's been shown that people with a high reward sensitivity—a biologically based personality trait that makes one more pleasure-seeking—have a higher risk of addiction and overeating.118 Maybe I found more pleasure in binge eating due to this trait; and by dieting and then binge eating over and over, I further heightened my reward sensitivity. In this way, I made my body and brain dependent on the temporary pleasurable effects of binges. My binge-created brain-wiring problem, then, was the sum of all my bungled but strong pleasure-seeking neural pathways. Topamax could have reduced the incentive value of binge eating by regulating those overactive pathways.

A Habit of Impulsivity

It's possible that my binge-created-brain-wiring problem was a habit of impulsivity. It's been shown that bulimics and those with BED are more impulsive, sometimes pathologically so, and Topamax has been shown to decrease other impulsive behaviors besides binge eating.119 By succumbing to my survival drives over and over, I may have weakened the higher, rational parts of my brain responsible for voluntary action (at least when it came to binge eating) and strengthened those neural pathways responsible for the automatic behavior.

I could have been generally more impulsive even before my eating disorder began, which could explain why I had so much trouble resisting survival drives. Neuroscience research has shown that women with bulimia are less adept at self-control, even in tasks unrelated to eating.120 Women in one particular study did not engage circuits in the prefrontal cortex as effectively in a mental task as those without bulimia.121 Moreover, adolescents who have attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD)—a disorder characterized by impulsivity—are at greater risk for developing bulimia.122

It could be that I was already impulsive to begin with, and my repeated binge eating strengthened the neural pathways that supported my impulsive eating and weakened the neural pathways that could have allowed me to resist the urges. Thus my binge-created brain-wiring problem was the result of a weak will—not in a metaphorical sense, but a real neurologically based weakening of the parts of the brain that control voluntary actions. This does not mean I wasn't capable of resisting—I was simply out of practice and using the wrong tactics; but by succumbing over and over to my urges to binge, I only made it easier to keep giving in.

As I've said, I believe all three types of habits probably worked together to keep me binge eating. The habits of excess and pleasure fueled my urges, and the habit of impulsivity made me feel less capable of saying no, even though I certainly retained that ability. I always knew that I somehow had a choice of whether to binge or not, but I was usually not successful at exercising that choice. In the next chapter, I'll explain why I followed my urges to binge over and over again. But first, I need to address the fact that some people can and do develop a binge eating habit without ever dieting.

NO DIETING REQUIRED?

Although my experience with dieting and weight loss preceding the onset of binge eating mirrors the vast majority of bulimia cases, the disorder can occur without an initial diet. Furthermore, in cases of BED, binge eating frequently occurs without any history of dieting. One study found that 55 percent of those with BED reported binge eating prior to going on their first diet, while 45 percent reported that dieting occurred first.123 Without dieting and survival instincts, how do we then explain the onset of binge eating in these cases?

I believe any of the habits I discussed above could develop without dieting as a catalyst. Remember, I developed a habit of pleasure, a habit of excess, or a habit of impulsivity by eating large amounts of food repeatedly. If anyone ate large amounts of food repeatedly—for whatever reason—they could theoretically develop the habit of binge eating; and if they chose to purge afterward, they could develop the habit of bulimia.

There is evidence from animal research that overconsuming foods high in fat and sugar can lead to changes in the opioid receptors in areas of the brain that control food intake.124 Regardless of how the binge eating begins, binge eating on these highly palatable foods can maintain binge eating by enhancing the opioids125 and creating a habit of excess and pleasure.

Those who binge without ever dieting may have been overeaters and binge eaters from childhood, because of learning or because of a genetically strong appetite and attraction to highly palatable food and rewarding experiences. In a person who has had poor eating habits for a lifetime and overindulged in sweet or fattening foods, the body becomes accustomed to those substances. Eventually, the person may need more and more of the highly palatable foods to experience the same pleasure or the same "high."

There is growing evidence that people can become "addicted" to highly palatable foods like refined carbohydrates and saturated fats—or at least people can exhibit behaviors that show similarities to addiction. Indeed, there are many parallels between food craving and drug craving—in the neurochemistry, neuroanatomy, and learning involved.126 There is evidence of tolerance and withdrawal—two of the defining characteristics of addiction—in animal studies.127 Although the addicting nature of highly palatable foods does not excuse binge eating, it does provide an explanation for urges to binge in those who do not diet.

All of this means that—regardless of whether dieting jump-starts binge eating or not—binge eating can still occur, and the binge-created brain-wiring problem can still take hold.

21: Why Did I Follow My Urges to Binge?

I always had control of my actions, yet I succumbed to the drive to binge time after time. Now I can see why. There were five main reasons that I followed my urges to binge.

REASON 1: I THOUGHT MY URGES TO BINGE SIGNALED A REALNEED

My urges to binge were all-consuming. They sometimes made every cell in my body feel it might die if it didn't get large amounts of food—right away. But rationally, I knew that wasn't true. Even when I was drastically underweight at 86 pounds, my urges to binge still did not signal a real need. Yes, I certainly did need to eat, but I didn't need to binge eat. Even though I needed an increase in calories, I didn't need eight bowls of cereal in one sitting.

As I've discussed, the survival drive to binge eat is left over from ancient times, when our ancestors did need to binge because it could be a long time before their next meal. They had to feast to prepare for the next fast. Those of us who live in a society of food abundance will most assuredly have another meal very soon. Therefore, there is never a true need for us to binge. Unfortunately, the survival instincts are not that smart; and when the animal brain senses that it is food-deprived, it will urge most of us to overeat or binge.

My animal brain made me feel that binge eating was a true need only because it was running on an old program of survival. The only true need I had was to eat more, in normal amounts—definitely not to binge. Moreover, when I stopped depriving myself of food, gained a lot of weight, and habit replaced my survival instincts as the driving force of my binge eating, my urges to binge stopped signaling any need at all. My brain was throwing out "neurological junk," so to speak—in the form of automatic urges to binge.

My urges to binge were a type of conditioned need —a term that illustrates well the habit of binge eating. A conditioned need is not a real biological need like the need for food (in normal amounts), water, or shelter; but a need that gets programmed into the brain as if it were a real need. Nearly all habits and addictions could be called conditioned needs. By bingeing enough times, I conditioned my brain and body to need to binge eat, even though I truly didn't need to. My body and brain reset my metabolism to accommodate large amounts of food, so that I began feeling that I needed to binge to feel normal. Sometimes I even felt I needed to binge to survive, even though I knew rationally that I did not. A conditioned need can be illustrated by the following example:

A newborn baby wakes up every night in his first several weeks of life around 3:00 a.m. to feed (drink a bottle or breast-feed). As a newborn, he biologically requires that feeding—eating around-the-clock is a real need. But what happens when the baby grows older and no longer requires that night feeding to survive? The baby of a lucky mother will stop waking up at 3:00 a.m., but many babies continue to wake up at that time long after the feeding is physically necessary.

The baby continues to wake up because the brain has formed a habit—a conditioned need—by repeatedly eating at a certain time every night; and now, even though the baby no longer biologically requires the feeding, the baby's body and brain will still expect it and still demand it. What began as a survival instinct has become a habit. Since newborns' human brains are not developed and they cannot rationalize, the baby in this example does not know that he no longer needs the feeding. His behavior is driven only by the automatic functions in his animal brain; and since his animal brain is programmed to expect a feeding, he cries every night at 3:00 a.m.

It's simple to see how this example relates to my binge eating. Even when I stopped having a legitimate need for more calories, I still experienced the urges. My body and brain still cried for binges, because the parts of my brain that were reacting involuntarily were like the automatic functions of a newborn's brain. And just as a parent cannot reason with an infant to make him stop crying at 3:00 a.m., I could not use reason to make my urges go away.

To complicate matters, I learned—in therapy and self-help books—that even if my urges didn't signal a real physical need, they signaled a real emotional need. This became another reason why I followed my urges to binge. When I believed I was binge eating to satisfy a need for attention, love, comfort, escape, or relief from stress or depression, it became much easier to give in to my urges; it legitimized my actions and gave me an excuse to go ahead and binge.

My urges were certainly good at convincing me I had a real need—physical or emotional. After all, I heard my desires to binge in my own voice, in my head. I didn't hear all the enticing thoughts in a more primitive, caveman-like voice; so I never recognized my urges as something other than me, expressing my own needs, often in a seemingly logical way. This is also explainable in terms of the brain.

The human frontal lobe translates the messages we receive from the animal brain and makes them more complex and nuance-filled,128 or as Trimpey says in Rational Recovery, the animal brain "can't talk, but instead it uses your language to enlist your voluntary muscles to get what it wants."129 The messages from my animal brain telling me I needed to binge were often very appealing to my reasoning, which tricked me into binge eating time and time again.

REASON 2: I TRIED TO FIGHT MY URGES

The second reason why I followed my urges to binge was because I tried—in vain—to fight them. One thing was for sure, I couldn't clench my fists, get angry, and make the urges to binge go away, although it didn't stop me from trying. Since the urges to binge were powered by survival instincts or habit, I certainly couldn't get rid of them by fighting.

Fighting with my urges and trying to resist them by sheer will (which is often called "white-knuckling" in therapy and rightly discouraged by therapists) got me past several urges during the course of my bulimia; but it was a frustrating and ultimately futile approach. It was simply too difficult, and sometimes I just wasn't equipped for a fight. Sometimes I didn't have the resources, the strength, or the energy. As I tired of fighting day after day, I inevitably gave in, worn out from the struggle. I often felt that dealing with the guilt, shame, and weight gain that followed binge eating was easier than dealing with fighting the urges.

I didn't know that fighting was simply the wrong tactic because I was powerless to will my urges away. During my therapy, I was introduced to another tactic, supposedly opposite of fighting, called "urge surfing." In summary, urge surfing is trying to ride the wave of an urge. The urge to binge is assumed to swell, peak, and then subside just like a wave; so it's assumed that if you can ride it for long enough, it will go away. On the surface, urge surfing seems similar to what eventually helped me conquer my binge eating, because it involves not acting on urges and not necessarily trying to figure out any deeper meaning behind them.

However, I found the urge surfing technique to be a lot like fighting. In thinking that I was "riding the wave," I was then trying to endure the wave. I was trying desperately to stay afloat until the wave subsided. Since I didn't know the wave was just neurological junk, I viewed it as a worthy opponent, as a surfer might view a mighty swell. I was trying to survive it, trying not to get swept under, because I believed the wave had the capability of washing me out to sea (i.e., to the refrigerator, pantry, or nearest fast-food restaurant) at any moment. I believed it could control me, move me, toss me about. If I made it through one urge in this manner, I was usually pretty exhausted; so when another urge came along, I often couldn't muster the strength to ride that one as well.

In the end, the thinking skill I used to stop acting on urges was, in fact, much different. I stopped seeing the urges as a powerful adversary capable of altering my course or washing me out to sea. I stopped trying to desperately stay above water, because I learned that I didn't even have to enter the water. In separating myself from my urges, I was learning to watch the waves from the shore. I could watch each one rise and fall, without getting all caught up in it and without becoming exhausted and weary. Even if another urge to binge came shortly after the first, I felt I could handle it, because I knew the wave wasn't capable of affecting me. Maybe it seems like a subtle difference, but for me it made all the difference.

REASON 3: BINGE EATING QUELLED MY URGES TO BINGE

Although I list this as the third reason why I followed my urges, it was the most significant. The primary reason I followed my urges to binge was to make the urges go away. Urges often made me anxious, depressed, and desperate; that is, until I binged. Then all of those feelings suddenly melted away, and I felt tremendous—albeit temporary—relief. That relief was reason enough to give in to the urge. Each time I binged, I quickly put to rest the question that haunted me every day: Will I be able to resist binge eating today?

The relief I felt when I finally gave in and binged was not relief from emotional pain or sadness; it was relief from that nagging urge. The neurons that fired to create my urges to binge fired tenaciously until I binged. Then those neurons finally came to rest, and it was as if my brain was saying, Ahh, my job is done. Even though I knew the relief I felt during and after binges wouldn't last long, bingeing seemed worth it just to stop my incessant thoughts and feelings about food.

I felt I needed to binge just to quiet my brain. I felt I couldn't focus on school, work, relationships, family, or even mundane daily tasks while experiencing a desire to binge. I often binged to shut off those urges so I could focus on other, important things I had to do; it seemed worth it if only to get some peace, even though I knew I'd regret it and have to deal with the guilt and health consequences later. Bingeing was like hitting a reset button in my brain. It temporarily stopped my urges, but it started the cycle all over again.

REASON 4: BINGE EATING FELT GOOD

Even to people who do not binge, eating is physically pleasurable and can provide comfort. Most people enjoy eating and derive some level of emotional contentment from it. Even normal eaters use food in celebration, in mourning, in gifts of gratitude, and in cultural expression. It's fine for food to have meaning in our lives. Furthermore, even normal amounts of food, especially sweets and fats, can alter brain chemistry, leading to improved moods and anxiety relief.

In the same way as normal eating, binge eating provided me with physical pleasure and often emotional comfort or distraction. Even though my binge eating episodes were often frantic, impulsive, and unsettling, it was still enjoyable to eat large amounts of foods that tasted good. Stuffing myself with sugar and fat often put me in a trance-like state in which I sometimes forgot about my other problems.

Brain Chemicals and Good Feelings

As previously mentioned, eating increases feel-good brain chemicals, which was a factor in forming my habit. Eating sugar increases opioids, which create analgesia—a decreased sensitivity to pain and stress130 —and dopamine,131 which is involved in reward and pleasure.132 Furthermore, eating sugar and carbohydrates boosts serotonin, which affects mood133 and "produces a feeling of relaxed calmness."134 This explains why—with the amount of sugar I ate during binges—I often entered a near-dream-like state. These biochemical effects were temporarily highly gratifying and gave me another incentive to binge, in addition to the instant relief from craving.

Secondary Benefits

Following my urges to binge gave me what I'll label "secondary benefits." Just as the act of binge eating became a habit, the secondary benefits—the biochemical and emotional payoffs—became habit-forming as well. The good feelings I had when I was eating without inhibition; the rush I felt when I took the first bite of a binge; the emotional numbness I felt immediately afterward—all of these benefits became part of the habit, and my body and brain craved those feelings time and time again. My body and brain came to rely on the secondary benefits of binge eating, and those benefits became more reasons for me to follow my urges.

We are all pleasure-seeking creatures, and many of the worst habits involve tempting and pleasurable substances like alcohol, nicotine, drugs, and food (See Chapter 20). The act of consuming the substances and the feelings the substances induce become reinforcing. There is nothing wrong with getting pleasure or emotional relief from food in moderation. The problem, for me, was that it wasn't in moderation. Not only that, but pleasure and emotional relief weren't truly what I was in search of when I binged. I knew full well that the secondary benefits weren't worth the terrible cost of my bulimia, that binge eating truly didn't help me get relief from any of my problems in the long run and only made them worse.

Once the habit was in motion and my brain and body were conditioned to binge, whatever comfort I may have received from binge eating only became fuel for the fire—more reasons my brain generated to get me to binge eat. Eating will help you get to sleep, I heard inside my head. You've had a hard day and need to relax. Eating will bring you relief from your worries. You deserve some guilty pleasure. Eating will make you stop feeling lonely. Those were automatic thoughts, disguised as "logical" reasons for binge eating, and those thoughts served as great excuses for my behavior.

Secondary benefits did become a major focus of my therapy. In therapy, I learned that, because binge eating brought me some measure of emotional comfort and pleasure, a deep-rooted inner need for emotional comfort and pleasure was therefore causing my binge eating. I learned that, because eating brought me temporary relief from problems, the problems themselves or my inability to handle them effectively was therefore causing my binge eating. So my therapists told me I needed to learn new ways to find comfort, pleasure, emotional fulfillment, and relief from my problems in order to stop binge eating. In other words, I needed to find substitutes for binge eating—other ways to get the secondary benefits of binge eating without actually binge eating.

The therapists' theory, although it seemed to make some sense when I was first introduced to it, was ineffective in practice. When an urge to binge hit, I found it extremely difficult to choose any substitute behavior. I came up with lists of things I could do to get the secondary benefits—take a relaxing bath, go for a long walk, watch a favorite TV show, listen to music, go for a drive—but I found that there were simply no substitutes for binge eating.

The problem was, I wasn't seeking the secondary benefits when I binged. I was seeking the food. Nothing could take the place of food, nothing. If I were seeking relief only from anxiety when I binged, then anti-anxiety medication, a relaxing bath, or some yoga would have done the trick. If I were seeking relief only from loneliness, a friend or boyfriend would have cured me. If I were seeking only mood improvement, then antidepressants, a long walk, or some uplifting music would have taken away my urges to binge. If I were seeking only tranquil sleep, then a sleeping pill or relaxation techniques could have easily taken the place of binge eating. If I were seeking only numbness from emotions, then zoning out in front of the TV or having a few drinks would have been enough. But none of these "substitutes" gave me what my brain truly wanted—food, and lots of it.

It is easy to illustrate why this was the case if I go back to the example of the baby. The baby cries at 3:00 a.m. because he has a conditioned need—not a real biological need—for a feeding. Along with that night feeding, the baby gets many secondary benefits, including closeness to his mother, comfort, security, and the pleasure of sucking. In other words, the feeding is not all about the food. However, food (in the form of formula or breast milk) is the only thing that will truly satisfy the baby, because food is his brain's top priority at 3:00 a.m.—the primary reason he woke up and cried. If the mother were to offer merely comfort and security by holding or rocking the baby, or perhaps giving him a pacifier, she would leave him unfulfilled and probably even more frustrated and upset. Sure, the secondary benefits that go along with the food are nice for the baby, but when the baby's brain is urging him to eat, the secondary benefits alone do nothing to satisfy.

So it was with my binge eating. It came with some secondary benefits, such as temporarily numbing me to emotions, helping me relax, and providing distraction. However, trying to get those secondary benefits without binge eating did nothing to quiet my urges, because binge eating was my brain's primary motivation. The secondary benefits weren't what I really wanted when I binged; I really wanted the food and the ensuing relief from my urge to binge.

Reward Sensitivity and Binge Eating Pleasure

A positive reward will reinforce behavior;135 and there is some evidence that the rewards or secondary benefits of binge eating may be more enticing for some people. As I discussed in Chapter 20, a personality trait known as "reward sensitivity" determines how driven we are toward rewarding experiences, such as eating pleasurable food. It's been shown that people sensitive to reward experience more intense and frequent food cravings.136

In those with higher reward sensitivity, the brain regions implicated in eating for reward are more active, even when those individuals simply look at pictures of food.137 The higher a person's sensitivity to reward, the more active these brain regions are when cues for appetizing food are present. This translates to a vulnerability to compulsive eating problems.138

A vulnerability to compulsive eating problems is not an excuse for binge eating. The reward network works to motivate food selection and intake— it doesn't pick up the dessert for you. My brain, and the brain of other binge eaters, may become more active around appetizing food than others' brains, lending attractiveness to the temporary pleasure of binge eating. This is simply a brain difference that could have made me more vulnerable to binge eating and enjoying it. But a higher reward drive is certainly not a signal of disease or lack of control. I find this reward sensitivity explanation of why I craved the pleasure of binge eating much more sensible than the idea that I craved the pleasure to fulfill some deep emotional needs.

REASON 5: THERAPY UNINTENTIONALLY ENCOURAGED ME TO FOLLOW URGES

Many things I learned in therapy only served to keep me following my urges to binge. When I believed, as therapy taught me, that I binged to cope with emotional and psychological problems, it only gave me excuses to binge. If one binge was about soothing an emotional upset, another binge was about seeking fulfillment, another binge was about dealing with pain from the past, and another binge was about escaping daily stress, then it was easy to find excuses to keep following those urges.

Below is a list of therapy concepts I learned, along with the harmful interpretations I placed on the concepts at the time.

Therapy Concept

My Interpretation

You have a disease.  

I don't have control over my own behavior, and binge eating is not my fault.  

You cannot overcome bulimia without professional help.  

I don't have personal responsibility to stop binge eating.  

You binge to cope with problems.  

I have many excuses to binge, because my life is full of problems.  

You binge because of triggers.  

I blame situations, people, thoughts, and feelings for my own binge eating.  

You will have setbacks and relapses along the way to recovery.  

It's OK if I binge now because setbacks are expected. I'll get back on track tomorrow.  

Your bulimia serves a purpose in your life.  

I have justification for binge eating.  

You have to resolve your past, become emotionally satisfied, and find happiness in order to give up your bulimia.  

I haven't yet achieved those goals, so it's OK if I binge now.  

Instead of empowering me to stop acting on my urges to binge, these concepts gave my brain ammunition, so to speak. Sometimes the logical reasons for binge eating that I learned in therapy were the tipping point that gave me the final push to give in to an urge to binge. I often fought the urges as much as I could but then reminded myself that I had a disease, that I binged to cope, that I would relapse often, or that I needed to become emotionally satisfied or happy to stop binge eating; and then I'd suddenly have the excuse I needed to stop fighting and go right to the refrigerator, with my brain rejoicing that it had gotten what it wanted.

I unquestionably agree with traditional therapy on one major issue: the first step in recovery is wanting to recover. No one—not a therapist, not a nutritionist, not any self-help book—can help until you are willing to stand up against what afflicts you. Others can educate you about the dangers of your behavior, they can help support you in your decision to quit; but they cannot make the decision for you. You have to make that decision for yourself. The problem with traditional therapy is, once a patient wants to quit, she is put through a long, complex, and unnecessarily difficult recovery process that does not usually lead to recovery, which is the subject of the next chapter.

22: Why Didn't Therapy Work for Me?

With my new understanding of my eating disorder, I am able to look back now and see clearly why therapy wasn't effective in helping me achieve recovery. Remember, I've defined recovery as the termination of all binge eating; and therapy didn't help me do that.

I've already given an account of my experience in therapy, explaining what I learned collectively from my therapists, nutritionists, psychiatrists, self-help books, and Internet resources. Some might say that I merely had a bad experience or that my therapists weren't the right match for me; however, the type of treatment I received was not the exception. I've found that the concepts and techniques I learned in therapy are in fact still in widespread use in bulimia treatment today. My treatment didn't fall much out of line with traditional approaches to treating bulimia, of which there are three.

The three main types of treatment currently used for binge eaters are: (1) psychodynamic therapy; (2) cognitive behavioral therapy; and (3) addiction treatment. I received a combination of these three approaches, as many patients do, during the course of my unsuccessful treatment. At the time I was in therapy—from the age of 18 to 22—I didn't know the names of these treatment approaches or the theories behind them; but looking back, I can see how my therapists drew from these three approaches and why these approaches failed me: because of the false assumptions they make about the nature of bulimia.

PSYCHODYNAMIC THERAPY

Psychodynamic therapy for bulimics is based on the psychodynamic theory of eating disorders. This theory holds that eating disorders are symptoms of underlying psychological problems that need to be uncovered and resolved before the patient can recover. The psychodynamic theory posits that eating disorders are "expressions of a struggling inner self that uses the disordered eating and weight control behaviors as a way of communicating or expressing underlying issues."139 The theory is that once the underlying issues are discovered, talked about, and resolved, the patient will no longer feel the need to binge eat.

The psychodynamic theory is the one I encountered at my first therapy appointment (after which I vowed never to go back), and it's also the theory I came to accept during therapy in college. My initial reluctance to accept psychodynamic philosophy was not uncommon. Many women who enter therapy see their eating disorders as habits they cannot break and are surprised when psychotherapy is the suggested treatment.140 It often takes the bulimic weeks to months of therapy to "realize that underlying conflicts and family issues are the true core of her illness."141 In the months that it took me to buy into this theory, I could have already solved my problem.

It seems that the psychodynamic view of eating disorders is the most prevalent philosophy today, not only among therapists and those with eating disorders, but throughout society. The problem is (as I mentioned in Chapter 6), it is all conjecture. There is no scientific proof that underlying psychological problems cause bulimia (or anorexia), and there is also no scientific proof that resolving those underlying problems leads to recovery.142 Yet the psychodynamic theory of eating disorders is often presented as fact in therapy, self-help books, and even academic and medical texts. Nevertheless, I believe it was extremely harmful for me to believe this theory.

The psychodynamic approach deems it necessary to understand two main components of the eating disorder: (1) the root cause or causes of the eating disorder; and (2) the current purpose the eating disorder serves in the patient's life—also called the "adaptive function" of the eating disorder.143 A psychodynamic therapist helps the patient uncover the root cause of her problem by exploring her past to see where the emotional damage may have occurred. Theoretically, root causes could be any of a multitude of life experiences or inner conflicts. Reported root causes often stem from childhood, such as the parental relationship, sexual or physical abuse, or a lack of affection; alternatively, the root cause could be a more recent trauma.

I never found a specific root cause for my bulimia; however, I hypothesized many life experiences as root causes. In reality, there was only one root cause of my eating disorder, and that was my decision to diet. Whatever factors may have put me at risk for problematic dieting would have meant nothing if I never would have started restricting my calorie intake.

While trying to uncover issues from the past, the psychodynamic therapist also helps the bulimic discover the adaptive function, or purpose, that the eating disorder plays in her life now. This requires constant detective work to decipher emotions, feelings, and the salient meaning of everyday interactions. Reported adaptive functions of bulimia are numerous; but most patients discover that the eating disorder helps them cope with problems, numb feelings of anxiety or depression, or avoid pain from the past or present. I reported all of the above adaptive functions and more during the course of my bulimia.

I never would have thought my eating disorder had served an adaptive function if my therapists had not suggested that to me. When I first began binge eating, I knew my binge eating only hurt me, even if part of me found it very rewarding. But once I bought into psychodynamic theory, I found all sorts of theoretical benefits of my eating disorder, most of which were just the secondary benefits of my behavior—the pleasurable physiological and emotional effects of ingesting large amounts of sugary and fattening foods. With the influence of psychodynamic therapy, I imagined there must have been some deep reasons I needed that pleasure.

Since, in psychodynamic theory, binge eating is viewed as useful for the patient, the therapist avoids trying to take the symptoms away. Instead, the goal of this type of therapy is for the patient to develop and learn new ways of meeting emotional needs and coping with problems so that the eating disorder no longer serves a purpose in her life. This includes helping the patient get in touch with feelings and teaching her to cope with emotions.

Since bulimia is not a way of coping with problems or meeting emotional needs, this simply makes no sense. Getting in touch with feelings and coping with emotions won't stop the survival instincts or end the habit of binge eating. It didn't matter how well I coped with emotions or how many feelings I "got in touch with," I still had those urges to binge and I still followed them. Additionally, while I was spending time working on feelings and underlying issues, my habit was only getting stronger in my brain. While my therapists were avoiding trying to take my adaptive function away, I was only further strengthening all those faulty neural connections by following my urges to binge.

Psychodynamic therapy is supposed to lead to "an individual's development of the personal feelings, opinions, values, beliefs, and desires that constitute who [he/she] is as a person. Another way to define this process is the development of one's identity."144 In the introduction to this book, I described a type of recovery I named the butterfly tale, wherein the woman undergoes a major transformation in order to stop her binge eating. Ideally, psychodynamic therapy should create these transformations. The binge eater enters psychodynamic therapy—the cocoon—as emotionally immature and ill-equipped for managing her own life; but she comes out of the recovery process fundamentally changed, with a new identity and a newfound ability to cope with feelings and problems.

This butterfly tale doesn't happen for everyone who goes through psychodynamic therapy, and it certainly didn't happen for me. It still angers me that my therapists led me to believe that those life goals—which could have taken me many years or even a lifetime to achieve—were necessary for recovery. I was 18 when I began therapy; life was confusing, and it would have been confusing even if I hadn't had an eating disorder. Psychodynamic therapy led me to believe I had to sort out all this confusion, develop a purpose for my life, reconcile everything in my past, and live with grace and peace—all at the age of 18 and all in order to stop binge eating. I still haven't done all of the things that psychodynamic theory requires for recovery, yet I am fully recovered.

Psychodynamic therapy made me think I was damaged goods, when in fact my brain and I were very healthy. It made me look back on my childhood and blame the development of my eating disorder on very trivial incidents, when the only cause of my eating disorder was my choice to diet. It made me blame my loving family for a problem that was in no way their fault, but my animal brain's. It made me look back at my young life and see all that was wrong with it, when my childhood was actually rather normal. It made me think I needed to sort out everything in my often confusing life, all in order to stop a behavior that was simply a natural function of my own brain. All of this caused me to lose focus on what I really needed to do to recover: stop binge eating.

I was not the only bulimic psychodynamic therapy failed. Psycho-dynamic therapy alone has not been shown to produce high recovery rates for bulimics.145 A common criticism of this approach is that "patients can spend years doing psychodynamic therapy gaining insight while still engaging in destructive symptomatic behaviors"146—all the while feeding the habits in their brains.

COGNITIVE BEHAVIORAL THERAPY

Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) attempts to address destructive behaviors surrounding food and weight; and of the various psychotherapeutic approaches, CBT has been shown to be the "most consistently successful treatment of bulimia."147 CBT is often used in conjunction with psychodynamic therapy to focus on binge eating (plus the purging in bulimia) and harmful thoughts about food, weight, and body image. In my own therapy, as in most cases, the core of therapy was psychodynamic—searching for the deeper reason for the eating disorder—but in addition, I learned cognitive behavioral techniques to try to control the binge eating and purging.

CBT has many components, and the specific techniques used are too numerous and vary too widely among therapists to discuss all of them here; but I will summarize the main aspects of CBT as it is used to treat binge eating. The cognitive part of cognitive behavioral therapy addresses harmful thoughts—also called cognitions—that are suspected to contribute to binge eating; and the behavioral component of cognitive behavioral therapy attempts to directly address eating habits and reduce episodes of binge eating.

CBT is based on the assumption that binge eaters have "cognitive distortions"—incorrect thoughts or beliefs about food and weight. Examples of some of my cognitive distortions were thinking that eating a certain food would make me fat and thinking that eating one cookie would lead to a binge. Cognitive distortions are assumed to lead to negative feelings, which in turn are assumed to lead to the negative behavior of binge eating. In CBT, patients learn to identify and challenge their incorrect thoughts in "an educational and empathetic way,"148 as the therapist teaches the patient positive ways of thinking to replace the distorted thoughts.

For example, at one time in college, I believed I couldn't weigh more than 110 pounds, so that distorted thought often led to negative feelings as I gained weight. I felt bad about myself, and those negative feelings supposedly led to binge eating. So, in therapy, I learned the healthy weight range for my body type, which went well above 110. I bought bigger sizes as my weight kept going up and learned to let go of my desire to maintain that weight. The problem was, I had urges to binge even when I felt good about my weight. Learning to define a healthy weight and letting go of a desire to be super thin may have stopped me from dieting in the first place, but once my bulimia was in motion, correcting cognitive distortions was not all that helpful.

The cognitive component of CBT also addresses thought patterns that are not food-related. It is believed that many binge eaters harbor cognitive distortions about many aspects of their lives. For instance, I sometimes believed I was stupid just for receiving a less-than-perfect grade on a test; I sometimes believed that no one liked me; and I sometimes thought I was a failure if I didn't accomplish certain goals in school, sports, or work. In cognitive behavior theory, cognitive distortions like these, even though not explicitly related to food and weight, can potentially lead to binge eating—because any thought that leads to bad feelings could also lead to destructive behaviors.

Another example: I held the irrational belief that I had to please everyone; so when I got in an argument with a friend, I felt worthless and supposedly binged to "cope" with my negative feelings. Theoretically, if I had stopped thinking I needed to please everyone and become more assertive in relationships, I wouldn't have needed to binge to cope with relationship problems. So I spent much time in and out of therapy trying to correct cognitive distortions and replacing them with positive thoughts.

CBT addresses thoughts that cause all types of negative feelings, but most commonly those that lead to perfectionism, poor self-image, depression, and anxiety. It is believed that once those negative feelings are relieved, the destructive eating behaviors that supposedly stem from them should lessen or go away. Again, the problem with this approach is that such harmful thoughts do not inherently cause binge eating; urges to binge cause binge eating.

I certainly still have occasional negative thoughts about my body, like most everyone does; I certainly have occasional thoughts telling me I'm not a wonderful person; I have thoughts that sometimes make me anxious or depressed; but I never have urges to binge. Negative thoughts were never the cause of my binge eating.

The behavioral part of cognitive behavioral therapy attempts to address eating habits and binge eating directly. The first goal of this type of therapy is often to regulate eating with normal meals—which was the first goal of my own therapy in college. This was supposed to take away my hunger-related binges. However, due to the relentless nature of the survival instincts, eating normally did not turn off my urges to binge.

In CBT, meal plans are often used in conjunction with a technique called "self-monitoring." I frequently used this technique when I wrote down everything I ate, along with the feelings, thoughts, and events that surrounded eating—all in an attempt to find patterns in my binge eating and discover things that triggered binge eating episodes.

Trigger is a fundamental term in CBT: a trigger is any thought, feeling, interaction, event, or behavior that leads to a binge. A major goal of CBT is to address triggers—those factors in the patient's environment that frequently lead to binge eating. A trigger can be anything from a feeling of loneliness, to having a fight with a boyfriend, to eating a piece of chocolate cake, to drinking alcohol, to being stressed out about an exam. Through self-monitoring, I attempted to learn my triggers for my binges so that I could eliminate them from my life or develop healthier ways to handle them. If I dealt with all of my triggers, my binge eating was supposed to subside, or at least become markedly less.

However, no matter how well I managed my triggers, the urges to binge didn't go away. Through self-monitoring, I discovered, for example, that I often binged in my dorm or apartment alone at night; so I labeled "being alone at night" a trigger for binge eating. Because of this, I often tried to avoid being alone at night, and if I did have to be alone, I made detailed plans of things I could do instead of binge. Even with the best-laid plans and coping strategies, though, I still usually experienced urges to binge and I still binged.

I'll discuss triggers in more detail in Chapter 35; but for now know that without urges to binge, it would be nonsensical to say that triggers cause binge eating. Every day of my recovered life, I experience many of the things that supposedly triggered my binges in the past, but those things do not trigger binge eating today. This is not because I've somehow learned to avoid or cope with every imaginable trigger; I think it would have been impossible to discover every one and learn to cope properly with all of them. Trigger hunting was a needlessly time-consuming and complex process, and it helped me blame my behavior on many other things besides my own free choice.

Like psychodynamic therapy, CBT was an indirect way to approach my problem. But at least in CBT, I did learn two techniques to try to confront my urges to binge: substitution and distraction. Substitution involves trying to decipher the negative feelings surrounding the urges and substituting positive activities to cope with those feelings. When I got an urge, I first tried to determine what feeling had brought it on, then I attempted to deal with that feeling. So if I determined that I had an urge because I was feeling stressed, then I did some relaxation techniques—like deep breathing or taking a long bath—to try to counteract the stress. The problem was, it was naïve to think that some breathing exercises or a bubble bath was going to take away my urge to binge. After all, my body and brain were not strongly urging me to deep breathe or bathe—they were screaming for food!

No technique I ever used to deal with any of the feelings I thought caused my urges ever satisfied me, because, as I've said, there are no substitutes for binge eating. Even if I did manage to find a plausible emotional reason for my urge to binge, and even if I did manage to substitute a healthy activity, it usually didn't change the fact that I wanted to eat. Furthermore, it was rare that I actually mustered up the willpower to even follow the recommended process. My urges to binge were so uncomfortable that I usually couldn't think about anything else, much less determine what I was feeling and how I should deal with it.

I believe the "substitution" technique was actually harmful to me. When I did manage to use it, it caused me to focus all my attention on the urge to binge in an effort to decipher its symbolic meaning, and that served to give my urges even more attention and emotional significance, even more power. Attention and emotional significance given to thoughts and feelings are like winds to a fire, making those thoughts and feelings more intense. This happens on a physical level in the brain—the neural connections that produce attended thoughts and feelings become more active, more organized, and stronger.149 Focusing attention on the urges was counterproductive; what I really needed to do was stop giving the urges any attention, emotional significance, or power.

The second CBT technique for dealing directly with binge urges— distraction—involves simply engaging in any distracting activity until the urge passes, without necessarily trying to determine the negative feeling or emotions behind it. Suggestions include doing something with the hands, like cleaning or sewing, or listening to music. Patients are often told to keep lists of ten or more things they can do instead of binge when the urge arises. In CBT, just delaying binge eating for a little while is considered progress.150

I created many lists of distracting activities, but it never worked in the long run. If I could marshal enough willpower to do something else besides head to the refrigerator or nearest convenience store, then yes, distraction could delay my binges for a time. But the urge often did not go away, and even when it did, it would return as quickly as it had subsided, usually less than an hour later. It seems to me that the mind-set I needed to distract myself often compounded the problem. It's like the saying, "If you tell someone not to think about a pink elephant, the first thing they think about is a pink elephant." In the same way, trying not to think about wanting to binge made me think about wanting to binge even more. So once again, by attempting to distract myself from binge eating, I effectively gave my thoughts and feelings more attention, fortifying the faulty neural pathways that produced them.

There are many other CBT techniques, such as behavior management programs, which reward healthy behaviors, and contracts, which require patients to sign agreements to refrain from binge eating for a certain amount of time. I signed contracts with myself to make it through a certain number of days, and sometimes I did make it through that many days, but rarely more than four or five. I tried rewards for getting through a certain number of days without binge eating, like treating myself to a new CD or a movie. The problem was, the part of my brain that drove binge eating didn't want a new CD or a movie—it wanted food, lots and lots of food. During an urge to binge, it was as if my animal brain laughed at the idea of getting a new CD because, after all, what use did it have for it? "I" (my human brain) wanted the new CD, but when "it" (my animal brain) was in control, thinking about rewards for my true self did nothing to deter me.

Although CBT is considered the best and most successful form of therapy for binge eaters, it does not help everyone. Research has shown that CBT eliminates binge eating and purging in about 30 to 50 percent of patients.151 Binge eaters who do recover using CBT often have the type of recovery I described in this book's introduction as the "tamed house pet story." CBT can produce the one-day-at-a-time type of recovery, wherein the patient must perpetually stay on guard against triggers, follow a meal plan indefinitely, and constantly keep her moods and negative feelings in check to avoid relapse. Ideally, the daily struggle to remain in recovery will get much easier over time, and the eating disordered behaviors may even go away completely—but not without continuous effort.

ADDICTION TREATMENT

Addiction treatment—if it is effective—also produces the tamed house pet or one-day-at-a-time type of recovery. Addiction treatment is based on the idea that the foods a binge eater typically binges on—usually foods high in sugar and carbohydrates—are physiologically addictive; and to recover, the binge eater must abstain from those addictive foods, often indefinitely.

A patient using this approach maintains recovery one day at a time by diligently avoiding the problematic foods, because theoretically, even a small amount of sugar or carbohydrate-laden food could lead to a binge or even full-blown relapse. Of the three approaches we've discussed, addiction treatment is the least often used in treating bulimia, although it is sometimes used in conjunction with the more traditional psychodynamic and CBT approaches. Addiction treatment is more often used to manage BED and compulsive overeating.

I tried abstaining from sugar and white flour at various times during my bulimia, but this never lasted more than a day or two, and I found that complete abstinence compounded the problem. Denying myself all sugar and white flour seemed to send my animal brain into overdrive and caused me to crave those substances even more. Even those without eating disorders have cravings for any pleasurable foods that they try to eliminate from their diets, and my brain was likely more defensive than the average person's because of my past restrictive dieting. My animal brain saw any form of food restriction as a threat and therefore reacted by producing urges to binge on the very foods I tried to eliminate.

While there is some evidence to back up the theory that some foods are addicting,152 this does not mean that eating those foods causes binge eating. If sugary foods were truly addictive and truly led to a loss of control and binge eating, then I would have binged every time I ate sugary foods; but I did not. There were certainly times during my bulimia when I ate a few cookies, one piece of cake, or a few chocolates and didn't binge. The urges to binge, not the sugary foods, caused me to binge.

When urges to binge arose as I ate sugary foods, and I immediately gave in and followed those urges, it was easy to think that the sugary food caused the binge. It indeed felt like I couldn't control myself around sweets sometimes. However, there is no evidence of biologically based loss of control in bulimia, and the loss of control that binge eaters feel is only a perceived loss.153 Bulimics have control over their behavior regardless of what foods they eat. The problem is, bulimics, myself included for many years, don't know how to exercise that control. Giving up the foods that seem to cause the loss of control is, in effect, avoiding the problem. It may cut down on some urges to binge, but it only ensures that when those foods are reintroduced in the future, the urges to binge will return.

Giving up sugar and white flour can be a worthwhile lifestyle choice with many health benefits; however, it should not be a requirement for stopping binge eating. It is too difficult, unnecessary, and it can create a perception of powerlessness that can become self-fulfilling. If a binge eater believes certain foods will inevitably lead to binges, those foods will most likely lead to binges.

EMPOWERING THE PATTERN

The three approaches I've discussed in this chapter are not the only therapies used for treating bulimia and BED, just the most prevalent and the ones I was exposed to during my own treatment. There are other types of therapy, such as pharmacological therapy, music therapy, art therapy, hypnosis, meditation, and acupuncture; however, these less-common modes of treatment are usually used alongside one of the three main approaches. There is substantial variation within each approach and between therapists. Therapeutic techniques, nutritional protocols, and medications are different for each patient.

There is currently no simple cure for bulimia or BED. I believe this is because traditional treatment approaches do not correctly define recovery or the cause of binge eating. Because recovery is defined to include such goals as resolving one's past and developing one's identity (as in psychodynamic therapy), coping well with daily stressors and overcoming negative thinking (as in CBT), and giving up sugar and white flour (as in addiction therapy), it becomes a complex, time-consuming, and often confusing process. Also, because traditional treatment approaches assume that a multitude of other things (such as underlying issues, triggers, and problematic foods) cause binge eating, these therapies miss the real problem—the urges to binge—and sometimes even worsen that problem.

Shortly after I stopped binge eating for good, I read a book about choosing a career, and although it had nothing to do with eating disorders, it contained a great explanation of habits and why they make it so hard for us to change. Two sentences in particular made me think about the ways in which therapy only served to strengthen my habit at times: "Dealing delicately and sensitively over a long period of time with things you want to change is nonsense. It doesn't work because you are giving much of your energy to dancing around with and empowering the old pattern."154

In therapy, I indeed empowered the old pattern. Therapy made me devote more time and thought to my binge eating, when I really wanted to devote less. Therapy made me focus attention on my bulimia and its supposed causes and triggers, when I really wanted to focus attention elsewhere. In this way, I believe therapy made the faulty brain pathways that drove my habit stronger, when I really wanted to weaken them. By going to frequent therapy appointments, journaling, and analyzing my behavior, I only honed the neurological connections that supported binge eating. Therapy gave more life to my faulty neural pathways, when I really wanted to destroy them.

Therapy also taught me to connect almost everything in my life to binge eating—my past, my emotions, my daily stressors and problems, my relationships, and my personality. This only made me think about my eating disorder in many situations when it wasn't necessary. I didn't only connect my eating disorder symbolically to nearly everything in my life. Every time I decided that I binged because of a certain trigger—a social situation, a family problem, a negative feeling—I created a connection in my brain between the supposed trigger and the binge. When I again encountered the trigger, I automatically experienced an urge to binge by pattern of association (see Chapter 35). Based on what I now know about the brain, it would have been much more helpful for my therapists to advise me to separate my bulimia from all the other issues in my life, therefore allowing me to think about binge eating less and weaken the habit more.

Although my therapists and the self-help books I read were well-meaning, I don't think they led me in the right direction. It is possible that I am the one to blame for the failure of my therapy. Maybe I misinterpreted some therapy concepts so that I strengthened my habit instead of weakening it; maybe I didn't do therapy correctly; maybe I just wasn't good at uncovering and resolving issues from my past; maybe I wasn't skilled enough at deciphering and coping with a multitude of triggers; maybe I was too weak to give up all sugar; maybe I didn't devote enough time to therapy goals because I had other things I wanted to do and had to do. However, considering the rather low success rates of eating disorder patients in therapy, I was not alone. Even though therapy does help some people overcome eating disorders, it was not the right path for me.

23: Revisiting Recovery: How Did I Do It?

So far, I've explained why I binged (because of my urges to binge), why I had urges to binge (survival instincts and habit), and why I followed those urges. But how was I able to recover? How was I able to terminate all my binge eating?

Since there was only one cause of each and every binge (urges to binge), all I had to do to recover was stop following my urges to binge. This was the cure for my bulimia, as I'll explain below.

Once I binged many times, I created strong, organized neural pathways that automatically generated my seemingly irresistible urges. I've termed this my "binge-created brain-wiring problem." This problem was the physical expression of my habit in my brain. The more I binged, the stronger the neural pathways that drove my habit became, which prompted me to binge eat even more. Whether it was a habit of excess, a habit of pleasure, or a habit of impulsivity—or a combination of the three—my brain was just doing its job, maintaining the habit it had learned.

When I decided to quit binge eating, I had a roadblock to face. I couldn't just say, OK, brain, I'm done binge eating, so turn off those irresistible urges. It didn't work that way. Once the habit was established, there was no way to turn off my urges except to retrain my brain. I had to reverse my binge-created brain-wiring problem so that it stopped producing urges to binge. Reversing my brain-wiring problem was quite simple:

How did I create my brain-wiring problem in the first place?

By acting on my urges to binge many times.

How did I reverse my brain-wiring problem?

By not acting on my urges to binge many times.

It was straightforward: to reverse my brain-wiring problem, to undo my habit, I had to stop following my urges to binge. That was the simple truth that often eluded me in therapy as I was focusing on the deeper emotional meaning of my binge eating. While I was in therapy, I held out hope that my urges to binge would just go away. Since I couldn't seem to fight them using willpower, I hoped that if I kept working in therapy—exploring the underlying issues and learning to cope with triggers—the urges would disappear on their own. They did not.

No matter how much progress I was making dealing with emotional issues in therapy, my urges would never go away as long as I kept acting on them. As long as I continued following my urges, my brain kept strengthening the neural connections and pathways that produced them and strengthened the habit.

The good news for me was, when it comes to the brain, what you no longer use, you lose155—not in a metaphorical sense, but in a real, physical way. The brain is an extremely efficient organ. It builds and fuels the neural connections and pathways that are frequently used, and it weakens and prunes the ones that aren't. When a person stops performing a behavior, the neural connections that supported that behavior simply fade. In other words, "if you don't exercise brain circuits, the connections will not be adaptive and will slowly weaken and could be lost."156 This was the case with my habit of binge eating.

From the first time I had an urge to binge and didn't act on it, I began teaching my brain that my habit was no longer necessary. In turn, my brain began to correct my binge-created brain-wiring problem by weakening the neural connections and pathways that supported it, wherever the exact location of those pathways may have been. As I experienced more and more urges that did not lead to binge eating, my brain learned that I no longer needed the habit. The faulty neural pathways that once led me to the refrigerator weakened with lack of use "until they [were] able to carry signals no better than a frayed string between two tin cans in the old game of telephone."157

I couldn't teach my brain this lesson by arguing or trying to rationalize with it. I could teach my brain this only through my own repeated actions. In other words, I couldn't talk my brain out of my habit, I had to act it out. By not acting on my urges, I physically corrected my brain-wiring problem. I had to make those willful behavioral changes; then my brain fell in line and turned off my urges to binge. Once I decided I wanted to take a different path than the one my brain had carved out for me, I, my true self, had to go down that different behavioral path before my brain. Then my brain followed, not the other way around.

Rational Recovery gave me a simple thinking skill that turned out to have incredible power—the power to rewire my brain, completely erasing my bulimia. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was actually utilizing the plasticity of my brain to end my habit. The same property of the brain—neuroplasticity—that created my habit completely erased it. This was possible only because of the capabilities of a specific region of my brain, the prefrontal cortex.

THE KEY TO RECOVERY: MY PREFRONTAL CORTEX

Whether my binge eating habit was a habit of excess, a habit of pleasure, or a habit of impulsivity—or, as I believe, probably a combination of the three—part of me still remained apart from it at some level; otherwise, I would not have been able to put an end to the habit. The part of me that remained unaffected and directed my recovery was my prefrontal cortex—a brain region I talked about briefly when discussing the teen brain in Chapter 17.

The prefrontal cortex—the most evolutionary-advanced part of the brain that gives us our sense of identity and capacity for voluntary action—makes up the largest part of the frontal lobe (see Figure 3).158 Compared to our animal ancestors, we have a very large frontal lobe, which occupies much more of our total brain than for any other creature.159 The frontal lobe has connections to other parts of the brain and can inhibit those parts, giving humans the ability to stop and think and divert primitive responses.160 Humans don't have to follow every impulse from their brains, and the prefrontal cortex is vitally important in this ability. The prefrontal cortex has the greatest role in inhibiting behavior and withholding automatic responses.161

The prefrontal cortex is the seat of the will—of freely preformed volitional activities. 162 In order to binge, I had to use willful voluntary muscle movements (acquiring food, putting it in my mouth, chewing and swallowing it), all of which my prefrontal cortex had complete power to stop me from doing. No matter what thoughts, feelings, or cravings my animal brain generated automatically, I could choose my actions because of my prefrontal cortex. I could stop myself from performing "inappropriate motor actions."163

My prefrontal cortex had this power because of its role as the brain's command post, chief executive, or "conductor of the orchestra."164 The prefrontal cortex is the best-connected part of the brain, meaning that it communicates directly with all functioning parts of the brain, including the animal brain.165 Since it is the agent of control within the brain and central nervous system,166 its job is "coordinating and constraining" those neural structures.167

It was the prefrontal cortex that gave me the ability to say no to—or use veto power over—my urges to binge. Veto power is a type of willpower that psychologist Richard Gregory first called "free won't."168 Without getting into a philosophical discussion of free will that is beyond the scope of this book, I'll say that free will does not necessarily work by initiating voluntary actions, but instead, it works by allowing or suppressing those voluntary actions.169 In other words, we may not have the capacity to choose what actions the brain automatically prompts us to perform; but because of our prefrontal cortex, we can choose which of those automatic promptings to follow and which ones to disregard.

When I stopped acting on my urges, I was using veto power. Without being able to describe the process at the time, I had in fact discovered the ability of my own prefrontal cortex to disregard my lower brain's automatic signals. I realized that, despite my intrusive thoughts, powerful feelings, and strong urges, my prefrontal cortex could indeed suppress inappropriate actions. I discovered "free won't"—the ability not to act—and by not acting over and over, I corrected my binge-created brain-wiring problem.

I believe the prefrontal cortex is the specific region of what Rational Recovery calls the "human brain" or the "I" that gave me the ability to recover. It certainly wasn't necessary for me to know the technical details of my brain anatomy to recover; but now that I do know more, I can better explain how I was able to say no to each and every urge to binge. As I do so, I hope it will help others discover the power of the prefrontal cortex as well.

FIVE STEPS I USED TO STOP BINGE EATING

The next five chapters describe my recovery, step by step. When I stopped binge eating, I was not consciously thinking that I was following a set of steps, but shortly afterward, I could look back and see exactly what I did that enabled me to use my prefrontal cortex to quit—some of it derived from the advice I read in RR and some from my own insights.

Here are the steps that corrected my binge-created brain-wiring problem and brought my bulimia to an abrupt end:

Step 1: I viewed my urges to binge as neurological junk from my lower brain.

Step 2: I separated my highest human brain from my urges.

Step 3: I stopped reacting to my urges.

Step 4: I stopped acting on my urges.

Step 5: I got excited.

The first three steps made the fourth step possible; and once I practiced the fourth step for long enough, my urges to binge disappeared. The fifth step was a natural result of my success in resisting urges, but I believe it turned out to be very important to speed up and cement the brain changes that erased my habit.

BRAIN OVER BINGE

Together, the five steps I used comprise what I mean by "brain over binge"—thus the title of this book. This concept is definitely an offshoot of "mind over matter" because it was my mind—my true self, my prefrontal cortex, my highest human brain—that had the capacity to override the harmful matter, my urges to binge, coming from my animal brain. The prefrontal cortex lies structurally above and forward of (over) the animal brain; therefore, my recovery was not only mind over matter, it was—quite literally—brain over binge.

In the chapters that follow, I'll often refer to the five steps of my recovery as simply "brain over binge." To illustrate this and draw the distinction between lower and higher brain functions, I will also begin referring to the animal brain as simply the "lower brain" and the prefrontal cortex or the true self as the "highest human brain." This takes the two brain functions at work in bulimia down to their most basic forms. When I use the term lower brain throughout the remainder of this book, I am referring to the parts of the brain and nervous system that automatically produce urges to binge, regardless of specific location.

Like I have previously said, the brain and nervous system are not understood well enough yet to be able to pinpoint the specific regions and peripheral functions that create the urges, so even saying "animal brain" has been somewhat of a stretch. However, I can say with confidence that the urges arise automatically in regions of the brain and nervous system inferior to the prefrontal cortex—that is, in lower brain centers. I can also say with confidence that the prefrontal cortex—the most sophisticated and highest (in ability and mostly in anatomy) part of the human brain—gives us the capacity to override the automatic impulses from the lower brain. This is why I will keep things simple, talking about just the lower brain versus the highest human brain.

24: Brain over Binge, Step 1: View Urges to Binge as Neurological Junk

In order to stop acting on my urges to binge, I had to see them as essentially meaningless. I could not hold on to the idea that I somehow needed to binge for this or that reason, or that my urges signaled an emotional need. I had to view the urges as junk and only junk, emanating from the depths of my brain and not worth any further consideration whatsoever.

As I've said, therapy concepts and secondary benefits were some of the reasons I followed my urges, and this step involved completely letting them go. If I would have held to the belief that I binged to cope with life or some underlying emotional problem, I probably wouldn't have been able to stop so abruptly. If I had remained under the false impression that I needed to binge for some mysterious psychological reason, then I would have taken that as an excuse to continue my behavior indefinitely.

I was fortunate to have the experience with the medication Topamax that temporarily alleviated my urges to binge. Nearly two years prior to my recovery, Topamax taught me that the problem wasn't my life or my inability to cope with it. It also taught me that, without urges to binge, I didn't need the secondary benefits of binge eating—nor did I want them. When my urges to binge temporarily subsided while on the drug, I didn't feel a need to be sugar-drunk; I didn't feel a need to be temporarily numb to my problems; I didn't feel a need for the pleasure that binge eating brought me.

This information was invaluable to me when I finally recovered. Since I knew my urges to binge weren't symbolic indicators of what I truly wanted or needed—physically or emotionally—and since I knew I could easily do without the secondary benefits of binge eating, it was relatively easy to start viewing the urges as neurological junk from my lower brain. I could clearly see that the urges were merely products of my "binge-created brain-wiring problem," completely apart from my higher self, which brings me to the second step in my recovery.

25: Brain over Binge, Step 2: Separate the Highest Human Brain from Urges to Binge

My urges to binge weren't truly mine—I was not my habit. I wanted a better life than stuffing large amounts of food in my mouth and then desperately purging to undo the damage. I had goals for myself that I knew were inconsistent with my eating disorder. I knew I wanted a real life, but my habit kept me trapped in destructive patterns of behavior.

Part of me—the seat of my consciousness and identity—knew binge eating was wrong, and that part of me regretted each and every binge. That part of me was my highest human brain, my prefrontal cortex, my true self.

EGO-DYSTONIC URGES

Rational Recovery introduced me to the idea that there are two separate brain functions at work in addictions. In the case of my bulimia, there was my lower brain, which involuntarily generated my urges to binge (first due to survival instincts, then due to habit), and my highest human brain. My urges to binge were ego-dystonic, meaning that they seemed "apart from, and at odds with, [my] intrinsic sense of self."170 My true self's desire was to be healthy, but my urges to binge interfered.

I first learned the term ego-dystonic about a year after my recovery, while reading about a study of patients with obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) directed by neuropsychiatrist Jeffrey Schwartz. This study shows remarkable similarities to how I stopped my bulimia, and it explained to me how my recovery was possible and why it was permanent. Like bulimia, OCD is ego-dystonic in that sufferers have intrusive urges that they feel driven to follow. They have recurring obsessive thoughts and feelings urging them to repeat the same compulsive behaviors (e.g., hand washing), which are akin to the intrusive, recurring thoughts and feelings that drive a bulimic to binge.

Like bulimics, those with OCD feel that the urges are apart from their true selves, and they know rationally that they shouldn't follow those urges—but they can't seem to resist. For example, an OCD patient who has urges to repeatedly wash his hands knows quite clearly, in a part of his mind, that his hands are not really dirty. This is because in OCD, the faulty brain connections that give rise to the obsessions and compulsions spare some of the patient's brain. The spared brain regions are the most sophisticated and evolutionarily recent parts of the brain, located in the prefrontal cortex.171 In other words, the highest human brain is spared in OCD, just as I believe it is spared in the habit of bulimia.

My urges to binge were not a function of my highest human brain, regardless of exactly where and how the urges arose in my lower brain. It didn't matter what neural pathways drove my habit, my habit remained separate from my highest human brain, and my highest human brain remained capable of resisting the urges. Even if a habit of impulsivity (see Chapter 20) was the primary mechanism—meaning some circuits in my prefrontal cortex indeed weakened through lack of use in resisting the urges to binge—my prefrontal cortex was still distinct from the source of the urges, and it still remained capable of learning to say no and therefore strengthening.

In Schwartz's OCD patients, and in my case as a bulimic, the "core reasoning power and sense of identity remain[ed] largely intact."172 There were "two competing systems of brain circuitry": one system generated the faulty brain messages of OCD (or, in my case, the intrusive urges to binge); and the other was the patient's mind—the prefrontal cortex— which remained capable of overcoming the faulty brain messages.173 Put another way, the lower brain and the highest human brain competed in my bulimia. When I didn't know this competition was due to two separate brain mechanisms, it was nearly impossible to resist my urges.

EXPERIENCING URGES IN A NEW WAY

It wasn't until I separated the most sophisticated and most uniquely human part of my brain from my urges, and really felt that separation, that I felt capable of saying no. Separating my urges to binge from my highest human brain was so important because it allowed me to experience those urges in a completely different way. It allowed me to see that they were just automatic functions of my binge-created brain-wiring problem. I learned to recognize any thought or feeling that encouraged me to binge as something completely apart from my true self, as merely a product of the habit. This immediately made my urges to binge less threatening and gave me the sense that I was above them.

I was able to look at my lower brain from a distance, so to speak. Each time I experienced an urge to binge, I was able to monitor what was going on in my brain and observe what I was thinking and feeling. I felt I could float above my lower brain and look down on all the thoughts and feelings encouraging me to binge, all the while viewing those thoughts and feelings as neurological junk. I was able to see clearly that my urges to binge were not an indication of any real needs, but merely an indication that my brain was on autopilot, trying to maintain my habit. I was able to disconnect from those thoughts and feelings and not get so wrapped up in them.

A SIDE NOTE ABOUT ANOREXIA

The ability to separate oneself from urges is not as easy when it comes to anorexia, which is why I believe that it can be more difficult to treat. In anorexia, resistance to eating is not ego-dystonic, but ego-syntonic,174 meaning it is usually what the anorexic's true self wants to do. Anorexics, at least in the early stages of the disorder, rarely lose their appetite; rather, they willfully refuse food175 and feel successful, powerful doing so. Indeed, when I was caught up in restrictive dieting, it was hard for me to see that what I was doing was wrong. I wanted to lose weight and that's what I was doing, so I didn't see why it was a problem. My extreme appetite, on the other hand—I could definitely see why that was a big problem, because it was so out of line with what I set out to do: lose weight.

I think this is why anorexics are usually not as motivated to overcome their problem as binge eaters, because that would certainly involve gaining weight, and often a significant amount of weight. This resistance to weight gain and lack of motivation to change makes anorexia more dangerous and deadly than bulimia. Furthermore, if the willed starvation continues long enough, anorexics eventually do lose their appetites.176 A starvation habit (which could be called a "starvation-created brain-wiring problem") sets in, so that eating normal or even small amounts of food feels downright wrong. Anorexics can then follow their starvation habit right to hospitals and, sadly, even to the grave. Indeed, anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any psychiatric disorder.177 Despite health consequences, the anorexic's ego-syntonic drive to be thin makes them feel they doing the right thing; whereas, in the case of a binge eater, it is easier for her to see what she is doing as abnormal and thus separate herself from it.

MINDFULNESS AND THE POWER OF ATTENTION

I found remarkable similarities between the way I separated myself from urges to binge and the process Schwartz used in his study. Specifically, Schwartz taught his OCD patients a skill called "mindfulness," which is essentially "the practice of observing one's inner experiences in a way that is fully aware but nonjudgmental. You stand outside your own mind, observing the spontaneous thoughts and feelings that the brain throws up, observing all this as if it were happening to someone else."178 Schwartz thought that experiencing brain-generated OCD urges with mindfulness—the calm clarity of an external witness—could strengthen his patients' ability to resist them. Without knowing the name of that thinking skill, I was using mindfulness to experience my urges to binge with detachment.

Schwartz believed mindfulness could help his patients because they could use the healthy part of their brain, their prefrontal cortex, to observe their own symptoms, which would give them "an impartial, detached perspective on [their] own thoughts."179 He hypothesized that mindfulness, which " puts mental space between [the] will and the unwanted urges that would otherwise overpower the will,"180 could empower the prefrontal cortex to resist the urges.

Indeed, the prefrontal cortex is capable of resisting urges to binge, which brings me to an important implication of this step. I had to view my prefrontal cortex—my highest human brain—as extremely powerful, as fully capable of standing apart from and resisting any urge. If I saw my highest human brain as being on the same playing field as my lower brain, there is no way I could have separated myself from my urges to binge. But viewing my urges as neurological junk, and my highest human brain as the powerful seat of my true self, allowed me to put brain over binge.

With this mindful separation and distance in place between my highest human brain and my urges, I was able to stop paying attention to them. Attention, as it turns out, is vital to neuroplasticity.181 When we focus attention on a particular task, or on an aspect of the external environment, or on an internal state or sensation, the brain activity physiologically dedicated to whatever we focus on is amplified.182 So it was that when I paid attention to my urges to binge, the neural firing that produced them increased; and when I stopped paying attention to them, the neural firing decreased.

Since neuroplasticity depends on the repeated firing of neurons, paying attention actually strengthened the neural connections and made the habit stronger; and not paying attention weakened the neural connections that comprised my binge-created brain-wiring problem. Indeed, "attention exerts real, physical effects on the dynamics of the brain"183 and can direct neuroplasticity.184 My attention, unlike my automatic urges to binge arising in my lower brain, was something I could control. Brain scans have shown that people can "willfully change the amount and quality of attention that they focus," and this, in turn, changes the brain.185

I could willfully direct attention away from the urges—and onto anything, or on nothing at all—and this acted back on my brain to gradually erase my habit. This doesn't mean I was always able to completely shut the urges out of my awareness, but awareness is different than attention. For example, I am aware of lots of things going on around me right now as I type—music on the baby monitor, the humming of my refrigerator, an occasional drip from my leaky kitchen faucet—and I can be aware of random thoughts popping into my head about things I need to do; but I am not putting conscious effort into thinking about those things, I am not paying attention to those distractions. It was the same with my urges to binge. They were certainly in my awareness when I first quit, but I did not turn my mind toward them; and this is what I mean when I say I "stopped paying attention" to my urges.

SEPARATION TECHNIQUES ARE NOT NEW

Employing separation techniques in the treatment of eating disorders is not unique to this book. The idea of separating the true self from the eating disorder is rather common in the eating disorder community today and is used in some traditional therapies. Women with eating disorders often give their disorders names and personas of their own. Anorexics sometimes call their problem "Ana," bulimics call their disorder "Mia," and women with all types of eating disorders call their problem "Ed"—a play on the abbreviation for eating disorder (ED).

"Ed" has become more popular since the 2004 publication of Life Without Ed, by recovered anorexic and bulimic Jenni Schaefer. In the book, Schaefer describes how she pictured her eating disorder as an abusive husband named Ed living in her own head, whom she had to divorce in order to recover.186 Others have called their bulimia "the Monster," picturing it as an evil brute living inside them.

Whether she calls it Ed, Ana, Mia, or the Monster, the woman envisions the creature/persona as separate from her true self. The creature/persona has a personality of its own. It has thoughts, feelings, and desires that are not normal or healthy and that supposedly cause the woman to perform eating disordered behaviors. In order to recover, the woman must defeat the creature/persona.

Although separation from the disordered thoughts and feelings of bulimia or BED is indeed desirable, there are five main problems with the way separation techniques are used today.

1. Current Separation Techniques Are Unrealistic

It can be very difficult to convince yourself that there is a monster, an evil woman named Mia, or an abusive man named Ed living in your head. Even though the characters are just metaphors and can be useful for some people, many simply can't embrace the idea of these characters seriously. It can be quite a leap for some people to think that their urges to binge are manifestations of a foreign personality who wants to see their demise.

On the other hand, it is fairly easy to see bulimia or BED for what it really is: a habit—a physical expression of a binge-created brain-wiring problem. It's not a monster; it's only neurons firing automatically because of repeated binge eating. It's not an abusive husband; it's the lower brain, doing its job to maintain a habit.

But for those who like the idea of giving their bulimia or BED another name, if it helps conceptualize the fact that urges to binge are not really the true self, then great ... so long as the eating disorder sufferer always remembers that Ed is the binge-created brain-wiring problem—not the "I," but also not a being with bad intentions, not a malicious or abusive ogre aiming for her demise. Ed is only doing his job—driving the bulimic to maintain the habit she's created. She has taught Ed well, and now he automatically does what he's been taught.

2. Current Separation Techniques Allow the Avoidance of Responsibility

"Ed made me to do it." This can become the motto of someone who uses current separation techniques. When a woman separates her true self from Ed, she may then feel she is at the mercy of Ed and so can blame him for her actions. This does not help the woman assert control over her problem; it only helps her assign blame to something other than herself. In short, it can help her avoid responsibility. I am not claiming that Jenni Schaefer's Life Without Ed does this, because it is indeed a powerful story of someone who stood up to her eating disorder and took back her life. However, it is possible for a woman to use the persona of Ed/Mia/the Monster to avoid accountability for controlling her own behavior.

The binge-created brain-wiring problem—or whatever term is used for the habit—has no ability to control the binge eater. Her ability to make conscious choices and to control voluntary muscle movements is unaffected by bulimia and BED. The habit cannot make her go to the refrigerator and put food in her mouth; it can only urge her to do so.

3. Current Separation Techniques Require Unnecessary Battles

Imagining an eating disorder to be an evil persona, a monster, or an abusive man living inside your head means you have to believe you need to defeat it. In my opinion, this causes unnecessary battles. If the bulimic believes Ed/Mia/the Monster is out to get her, it follows that her job will be to counter the attacks with attacks of her own, with fighting back. As already discussed, fighting with urges to binge is useless and can therefore make the bulimic even more frustrated, more angry, more tired. In the long term, it is simply an ineffective strategy.

Not only that, but such battle tactics are likely to make the urges stronger, consequently making the bulimic more prone to follow them. Why? Because by fighting the urges head-on, attention is being turned to them, and this gives them strength. As I talked about earlier, when you focus attention on urges, it amplifies the neural firing that produces them. This, in turn, makes the neural connections that produce the urges even stronger. By fighting with the urges to binge, you are telling your brain to sharpen its awareness of that urge—to pay attention to it; and this only serves to make the urges stronger and the fight more difficult in the long run.

It is a fruitless war. You cannot simply argue your way out of urges to binge. The thoughts and feelings are so automatic that no matter what rational reason there is for not bingeing, the brain will produce a compelling counterargument. Further, it's nearly impossible to lay out a convincing argument to Ed when part of the bulimic fully agrees with him.

I believe it's much more useful to listen to the lower brain's seemingly logical reasons to binge without giving those thoughts any mental focus. This means not fighting with thoughts and feelings, not white-knuckling, not arguing with a fictional mental character. This means not giving urges any attention and simply letting them come and go instead of allowing them to draw you in. This means creating as large a gulf as possible between the highest human brain and the urges.

4. Current Separation Techniques Do Not Draw the True Self/Disorder Separation Line Clearly

Another danger of current separation techniques is that too many problems, thoughts, and emotions are often assigned to the character/persona. A woman may begin attributing all her negative thoughts and feelings about her body, and all of her food issues, to Ed/Mia/the Monster. For example, she could imagine the Monster to be behind any craving for sugar—whether or not it's a craving to binge; she could assign all anxious and depressive feelings to Mia, all negative body concepts to Ed.

This can cause constant confusion about who is talking in your head. It's very possible to lose the abilities to trust one's own thoughts and recognize one's own voice. This is why, in this book, I want to draw a very clear line of separation: your urges to binge are on one side of the line, and you—your true self, your highest human brain—are on the other side. Sure, there may be some problems on the "you" side, such as low self-esteem, perfectionism, anxiety, body image and food issues, and it may be desirous to change some of these things. But to start, the binge eater needs to stay focused on the one problem she's trying to solve, clearly drawing the line between her urges to binge and her self.

5. Current Separation Techniques Can Be Too Playful

Bulimia and BED are dangerous and potentially deadly disorders, and giving the problem a playful name or persona doesn't capture its seriousness. Some women who binge say that the disorder becomes their friend or becomes like a child or pet they need to nurture. Giving the habit a playful name can sometimes contribute to befriending or nurturing bulimia or BED. In reality, bulimia or BED has no personality—it is an automatic function of the lower brain. It is not the bulimic's friend. It is holding her back and endangering her life.

26: Brain over Binge, Step 3: Stop Reacting to Urges to Binge

Once I separated my highest human brain from my urges to binge, it became possible to stop reacting to my urges, meaning that I stopped letting my urges to binge affect me emotionally. Until I separated from the urges, I was emotionally overwhelmed by them. I let them make me mad ("I hate having these cravings!"), frustrated ("I am doing everything right in therapy—I can't believe these urges aren't going away!"), depressed ("Poor me, I want to eat so much, but I know I shouldn't"), anxious ("I am scared that I will binge tonight"), desperate ("I need to binge—now!"), or—when I was on the brink of giving in—excited ("I can't wait to eat").

Reacting emotionally only gave my thoughts power, strength, and the ability to influence me. When I let my thoughts and cravings make me mad, frustrated, depressed, anxious, or excited, I allowed them to take over my whole body and state of mind—and usually lead me right to food. However, after I separated my highest human brain from my urges to binge, I stopped paying attention to these thoughts and feelings, and I therefore became emotionally numb to them.

With distance between myself and my urges to binge, I could experience them as if they were playing on a tape recorder, as if they were not my own thoughts and feelings. They were only the results of neurons firing down well-worn pathways in my lower brain, and they didn't have any power to affect me. Once I stopped relating to them, my urges to binge stopped upsetting me.

As long as I stayed apart from my urges, they had no power over my emotions, and I no longer had to fear them. I could experience them without it being a big deal. I could go on with my life, do what I needed to do, despite those little buzzing thoughts and feelings encouraging me to binge. I didn't need to get upset that my urges were there—because I knew they would burn out before long.

When I say I stopped reacting emotionally, I don't mean I was always able to control my emotions, nor was I trying to. Indeed, emotions, which originate in lower, more primitive parts of the brain, 187 cannot always be controlled and are often resistant to higher-order, rational thought processes. 188 I didn't try to rationalize with or will my emotions away; I simply changed my perspective so that the harmful emotions naturally settled down. I didn't tell myself, Don't get mad at the urge, because angry feelings sometimes arose beyond my control. Instead, I visualized distance between myself and my urges so they no longer had the power to make me angry. I didn't tell myself, Don't be depressed that you can't binge, because depressed feelings sometimes came without my conscious effort. Instead, that new gulf between myself and my urges meant that they no longer had the ability to make me depressed.

This step also involved giving up the idea that I had to figure anything out. I no longer attempted to determine the deep psychological reasons for an urge; I didn't try to find out what triggered my automatic thoughts and feelings; I didn't try to solve any of my other problems to make the urge go away; and I didn't seek out other forms of emotional nourishment in an attempt to suppress the urges. I simple let the urge be, without getting caught up in it.

The ability to stop reacting emotionally to urges flowed naturally from my new knowledge that the urges were separate from my highest human brain. In other words, Step 3 flowed naturally from Step 2. In turn, Step 4 flowed naturally from Step 3, and Step 4 was the cure for my bulimia.

27: Brain over Binge, Step 4: Stop Acting on Urges to Binge

Not only did separating myself from my urges give me the power to stop reacting emotionally to them; more importantly, it gave me the capacity to stop acting on them. This fourth step defined my recovery, because once I stopped acting on my urges to binge, I was no longer bulimic. I was cured.

I finally realized that I had the ability to stop putting too much food in my mouth; and I felt powerfully that my actions were not out of my control. My brain, my neurons, my habit couldn't make me do anything. I could finally hear my faulty brain activity for the farce that it always was, and it became relatively easy not to act. My recovery was nothing more than learning to say no.

I didn't have to substitute any other activity for those inappropriate motor actions my lower brain had me doing in the past, like standing by an open refrigerator putting too much food in my mouth, or driving to fast-food places and gas stations to waste money on binge food. I didn't have to distract myself with a hobby, physical work, phone calls, or journaling. I didn't have to do anything productive. I didn't have to find a way to meet my emotional needs. I just went about my day as if I were not experiencing an urge to binge, and sometimes—if I had nothing else to do—I just sat or lay down to listen to my brain with detachment.

I actually came to enjoy hearing thoughts and feelings that encouraged me to binge without acting on them, because it gave me a great sense of power. I liked to simply listen to those urges with complete detachment. I often thought back to the days when those urges had controlled me, and I reveled in the fact that I was back in the driver's seat. I loved that I could trust myself again.

It wasn't a struggle for me to not act on my urges. Sometimes it wasn't an enjoyable experience, either, but it was never a fight. When I was first getting used to viewing my urges as "not really me," there were a few times when I doubted my ability not to act on them, when I temporarily lost the separation of my highest human brain from my urges. If I started thinking it was really me who wanted to binge, I could get wrapped up in my cravings; and this is why I binged one more time after making my commitment to quit. After my slip, I was able to look back and see when I had stopped listening as a detached observer of my lower brain and had started relating to my cravings. I saw that I had simply failed to put brain over binge and thus had been swept away by a wave of faulty neural activity. I was even more determined not to let it happen again.

WHY THE URGES WENT AWAY

My urges to binge tapered off quickly after I stopped acting on them. In Rational Recovery, Jack Trimpey says this will happen. He writes that the voice encouraging use of the addictive substance will fall silent if it is ignored. However, I still wondered, Why did this happen? How did my urges simply disappear? Is my bulimia merely hiding out somewhere in my brain, waiting to take control again?

Jeffrey Schwartz's OCD study, discussed earlier, finally gave me an answer to these questions. Schwartz's work explained why my urges to binge had disappeared and taught me that my bulimia was certainly not waiting to take control again. By avoiding acting on my urges to binge, I had physically changed my brain so that my bulimia no longer existed.

By teaching his patients to use mindfulness and think differently about their urges, Schwartz gave them the power to turn attention away from the urges, stop acting on them, and improve their OCD behaviors. What is more, he found evidence that these improvements were accompanied by real, measurable, physical changes in their brains.

When the treatment began, the pathological brain circuitry of the OCD patients dominated, and they were submitting to their OCD urges. However, over the course of several weeks, as they changed the way they "thought about their thoughts, "189 they were able to produce "systematic changes in the very neural systems that generate those pathological messages. "190

The result was not only a change in their behavior, but also a dampening of metabolic activity in the regions of the brain whose previous over-activity caused the OCD symptoms.191 Schwartz gave his patients what he called "an avenue to self-directed neuroplasticity."192 Neuroplasticity, as you will recall, is the ability of the brain to physically change based on our thoughts, experiences, and actions.

Thus, the patients' willful choices not to act on their urges fed back into their brains, creating the physical changes that made the choices subsequently easier and easier. Schwartz says, "Though OCD symptoms may be generated, passively, by the brain, the choice of whether to view those symptoms as 'me' or 'OCD,' whether to become ensnared by them or focus on a non-pathological behavior, is active. The choice is generated by a patient's mind, and it changes [the] brain."193

This was the first study of its kind to show that therapy without drugs can change faulty brain chemistry.194 Indeed, the changes Schwartz identified on the OCD patients' PET scans "were the kind that neuropsy-chiatrists might see in patients being treated with powerful mind-altering drugs."195

I believe that, just like Schwartz's OCD patients, my mind (my true self) changed my brain. My highest human brain vetoed each and every urge, and in doing so, I rewired my lower brain. My lower brain learned that I no longer binged, and it therefore stopped urging me to do so. Again, when it comes to the brain, what you no longer use, you lose.196 Once the neural connections that fueled my binge-created brain-wiring problem were no longer useful, my brain weakened them and pruned them. In other words, once I put brain over binge, my bulimia was over.

28 Brain over Binge, Step 5: Get Excited

Step 5 was a bonus. It was a natural result of resisting my urges to binge; but little did I know, it actually served to speed along my brain changes. Praise, from others or from within, and enthusiasm for learning something new cement that learning on a physical level in the brain.197 This is why we all naturally praise babies and children for their small feats. It not only makes them feel good, but it has a physical effect on their brains, making those accomplishments easier for the child to repeat in the future. It is the same with adults. In short, "Celebrating a new discovery increases the likelihood that it will be remembered."198

I got excited every time I had thoughts and feelings encouraging me to binge and didn't act on them; every time I felt a craving without letting it lead me to the refrigerator; every time I had powerful urges to binge but remained detached and unaffected by them. I was really excited. My urges had consumed me for years, and all of a sudden, I had power over them. It felt as though I had been granted a brand-new life, even though nothing changed except my binge eating.

What I didn't know was that every time I got excited, I was focusing positive attention on my highest human brain's accomplishment. Since brain functions that are given attention and significance strengthen, and brain functions that are not given attention and significance weaken, it only makes sense that this would have sped along my brain changes. Focusing on the power of my highest human brain and congratulating myself for it served to strengthen new connections in the prefrontal parts of my brain and weaken the old ones in the automatic, lower parts of my brain.

No, I do not have scientific proof of my brain changes, as Schwartz had with his OCD patients. I do not have a PET scan of my brain before and after my recovery to illustrate exactly where and how these physical changes occurred. What I do have as evidence is my experience: I no longer have urges to binge. Thoughts, feelings, and urges don't arise out of nothing. Every moment of our experience is the result of neural activity,199 and unless electrical signals from neurons fire across synapses, we don't experience sensations. 200 Since all sensations encouraging me to binge—all the thoughts, feelings, and urges—disappeared completely, I can only conclude it's because the neurons that once fired their electrical signals to produce those thoughts, feelings, and urges are no longer firing.

My "self-directed neuroplasticity, " as Schwartz labeled it in his OCD patients, was a real biological cure for my bulimia. My eating disorder is no longer wired into my brain. This doesn't mean I will never have an urge to binge in the future, because, as I'll discuss in the next chapter, it is possible for neurons to remember old patterns of activity. However, if my lower brain sends out an urge in the future, I will know exactly what to do: I will listen to it with detachment, and I won't react emotionally to it or act on it. Then, my habit can never develop again.

29: Is Relapse a Possibility?

My urges to binge were the one and only cause of my binge eating, and my urges to binge are gone; therefore, I won't binge again. Due to my brain changes, it's doubtful that I'll ever feel an urge to binge again; however, it is certainly possible. I'm sure my lower brain remembers my past at some level and remains capable of producing urges; but that doesn't mean I'm at risk for relapse.

In order to relapse, I would have to not only experience an urge to binge, but choose to act on it. The cause of a relapse is the same as the cause of any binge eating episode: an urge to binge. Now that I know that my urges are the real problem, and now that I know how to deal with those urges, I have foolproof protection against relapse. To prevent relapse, all I have to do is never act on an urge to binge, ever.

Granted, if I did act on urges to binge one day, I could probably redevelop the habit of bulimia rather quickly. Just as an out-of-practice musician can begin to play much more easily than someone who has never played, I could probably reestablish my binge-created brain-wiring problem easier than someone who has never had bulimia. But to develop my habit again, I would have to choose to. My brain cannot reestablish old patterns of neural activity unless I willingly take action.

But why would I do that? Now that I have tasted freedom from my urges and compulsions, there is simply no chance that I would ever binge again. Now that I know my binge eating was never a way of coping with life, I will never let difficult life events turn into excuses for binge eating. Now that I know binge eating wasn't a symbolic way of fulfilling emotional needs, I will not delude myself into thinking I could find comfort in binge eating.

RELAPSE IN TRADITIONAL THERAPY

"Relapse after treatment is relatively common. "201 One study found a 35 percent relapse rate for bulimia.202 In traditional therapy, relapse is often blamed on the failure of the patient to "recognize and confront any underlying issue."203 The supposed reason for relapse often depends on which type of therapy is being used. For example, in psychodynamic therapy, relapse could potentially happen if the patient does not fully deal with shame from prior sexual abuse, and she binges to stuff down those shameful feelings that she can't deal with. From the perspective of cognitive behavioral therapy, relapse could happen if the patient's self-esteem is still shaky. If she fails in some way, such as getting fired from a job or stood up on a date, she could feel terrible about herself and binge to escape feelings of worthlessness. In addiction treatment, relapse could happen if the patient eats one of the foods she is supposedly powerless against, such as a piece of cake or something else containing white sugar.

In all of these examples, relapse supposedly happens because of an outside event or an inner conflict. Relapse is something that happens to you in traditional therapy, not something you bring upon yourself, not something you choose. This type of thinking only promotes relapse. The truth is, relapse doesn't happen because of inner emotional turmoil, stressful life events, or eating a piece of cake. Relapse is a choice.

I've been through plenty of hard times since I recovered, and not once did I consider binge eating. I've also been through plenty of happy times since then, and not once did I consider binge eating. Because I separated my bulimia from my other problems and all life events, nothing causes me to contemplate binge eating. My eating disorder will not spring up again, catching me off guard, throwing me into the abyss of uncontrollable bingeing and purging.

If one day I happen to hear an old thought or feel an old feeling encouraging me to binge eat, I can say, No thanks, brain, I don't binge anymore, and go about my day. It won't matter when the urge occurs, it won't matter what I'm feeling at the time, and it won't matter what problems I may be dealing with—I simply won't act on it.

Another insurance I have against relapse is that the factors that originally caused my urges to binge when I was a teenager—dieting, strong survival instincts, and incomplete development of my prefrontal cortex—no longer exist. I don't diet anymore, and even if I did, my survival instincts would not be as strong as they were when I was younger. Furthermore, if I did choose to diet, my prefrontal cortex would be better able to override those survival instincts, because it is now fully developed. At nearly 30 years of age, dieting simply wouldn't cause the same biological havoc in me that it did when I was 16. I will talk much more about dieting and eating normally in Chapters 31 and 32. The bottom line is: nothing can make me relapse besides free choice—not survival instincts, not neurological remnants of my old habit, not life stress, not character flaws, not emotional issues.

Now that I know what my bulimia was all about and how I was able to recover, I am free to move on with my life, knowing that I will never again become bulimic.

30: Where I Am Today

In therapy, I often feared recovery because I worried about what was to come after my bulimia ended. I thought I had to be something great after recovery—fulfilled, confident, successful, spiritual, and capable of dealing with anything life threw my way. My lower brain often used this idea to create excuses to binge. On days when I didn't binge yet still had a bad day for reasons wholly unrelated to eating, I heard thoughts like these: I didn't binge, and my day wasn't any better than if I had, so what's the point of quitting? ... I'll never amount to anything, so I might as well keep binge eating.... Life is too hard anyway, so there isn't any reason to recover.

Looking back over my old journals, I see multiple lists of "Reasons to Recover" containing lofty ambitions like, "I can fully give myself to someone else (be in love)," "I can find a fulfilling career," "I can live peacefully in the moment," "I can be confident and fully accept myself and my body." However, no amount of envisioning my transformation could convince my lower brain that recovery was better than binge eating. Eventually, I had to accept that I needed to recover, whether or not I'd be better off afterward. I had to do as Rational Recovery suggested and "simply quit [my] addiction, now and for good, and let the chips fall where they may."204

Turns out, my life is much better after recovery, but not because I'm always happy or fulfilled, and not because I've accomplished spectacular things. My life is better simply because I stopped a shameful, time-consuming, expensive, health-sabotaging, and life-draining habit. I haven't binged in over five years, and my life is not perfect by far—it certainly isn't like the recovery I envisioned in my journals. I can't tell you I am emotionally and spiritually fulfilled or completely happy in every aspect of my life. I can't tell you I eat a perfectly healthy and balanced diet, keep a consistent exercise routine, and love my body, because that would be pure exaggeration.

My recovery was not the butterfly tale I talked about at the start of this book. But I can say that stopping my bulimia has brought me a long way toward becoming the person I want to be. Stopping my habit has given me more confidence, more strength, and most importantly, more control over my life than I ever could have imagined just a handful of years ago. I am thankful every day that I no longer binge and no longer have to spend my days at the gym. I am also thankful that I don't have to work on my recovery one day at a time. My recovery is over, and there is nothing I have to do to maintain it—no meal plans, no support groups, no counseling to cope with life to prevent me from returning to binge eating.

Stopping my habit has given me the chance to have a real life. I have a wonderful husband and my three beautiful and loving children— Maximilian Thomas, Amelia Eden, and my new baby girl who I have yet to meet—who keep me laughing, very busy, and often very tired. The possibility of becoming a mother seemed unfeasible during the years I was bulimic, because I was so caught up in my own problems that I couldn't give much to anyone else. Now, although I struggle with the everyday stress of being a parent, I am able to care for my family without my disorder draining my energy, my time, and my spirit. I am able to pursue goals, nurture relationships, and simply perform my daily activities as a stay-at-home mom without constantly having to worry about whether or not I will binge.

Life isn't easy, and if I still believed I binged to cope, I could find lots of excuses in my life. I feel quite alone raising our children much of the time, as my family and Greg's family live far away and Greg's work takes up a great deal of his time. I miss my parents, my sister—who I've become very close to again as we've entered motherhood—and her three children, but right now living near them is not possible. I feel a great deal of anxiety in my home because we live in a high-crime area, and I don't have many friends where we live. Granted, these are rather ordinary problems, but I'm sure if I were still bulimic, my lower brain could find lots of "poor me" stories to tempt me to binge.

One of the more difficult things that happened to me came only a few months after I stopped binge eating. My childhood home, which my parents still lived in at the time, was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Of course, the most important thing was that my parents were all right, because ultimately, material things can be replaced. Still, it was a difficult time for us and many of my family members and friends who lived in the New Orleans area and lost so much. However, it was very different to experience a major life event without it having any implications on bulimia. There was nothing special I had to do to cope with the crisis to prevent binge eating, because my binge eating was over.

I simply coped the best way I knew how. A week after the storm, Greg and I requested leave from work, loaded up our car with supplies, and drove 1,500 miles across the country to help my parents. In my bulimic days, this would have been a very "dangerous" situation in that, when we were in Louisiana, we didn't know where our next meal would come from and we didn't have much control over what we ate. A local charity organization provided food for our community, and there was no choice in what was served and when it was served. Prior to quitting, this would have caused me a lot of stress; but after recovery, I was able to accept whatever food was given with nothing but gratitude.

My parents had about six feet of water in their one-story house, so we had to throw out just about everything. It was a surreal feeling to see all the things I'd grown up with in a huge, wet, dirty pile in our front yard. I saw the pain on my parents' faces as we worked, knowing how much effort and love they had put into that house over the years. I didn't quite know what to say, so I quietly carried load after load of moldy drywall out of the house in a wheelbarrow and dumped it on the pile.

At one point, my dad and Greg had to cut a hole in a kitchen wall to remove the refrigerator—one I had binged from countless times. As they lowered it into the garage, it began to leak, and there is nothing I could say that would accurately describe the horrible odor that came from it. They quickly put it down, and we all ran as far away from the house as possible to escape the smell. As I looked at the refrigerator in the garage, I thought about how I once thought the food in it was laden with symbolic meaning in my life. I once believed it held my emotions, my pain, my inadequacies, our family conflicts; and now all its contents were spilling out on the ground in a putrid mess. I could finally see food for what it was: just food—nothing more, nothing less.

I might have had an urge to binge while I was helping with cleanup efforts in Louisiana, but honestly, I don't really remember because other memories of that time are much more prominent. If I did experience any remnants of my binge-created brain-wiring problem, I was able to ignore them and perform the work at hand. As Greg and I drove back to Phoenix, we traveled the same route that my dad and I had taken when I first moved there a year and a half prior. I remembered, while on that drive with my dad, I had been anxious about binge eating and wondering how I would ever recover.

Now I was traveling the same road and fully recovered, even if the urges to binge hadn't fully tapered off yet. The drive this time was much more like when I drove to meet Greg while I was on Topamax, in that I may have had other problems and life may have been difficult, but I was suddenly free to other possibilities. This time, my freedom was all of my own making. I didn't know the full extent of it at the time, but by taking control and changing my behavior, I was physically changing my brain—erasing the very neural pathways that had kept me trapped for so long. I was becoming normal again—flaws and all.

In the next section, I'll explain a little more about what my life is like today as I address topics often discussed in traditional therapy, like self-esteem, poor body image, coping with problems, and triggers. By talking about these topics and things like purging, medication, and prevention, I hope to present a new view of these issues that is more conducive to recovery.

PART III: Therapy Concepts Reexamined

31: Normal Eating

The tricky thing about bulimia was, I could stop binge eating, but I couldn't stop eating. It wasn't like breaking the habit of drug or alcohol addiction, where one can just avoid a substance completely. I needed to eat to live, but I needed to learn to eat "normally." And, unfortunately, there is no easy answer to the question of how to eat normally. Everyone has different needs, different tastes, different likes and dislikes, different metabolisms, different activity levels, and different needs to lose or gain weight. Furthermore, the question of how to eat normally is not specific to those with a history of eating disorders. Everyone faces the challenges of making food choices, listening to the needs of the body, and trying to eat optimally based on their goals.

When I first quit binge eating, I defined "normal eating" in general terms: normal eating meant I did not binge, and I did not diet restrictively. I knew my eating habits should ideally meet all of my nutritional needs, make me feel healthy, allow me to maintain a healthy weight, yet be pleasurable and allow for some indulgences. My only real goal at that point, however, was to stop binge eating, not to have a perfect diet. I told myself that once I got over my habit, I would work on perfecting my diet; but to this day, I still don't have what I would consider a perfect diet.

I eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm full, although not 100 percent of the time. I eat a little too much at meals occasionally, and sometimes I don't eat enough because I'm too busy to sit down for a meal. I like desserts, and I probably eat a little too much sugar and processed foods. However, my imperfect diet is not a signal that my eating disorder is not over. I've learned over the years that no one eats perfectly. All that matters is that I am generally satisfied with my eating habits because I now have the freedom to eat what I want, when I want, and yet I never take it to the extreme, meaning I never binge or diet. I enjoy eating healthy food and exercising, and I strive to maintain good nutritional habits.

I AM NOT THAT DIFFERENT

My recovery did not involve establishing a healthy eating plan and sticking to it, attaining and maintaining my ideal weight, being able to eat any type of food without worrying about weight gain, or even avoiding all overeating, because those things are not specific to bulimia. Recovery taught me a simple fact when it came to my diet (and many other topics I often talked about in therapy): I am not that different. It was a misfortune that I learned in therapy to set myself apart from the rest of the population. I got the message that I couldn't just eat like everyone else.

Those who recover with traditional therapy often follow meal plans indefinitely, thinking that those plans will somehow keep the bulimia from coming back. However, after I recovered, I realized I could simply resume eating like other people. This doesn't mean I haven't had food challenges since recovery, it only means that the challenges I've faced are similar to those that everyone else faces every day. Everyone—not just those with eating disorders—has to decide what to eat for meals and snacks, assess their body's hunger and fullness signals, and decide whether or not to overindulge in favorite foods. Many people worry that certain foods will make them gain weight. In fact, it seems as though most of the U.S. population has some sort of food issue. I am not saying the prevalence of hang-ups about eating should be an acceptable thing in our culture; however, less-than-healthy eating habits and attitudes do not define an eating disorder.

When I was in therapy, I often looked at some of my friends, coworkers, and family members with curiosity, wondering how it was that they didn't have eating disorders when it seemed obvious to me that they had many food issues. A couple of my co-workers talked endlessly about their diets—what they'd had for lunch, how many calories they'd burned during their last workout, how much weight they'd gained or lost. Some of my friends frequently turned down desserts, fast food, and foods high in carbohydrates because they were trying to lose weight. Others lamented about eating too much at a meal or special occasion. Some of my family members were much more fervent about running than I ever was during my days of anorexia.

It often made me angry that other people could have what I thought were "eating disorder symptoms," yet still be considered normal. Why was I singled out as the one with the eating disorder when everywhere I looked, other people had all kinds of food issues? After I recovered and returned to the world of normal eaters, I realized that the spectrum of "normal" is so wide that it was foolish of me to think that many of those I knew had eating disorders. They might have had some food hang-ups, but they were normal nonetheless. Some people simply choose to place a high emphasis on appearance and spend a lot of time trying to get or maintain an ideal body, without it being a problem for them. This is not a lifestyle choice I personally agree with, but I'm not going to condemn others for it or call them "eating disordered."

Therapy gave too much significance to what, when, and how I ate and the feelings surrounding eating. In therapy, it was as if I wrapped up every food issue I had in a box and stamped it BULIMIA, when in fact binge eating and purging were the only food issues that should have been in that box. The advice I gave to myself after I stopped binge eating is the same advice I would give to anyone with any type of food issue: if the food issues I have don't affect my life negatively, I don't need to address them; but if my food hang-ups do affect my life negatively, I should change them.

Indeed, I have changed some of my eating habits for the better. Without binge eating getting in the way, I am now able to see the amazing health benefits food can have. For instance, I rid my diet of an overabundance of artificially sweetened "low-calorie" foods. For years during my eating disorder, I thought low-calorie soda, cookies, yogurt, and candy were good for me just because they were "diet" food. I often chose those options over things I considered "too fattening," like avocados and nuts, which are in fact extremely healthy, even if high in calories. Today, I would much rather munch down a large serving of almonds for a snack than eat a few artificially sweetened cookies. I'm not saying I'd always refuse a "diet" snack; but if I do choose to eat one on a rare occasion, I'm no longer deceived into thinking it's always healthy.

Another food issue I changed was my tendency to always accept dessert when it was offered to me, even if I truly didn't want it. Now, if I have no desire for a dessert, I simply say no. I've also stopped comparing what I eat to what others eat, especially other women. I have a high metabolism, so I can eat—and need to eat—more food than the average woman. I've also become very decisive about what I'm going to eat. I used to deliberate for a long time when looking at menus or deciding what to fix myself for meals. Now I just choose something quickly—remembering that it's just one meal and it doesn't have to be perfect—and then get on with the business of living. These simple improvements just increased my quality of life; they were not a part of recovery or relapse prevention.

I hope to make even more improvements to my eating habits in the future. I have a vision of myself eating primarily whole, organic foods; enjoying cooking; and eating to fully and completely nourish every cell in my body and ward off disease, because food is truly an amazing thing when considering all of the health benefits of eating optimally. Right now, due to time and financial constraints, not to mention lack of cooking skills, I don't come close to that ideal. But I'm doing my best until circumstances will allow me to do better. Until then, I take some supplements to try to reap the benefits that may be lacking from my regular diet.

SURPRISE: I DIDN'T LOSE TOUCH WITH MY APPETITE

While I was caught up in binge eating and purging, it was hard to fathom simply eating normally. I felt I'd lost touch with my fullness and hunger signals, because I'd plowed through the fullness signals so many times while bingeing and ignored the hunger signals so many times while purging. I felt I'd never be able to control myself around food. I thought I would never be able to just eat and not worry much about it. But after I stopped binge eating, I realized that I hadn't lost touch after all.

I already knew how to eat normally, even though I hadn't done it in a long time. I also knew what normal eating looked like because I'd spent years watching other people eat, often critiquing their eating habits. Furthermore, I was highly educated about healthy diets, and I had followed plenty of nutritionist-approved meal plans over the years. My bulimia most likely did alter my hunger and satiety mechanisms to some extent, but it didn't take long for those signals to re-regulate themselves. In the weeks and months after I quit binge eating, I just ate normally day after day, based on my understanding of normal eating, and my body and brain adjusted quickly. Soon, eating normally based on my levels of hunger and fullness became effortless.

BRAIN POWER

I found that it was not useful to worry much about my diet in the weeks and months after my recovery. I ate what worked for me, and I ate what I liked; I just didn't listen to my lower brain when it urged me to binge. I believe that my lack of focus on my diet during that period was tremendously helpful, in that it turned my attention away from food. I was devoting less brain power to food and eating; and not obsessing about it showed my lower brain that food and eating didn't need to be assigned so much significance. As explained in Chapter 25, this lack of attention allowed my brain to weaken the neural connections that kept me focused on food.

Even though I tried not to worry so much about food after I quit binge eating, what and how much I ate sometimes caused my brain to react automatically. My lower brain sometimes acted up when I ate too much, too little, or when I ate certain types of foods. I found that there were three main eating situations that caused these reactions:

1. Urges to Binge Arose When I Overate

When I first stopped binge eating, my lower brain definitely acted up when I overate. This only made sense. Overeating had led me to binge in the past, so my lower brain had learned an association or pattern. Since that was what was currently programmed in my brain, that's what I had to live with until it learned otherwise. For example, if I ate a little too much at a restaurant, I sometimes experienced a conditioned response. Automatic thoughts arose such as, You overdid it. This is proof that you can't control yourself around food; you might as well binge now and start over tomorrow, and I sometimes began to feel a craving to binge.

I tried not to let this catch me off guard. I learned to expect my lower brain to act up when I ate a bit too much, and I always reminded myself that overeating was not the problem—it was never the cause of my binge eating. Besides, it wasn't realistic to think that I'd go through life never indulging a little too much in pleasurable foods; everyone overeats from time to time. It didn't take long for my lower brain to stop producing urges when I was full. Then I was able to eat an extra piece of cake or another helping of a delicious dinner with confidence that it wouldn't get out of hand.

Obviously, I'm not saying that overeating is actually a goal of mine; but although I aim to eat healthy portions as often as possible, I do enjoy having the freedom to indulge every now and then. I like being able to eat a big holiday meal without worrying that I'll polish off the leftovers after the guests go home. It's actually nice to feel a little too full once in a while.

2. Urges to Binge Arose When I Underate

I also found that my lower brain generated urges to binge when I ate too little or when I chose low-calorie foods. Again, this was my brain's automatic, conditioned response. By dieting, I'd made my lower brain hypersensitive to food shortages, so that it became particularly resistant to any form of dieting. Even though I had not dieted in a long time, my survival instincts were still on heightened alert; and furthermore, since I often binged soon after undereating, my lower brain had learned that undereating leads to binge eating. So it automatically produced urges to binge whenever there was any hint of food restriction.

I was well aware that food restriction caused this brain reaction. Until some time went by and my lower brain learned that there was no longer a threat of starvation and that I no longer binged after undereating, I had to deal with this. This is not to say I allowed myself to eat anything and everything in order to prevent my body from feeling deprived. That would not have been healthy, and it also would not have been dealing with the real problem—the urges to binge.

For example, let's say I went to dinner at a restaurant and really wanted a hamburger, but instead ordered a salad because I had eaten a lot for lunch. As I ate the salad, I began having an urge to binge, and my lower brain generated thoughts of all the food I could eat when I got home. I felt automatic feelings of resentment for the salad, longing for more fattening foods. It wasn't the salad's fault that I had the urge to binge, and it wasn't my fault for ordering the salad, because I really thought it was the best choice. But my decision to have salad didn't mean I was then destined to binge, because what I did or did not eat was never the cause of binge eating.

In the weeks and months after I stopped binge eating, what I did or didn't eat could certainly trigger urges to binge. During my years of therapy, I was in for a real mess every time I tried to sit down for a meal. Because therapy had taught me that what I ate or didn't eat was the problem, I had to constantly ask myself, What food is least likely to cause binge eating? I had to try to pick meals that weren't too excessive, weren't too restrictive, didn't contain any binge foods, and didn't contain much sugar; even so, there were no guarantees against binge eating.

But once I learned that the urges to binge were the real problem and learned to deal with those urges, I discovered that deliberating over every decision regarding food wasn't necessary. I stopped having to worry about what I would order at a restaurant. I could order what I wanted, or even what I thought I should eat, as in the salad example; and if it ended up producing an urge to binge, that was no big deal. I simply put brain over binge, ate the food I ordered, and refused to be bothered by my lower brain's pesky responses.

Just as nearly everyone overeats from time to time, nearly everyone undereats from time to time too. When I was in therapy, I used to marvel at normal people who would make comments like, "I'm starving, I haven't had a thing to eat all day," or "I didn't have time for lunch today," or "I had to rush out of the house and didn't get breakfast." This seemed unfathomable to me because I was so used to trying to follow meal plans and making sure I never got too hungry or too full. Today, I find myself saying those same unfathomable things. I certainly don't try to skip meals; but if it happens, it's not a problem. My occasional undereating no longer leads to urges to binge.

After I first quit binge eating, I sometimes decided I hadn't eaten enough, and I would seek out more food in normal amounts. For instance, in the situation where I ordered a salad and then had an urge to binge, I might have realized that the salad had not satisfied my physical needs. Ignoring my urges to binge did not mean I ignored my brain's normal hunger signals as well. After eating the salad, I'd know that the next time I went to dinner, it would be better for me to eat something more filling—not in an effort to prevent binge eating, but in order to meet my physical needs. But what would I do right after eating the salad and leaving the restaurant?

Prior to recovering, I probably would have been swept away physically and emotionally by the urge to binge; and I would have sped home or to the nearest fast-food restaurant and commenced a binge. After I recovered, that was simply not an option because I no longer acted on my urges; and I knew I didn't need to binge. So, instead of acting irrationally based on the automatic messages in my lower brain, I simply left the restaurant and ate a little more—rationally, with my highest human brain in the driver's seat. For example, I might have had one bowl of cereal when I got home, despite the fact that my lower brain was urging me to eat many more bowls.

Eating rationally to meet my physical needs did not magically take my urges to binge away. But it did help send my brain a message—that food was not in short supply. I believe that my effort not to undereat in the months after I quit binge eating helped my brain tame my survival instincts and, therefore, made my urges to binge vanish more quickly.

3. Urges to Binge Arose When I Ate My Most Pleasurable or Former Binge Foods

It only made sense that eating a food I used to binge on sometimes created an urge to binge. For example, I used to eat dozens of cookies at a time during a binge, so after I stopped binge eating, eating a few cookies sometimes generated an urge to binge. Cookies are high in sugar and fat, and very palatable; they were prime targets for my survival-instinct-driven binges—so bingeing on cookies became a habit. If I had been unaware of what was going on in my lower brain, as I was prior to recovering, it would have been easy to think that the cookies were to blame and that I could not control myself around my former binge foods. However, knowing that the urges were the real problem and knowing how to deal with them allowed me to eat any former binge food that I wanted.

By repeatedly bingeing on sweet and fattening foods in the past, I had created a pattern in my brain known as a "stimulus-response pattern" (which I will talk about more in Chapter 35). Whenever I encountered the stimulus—cookies, in this example—my lower brain automatically generated a response: an urge to binge. This happened only because I had taught my lower brain that cookies equaled binge eating. Temporarily, after I quit, I had to deal with the automatic urges to binge that sometimes arose when I ate former binge foods, knowing that no food could propel me to binge against my will.

There was nothing wrong with a little indulgence in former binge foods. If eating a certain food created an urge, I simply separated myself from it, didn't react emotionally, and didn't act on it. As I ate my former binge foods time and time again without binge eating, I broke my brain's stimulus-response patterns. Because I allowed myself to eat former binge foods in moderation, I was able to quickly break those patterns.

While in therapy, I had often tried to eat binge foods in moderation, but with little success. I believe that was troublesome because I had the wrong expectations. I expected that doing this would take away my urges to binge on those foods, and this expectation was definitely perpetuated by my therapists. Since I didn't know how to deal with the urges to binge, I still binged on those foods. Today, eating former binge foods in moderation is completely effortless because my urges to binge are gone. There is nothing about sugar or fat that makes me lose control and eat dozens of cookies, nor was there ever. It was my choice all along; I just didn't know how to say no.

Although I did allow myself to eat former binge foods that I liked, there were some that I had no desire to eat in any amount—sticky buns and Twinkies come to mind. Many of the foods I binged on, I truly didn't want. Only when my lower brain was in control did I feel the irrational need for the unhealthiest of foods; after I stopped binge eating, I felt no need to incorporate those foods into my diet.

When I was bulimic, I used to think that nearly every craving for a pleasurable food was a disguised craving for a binge. However, after my recovery, I learned that there is a tremendous difference between an urge to binge and a craving for a pleasurable food. Everyone has food cravings and wants to indulge in pleasurable foods from time to time; I am no different. After my recovery, I learned that I faced the same choices as the rest of the population when I felt like indulging in a treat: have the treat or don't have it; have a small portion, a moderate amount, or overindulge a little. Whatever choices I made in regard to eating pleasurable foods, they didn't lead to binge eating.

It wasn't long before I felt completely confident in having treats—a small cookie ... or five; a piece of birthday cake ... or two; a small scoop of ice cream ... or a large fudge sundae; a small order of fries ... or a super-size portion—without it getting out of control. I also felt confident in sometimes saying no to those sugary and fattening foods, knowing that I wouldn't go home later and eat an entire box of cookies. This is because I learned that, regardless of when my urges to binge popped up—whether it was while eating a cookie or a salad—I could easily recognize them and choose not to act.

"LEGALIZING" BINGE FOODS

Traditional therapy and self-help books for binge eaters often recommend learning to eat former binge foods in moderation (the exception is addiction therapy, which recommends complete abstinence from problem foods). "Legalizing" foods is an especially important part of cognitive behavioral therapy. As discussed above, I believe legalizing foods can certainly help the urges to binge subside after binge eating stops, because it deconditions the brain so that the former binge foods no longer create urges to binge.

Legalizing sometimes doesn't appeal to people with eating disorders, because many of them are, ironically, extremely health conscious. That is, their highest human brains are health conscious, while their lower brains are running on programs that are health-sabotaging. They may honestly not want any former binge foods in any amount, because they know that those sugary and fattening foods aren't good for their health. If you are one of these people, don't feel you have to put sugary, fatty, and often chemical-laden food into your body in the name of recovery. Just as it's not necessary to avoid your former binge foods, it's not necessary to eat them, either.

If you decide to avoid all former binge foods, you only have to remember that if and when you do decide to eat a former binge food—which you most likely will at some point in your life—expect that your lower brain may produce an urge to binge. It may automatically fire up some old patterns of neural activity, but as long as you know how to put brain over binge, this shouldn't bother you at all.

MEAL PLANS

Just because I didn't choose to follow a meal plan when I stopped binge eating doesn't mean I don't think they can be useful for others. After a bulimic stops binge eating, if she feels she can't eat normally without the guidance of a meal plan, then by all means, she should use one. There is no special formula for a correct meal plan, as long as it provides adequate nutrition. Individuals can create custom meal plans for themselves by doing some research into healthy diets, or they can consult a nutritionist or dietician to educate them and help them develop a plan that will meet particular needs. Even those without eating disorders use meal plans sometimes to make sure their bodies are properly nourished.

Having said all this, there are some things to keep in mind in order to use a meal plan effectively. First and foremost, it won't make urges to binge go away. Rather, meal plans help people eat normally despite their urges to binge. The urges that will inevitably arise signal only automatic faulty brain activity—not an ineffective meal plan. Of course, the goal is to eventually get off the meal plan and have freedom to eat what and when you want, as long as there's no bingeing.

Conversely, not being on any type of food regimen after binge eating stops might be the preference. The lower brain may react to a meal plan as it would react to a diet—becoming extremely defensive and sending out powerful cravings for more and more food. Also, meal plans can require a lot of advance preparation and thus create unnecessary stress, again devoting too much attention to food and eating when it would be better directed elsewhere. So if meal plans are just not for you, trust yourself and don't worry so much about what and when you eat. It really doesn't matter as long as urges to binge are recognized but not followed.

32: Body Image, Weight, and Dieting

I don't remember ever liking my body. In my mind, there was always something wrong with it; and even now, I don't necessarily like my body—although it's infinitely easier to live in when it's not bloated from all the binge eating. While I was in therapy, I thought I needed to cure my poor body image in order to recover. Yet, everywhere I looked, I saw women who had poor body images, just like me, who supposedly didn't have eating disorders. Just as I thought all my friends, co-workers, and family members with food issues had eating disorders, I believed that everyone I met with a poor body image had a potential eating disorder as well. But they did not. Poor body image is in no way unique to women with eating disorders; poor body image doesn't cause or maintain bulimia; and developing a good body image is not a cure for bulimia.

Body image is predominantly a cultural problem. The majority of women in American society, and many men for that matter, have some hang-ups about their bodies and have some physical features they wish they could change. In fact, the National Eating Disorders Association reported that 80 percent of American women are not satisfied with their bodies.205 In one study, 74.5 percent of women aged 25-45 reported that "their concerns about shape and weight interfered with their happiness."206 However, only a small fraction of American women have eating disorders—about 1 to 3 percent.207

Body image concerns are merely one reason that some people may begin dieting; and for a small percentage—due to many factors, including biology, genetics, and personality—diets become problematic. Dieting and the accompanying brain changes can cause eating disorders, regardless of what sparks the dieting, be that poor body image or another issue.

I'm sure poor body image played into my decision to diet. It is possible, of course, that loving my body as a teenager could have prevented me from dieting in the first place and therefore prevented my bulimia. But once my dieting led to a survival reaction and binge eating, any concerns I had about my looks or weight didn't maintain my habit—the lower brain did that. It didn't matter if I wanted to be thin, fat, tall, short, stocky, muscular, or curvy, I continued having urges to binge.

Around the end of my sophomore year of college (about four years before I recovered), I more or less gave up on the idea of having a perfect body. I tried to accept my body for what it was; however, this was extremely difficult as the pounds piled on due to my binge eating. Often, it seemed like all the self-affirmation in the world wouldn't have been enough to convince me to like my body while I was ruining it with bulimia. And even when I did have a decent body image and felt OK with my weight, I still had urges to binge, and I still binged. No amount of acceptance or love of my body could reverse my habit.

After I stopped binge eating for good, I learned that—as far as recovery goes—it simply wasn't necessary for me to be able to stand in front of the mirror and like what I saw. In fact, it's not even necessary for me to like my body in order to have a full life. Sure, feeling confident in my appearance can be beneficial in some ways; but the body is ever aging and changing, good looks are at best fleeting, and it doesn't make much sense to get hung up on those things when there are so many more important things in life.

After I recovered, I found that I had no desire to diet or lose weight; nearly all of my harmful thoughts concerning body weight and diet went away. It seems that any weight concerns I'd had were amplified as long as I was binge eating. It took about five or six months after I stopped for my body to level off at a normal weight for me, which is about 120 pounds. Now if I gain a little weight—which I certainly have done with three pregnancies—that's fine; and if I lose a little weight—which I have done trying to keep up with my small children—that's fine too, as long as I still feel healthy.

I find it ironic that my weight is basically the same now as it was when I started dieting in high school. That's such a testament to the inefficacy and harmful nature of dieting. Instead of leaving my body alone and maintaining my healthy weight, I lost 30 pounds by dieting, gained over 50 by binge eating, and then lost about 20 after recovery. This was a total of 100 pounds of unnecessary weight fluctuation—all to land me back at the same weight where I'd begun. I hope my story can motivate some young people to stop restrictive dieting, because it simply doesn't work in the long run.

GIVING UP DIETING

I know now that it's simply not worth it to obsess about food and weight. Maybe that's wisdom that comes with age, or maybe it's because I've seen how much trouble dieting caused my body and brain. Some might say that my new attitudes about food and weight are the real cure for my bulimia; however, this would be inaccurate. Throughout most of my years of binge eating (aside from the first year), I truly wanted to eat healthy, exercise moderately, and let my body settle to its natural weight; but binge eating got in the way. Even when I completely gave up dieting during those years, it did nothing to get rid of the urges programmed into my brain.

Some might say that my new beliefs and attitudes about food and weight—if not the cure for my bulimia itself—are what prevent me from relapsing. This would also be untrue. Regardless of my eating and exercise habits or body image, I will never relapse, because, as I've said, relapse is a choice. No negative thoughts about my body and no abnormal thoughts about food could ever take me there. The only cause of binge eating is an urge to binge, and since I will always know how to deal with urges, I will never binge again.

Even though giving up dieting isn't a cure or a means of relapse prevention, it did have one big advantage. I believe that avoiding dieting helped my urges to binge disappear quickly and stay gone. Remember that my urges to binge originally started because of survival instincts. I shouldn't have followed those survival drives and binged, but I also shouldn't have ignored them, as I often tried to do while dieting restrictively in high school. My survival instincts were trying to tell me something: my diet had upset the balance in my body and brain.

Before I started dieting, my body and brain had became accustomed to a certain amount of food and had maintained a state of equilibrium, or homeostasis. Dieting upset that equilibrium, sending my body and brain reeling for more food; especially so because I was young and my survival instincts were strong. During my junior and senior years of high school, I had a real physiological need for more food. Yet I disregarded what my body and brain were telling me—that is, until my lower brain completely took over and I binged. Of course, I should have heeded the warnings beforehand and eaten more in normal quantities. This wouldn't have magically made my urges to binge disappear; however, if I had eaten adequately and ignored all urges to binge, those urges would have eventually gone away.

After I finally stopped my bingeing, what would have happened if I had gone right back to restrictive eating? Would my urges have still gone away? I don't think so—at least not so easily, quickly, and completely. This is because at the time of my recovery, my binge eating was purely a conditioned need—in no way was it a real one, because I was eating an adequate diet. Of course, there is never a real need for binge eating, but urges to binge can signal a real need for more food in normal quantities. I believe I was able to get rid of my urges to meet my conditioned need fairly easily and quickly because doing so did not jeopardize my health.

Adjusting to a lack of binge eating was a healthy change, and my body and brain soon welcomed it and turned off my cravings for it. However, if I had gone right back to restrictive dieting, my urges to binge might have continued as a signal that my body had a true need—a need for more calories in my diet. And if I hadn't heeded these warnings, my urges to binge probably wouldn't have extinguished so fast.

To explain this, I'll go back to the example of the newborn baby who wakes up every night at 3:00 a.m., screaming for food. The baby will adjust just fine if the middle-of-the-night feeding is stopped when he is several months old, perhaps between six months and one year, because the feeding is only a conditioned need at that point and no longer truly needed for survival. The baby may initially resist the change, but the resistance won't last long. This is because the lack of a night feeding will not risk his health; in fact, it will be better for his health because he will be establishing a healthier sleep pattern.

However, if the baby were to stop receiving the middle-of-the-night feeding during his first several weeks of life, when night feedings are indeed necessary for survival, he certainly wouldn't stop waking up and crying. Instead, he would try desperately to get his real need met. If he cried long and hard enough for many nights on end, he might finally give up, as his brain accepted that his need was not going to be met and any further attempt would be futile. His metabolism would slow down to conserve energy, and his biological functions would begin adjusting to cope with deprivation; but the baby would certainly suffer grave health consequences from this abuse.

Likewise, if I'd had a legitimate need for more food after I stopped binge eating, my urges to binge would not have gone away so easily. And if I'd stubbornly disregarded the physiological need for more food over a long period of time, my body and brain might have learned to cope with deprivation, just like the deprived baby in my example and just like the bodies of long-term anorexics. But, had I done this, I, too, would have suffered grave health consequences.

If I dieted restrictively today, my survival instincts could potentially kick back into high gear and urge me to binge. That is doubtful, though, because of my age and the fact that my survival instincts aren't as strong as they were years ago. I will illustrate this with two experiences I've had with restrictive eating since I recovered, both of which proved that my lower brain isn't the same as it was when I was a teenager.

During two separate eight-month periods when I was breast-feeding each of my two babies, I had to eliminate many foods from my diet. I found that both babies reacted to my breast milk with painful gastrointestinal symptoms when I ate certain allergenic food groups—mainly dairy and wheat. So, for the first eight months of each of their lives, I had to avoid eating dairy and wheat; for my son, my diet had to be even more limited. Eliminating dairy and wheat cut out countless food possibilities, and I did lose weight during both periods of restrictive eating. Despite that, I never had an urge to binge.

I certainly wanted the foods that I was eliminating from my diet, but I made sure to eat enough calories to maintain good nutrition for myself and the quality of my breast milk. I did not become obsessed with food as I had when I'd dieted in high school, and I didn't have strong cravings. Both of these periods of restrictive eating came at very stressful times—in both cases, I was sleep-deprived and trying to take care of a colicky baby who didn't sleep much. And the second time around, I was responsible for a colicky baby and a toddler. It seems that if emotional problems and stress have a tendency to cause relapse, as my therapists said, these two periods of my life would have been risky. However, I didn't consider binge eating even once.

I believe this was so for two main reasons. First, I wasn't actually trying to lose weight; and second, restrictive eating doesn't cause as many problems in adults as it does in young people. I was 25 when I had my first child and 26 when I had my second, so my survival instincts were simply not as strong as they were when I was 16, making my restrictive eating not such a big deal. The point of this story is that I really don't have to worry about my lower brain sending out urges to binge, even if I need to diet for one reason or another and even if I go through stressful times.

CAN IMPROVEMENT IN EATING HABITS LEAD TO BINGE EATING?

In the case of my teenage self, my survival instincts signaled a legitimate need for more food in my diet because I was not eating nearly enough to nourish my active body. However, some people may develop survival-instinct-driven urges to binge when, in fact, their "diet" is not a true diet at all, just an intentional switch to healthier eating habits. Many reading this book could be in that situation.

What if—when a woman started binge eating—she was simply looking to drop a few pounds to feel better? What if she changed her eating habits and activity level to become healthier? This book, unlike many eating disorder books, is not against all weight loss. There are many people for whom weight loss would enhance the quality of life. If you are someone whose diet is meant to be a healthy change in your life and it in no way jeopardizes your health, there is no reason to abandon it. Please keep in mind, though, that when I say "diet" in this context, I mean changes to your food intake to make it healthier and less excessive. I do not mean calorie counting, avoiding entire food groups, or gimmicky diet plans. It has been proven time and again that restrictive and fad diets don't work in the long term.208

Even though weight loss can be beneficial, the body and lower brain may still react as if a diet is a threat to the dieter's survival. Because new eating habits upset the balance—or homeostasis—that the body and lower brain are accustomed to, the dieter may experience strong cravings, many thoughts of food, and urges to binge. As long as the dieter stays detached from these thoughts, feelings, and urges, they do not have to affect food choices.

Anyone—with or without a history of an eating disorder—who chooses to diet for health reasons should be aware of the role their survival instincts will play. Acting on survival instincts by binge eating or simply overeating will, at best, sabotage the diet and, at worst, lead to the habit of binge eating. But being aware of the survival instincts and knowing how to deal with urges to binge allows the dieter to go forth with the weight loss plan, without worrying that binge eating will hamper progress. Urges should disappear quickly as healthier, less-excessive eating habits become the norm.

33: Low Self-Esteem

Just as I didn't have to improve my body image to be free of binge eating, I didn't have to improve my self-esteem, either. As far back as I can remember, I've never had the greatest self-esteem. As a child, I didn't have too much confidence, I often doubted and underestimated my abilities in sports and academics, and I didn't usually feel confident in my ability to socialize and make friends. Achievements and compliments from others could boost my feelings of self-worth for a little while, but my esteem never seemed very strong from within. My low self-esteem didn't hold me back too much, however, and it often served as a source of self-motivation for me. It was as though I always had to prove to myself that I could accomplish things. It wasn't until I entered therapy that I viewed my low self-esteem as a big problem, even a hypothetical cause of my eating disorder.

When I was caught up in the cycle of binge eating and purging, my already shaky self-esteem plummeted. It was difficult to think any positive thoughts about myself when I couldn't even do a seemingly simple thing: stop eating thousands of calories at a time. What kind of stupid, foolish person does this? I thought.

I felt out of control, and there was simply no way I could talk myself into believing I was a worthwhile person while caught up in that cycle. Even if I could have managed to love myself unconditionally while bulimic, as my therapists encouraged me to do, it wouldn't have magically taken away my urges to binge. My low self-esteem was indeed a concern—it probably has been a concern my whole life, and I still don't feel great about myself—but my feelings of inadequacy, past or present, were never the cause of my binge eating.

THE ROLE OF SELF-ESTEEM IN BINGE EATING: A VULNERABILITY AND A RESULT

It is true that women who have low self-esteem are more likely to develop eating disorders than those with a healthy self-esteem, leading some experts to believe that low self-esteem is the root cause of eating disorders,209 or at least a necessary prerequisite.210 There is no doubt that eating disorders and self-esteem are strongly related; however, just because low self-esteem is a "common trait of people with eating disorders,"211 that does not mean it causes eating disorders or that curing low self-esteem will cure eating disorders.

I believe low self-esteem has only an indirect link to eating disorders. Women and girls with low self-esteem are more susceptible to eating disorders primarily because they are more susceptible to dieting and, in turn, more likely to take their diets too far. If a girl feels inadequate, she may turn to dieting as a solution,212 whereas a woman with a healthy self-esteem has less reason to want to diet. In other words, people who feel okay about themselves are not easily influenced by society's pressures to look one way or another.213 In this way, low self-esteem only makes someone prone to dieting, and this dieting can bring about the eating disorder in certain situations.214

When I began restricting calories in high school, I didn't consciously think, I need to diet to feel better about myself, but increasing my self-esteem could have been a subconscious motivation. However, once my dieting escalated and led to binge eating, whatever had caused me to diet in the first place—low self-esteem, poor body image, perfectionism, and so on—didn't matter anymore. Solving any of the problems that may have caused me to diet, as I often tried to do in therapy, did nothing to rid me of my binge-created brain-wiring problem.

When I finally stopped acting on my urges, I found that my self-esteem significantly improved. Giving up my habit gave me a great boost of confidence, took away my shame, and gave me back my freedom. I finally had confidence that I could control my own behavior and trust myself. Nonetheless, I still lacked self-esteem in other areas. I am still very shy, I still lack confidence in social situations, I often doubt my ability to achieve goals. But, just like before my eating disorder, I don't view my low self-esteem as a huge problem. It doesn't stop me from doing things I want to do, even if there is sometimes an annoying, self-depreciating voice in my head.

I've learned that everyone, with or without a history of an eating disorder, has days when their self-esteem is low or times when they feel worthless. In other words, feelings of inadequacy aren't specific to eating disorders. I realize that for others, feelings of inadequacy are probably more fleeting than they are for me, and I'm certainly not saying that a low self-esteem is normal. What I am saying is that a lower-than-normal self-esteem doesn't have to impede recovery.

AN ONGOING STRUGGLE

I'll never stop trying to improve this personality flaw, as I tried to improve it in therapy. The difference now is that my recovery doesn't hinge on how good or bad I feel about myself, because my recovery is over. I'm glad I didn't wait until I developed good self-esteem to stop binge eating, because if I had, I might still be bingeing. Developing a healthy self-esteem might be a lifelong journey for me, but recovery from bulimia, luckily, was not. Sometimes my sense of self-worth feels fixed, immovable—very unlike the temporary formation and extinction of my eating disorder in my brain.

Throughout my life, I can recall others—my parents, family members, friends, teachers, and coaches—trying to help me see that I was actually very good at some things and that I was a likeable person; but I always seemed insistent, even then, on believing that I wasn't quite enough. I know I have the capacity to change, but sometimes I wonder if my sense of self-worth is so ingrained—based in my genetics and biological makeup, and possibly my upbringing—that all the self-affirmation in the world isn't going to fully change it. To repeat: my recovery isn't an example of the butterfly tale.

Today, I frequently read parenting books, and I often find a recurring theme: each child is born with a basic nature, and genes have a strong influence on temperament and personality.215 I believe this is the case with many of my traits—low self-esteem included—that my therapists seemed to interpret as fatal flaws that caused my eating disorder. These less-desirable personality characteristics are simply part of my makeup; and even if I can't make them all go away, I can work to make the best of those characteristics, just as I can help my kids make the best of their inborn strengths and weaknesses. More importantly, regardless of my traits and temperament, I can always control my actions.

A basic tenet I encounter in nearly every child-rearing book I've picked up is this: a child must be taught to act appropriately despite how he/she is feeling. Even in young children, "[t]emperament and strong emotions are not an excuse for inappropriate actions."216 This doesn't mean that I should disregard my children's feelings or avoid teaching them healthy ways to deal with those feelings, but it does mean that it's my responsibility to teach them to control their behavior. Despite anger, I must teach them never to hit; despite a strong desire for another child's toy, I must teach them never to take things from others. It is the same with me. Even if I sometimes feel poorly about myself, I must never diet restrictively; and even if a strong desire to binge arises one day, I must never binge.

34: "Coping"

People have been trying to learn how to cope with life since the dawn of time. Some people seek religion, some seek therapy, some read self-improvement books, some exercise, some meditate, some pray, some find relief in art or music, some seek the comfort of friends. There is really no wrong way to cope, as long as the solution you choose is not harming you or anyone else.

The false assumption that my binge eating was a coping mechanism formed the basis of my therapy and most traditional therapies. Since my therapists believed I was binge eating in order to cope with emotions and problems, an important goal in my therapy was to find and practice healthy ways to cope. In therapy, I was told that once I found and implemented healthy coping, I wouldn't want to binge eat anymore; but until I did this, I would continue needing to binge.

As I've said before: not only was this approach ineffective; it gave me plenty of excuses to binge. Finding healthy ways to cope was a worthwhile life goal, but it wasn't necessary for complete recovery from bulimia. When I believed that my binge eating helped me cope with life, I was much less likely to resist the urges. When I believed I had to learn to cope well with every problem and every emotion to avoid binge eating, recovery seemed nearly unattainable.

Learning to cope with my life and recovering from bulimia turned out to be two separate endeavors. When I stopped binge eating, I stopped binge eating—that was it. There was nothing special I had to do to cope with life after bulimia, just as there was nothing special I needed to do to cope with life before bulimia. I didn't have an inherent deficiency in coping with life; I was no different from anyone else who struggles to deal with life the best way they can. Sometimes I cope well, sometimes I don't; but this has no bearing on my recovery.

OUT OF PRACTICE

Since binge eating occupied my time and energy for a long time, it did seem a little odd to resume life and cope with it, without binge eating getting in the way. I had been caught up in a habit that often clouded other areas of my life and caused me to ignore the important things. I hadn't started the habit to intentionally or subconsciously distract myself, as my therapists suggested; but once I got caught up in it, there was not much time to think about other things. Distraction from life was a side effect of my bulimia.

The fact that binge eating distracted me can be explained by the brain's plasticity. Remember that the brain strengthens neural connections that are used often and weakens those that aren't. After my binge-created brain-wiring problem was well established, I began to feel consumed by my bulimia. This was because my brain was consumed, physically, by my habit. I was devoting more and more neurons to my problem behaviors—binge eating, thinking about food and weight gain, and overexercising—and fewer neurons to the important aspects of my life: school, my career path, my relationships, my job, my family, and my spirituality. Everything else took a backseat to my bulimia—symbolically and neurologically.

When I stopped my habit, all of a sudden, the issue of whether or not I would binge—the issue that had seemed to be the most pressing one every day for six years—simply went away. Suddenly, there were other possibilities, and I had to face the reality that I had basically squandered my college years and didn't have much of a career path. I had to face the reality that I didn't have many friends because I'd distanced myself from most people. I had to face the reality that I didn't really know who I was without the bulimia consuming me. It felt a little scary thinking about real life issues, rather than how many calories I ate in my most recent binge; but in no way did this make me want to turn back to binge eating. The discomfort I felt in thinking about real life paled in comparison to the pain I had felt while I was consumed by my habit.

The fact that I was a little uneasy thinking about real problems after my recovery was not proof that I had somehow been using food to cope. It didn't mean that I really needed to binge because I was somehow incapable of handling life. It only meant I was out of practice in living without bulimia. What's more, the discomfort I had passed very quickly. Since my brain was no longer wrapped up in my habit, I was able to devote the brain power that had once fueled my eating disorder to other goals. My real problems became less and less threatening as being binge-free became my normal way of life.

SOME TELLING QUESTIONS

I've given some thought to exactly what helped me realize that I truly didn't binge to cope. There is one question I often asked myself in one form or another when I first quit binge eating:

If I didn't have urges to binge, would I binge anyway—just to cope with life?

The answer was: of course not! It simply wouldn't make sense. The urges to binge were my problem, and I knew binge eating really didn't help me cope with anything in my life—except my urges to binge. I verified my own answer to this question when my urges to binge went away, because after that happened, the idea of binge eating as a coping mechanism was ludicrous. While I was in therapy, I often asked myself, If I stop binge eating, how will I cope? But once I stopped binge eating, the question became only, How will I cope? This is a question that everyone, not only those with bulimia or BED, has to deal with every day.

When binge eaters, myself included, ponder how they will ever "cope" without binge eating, I think what they're really wondering is: How will I survive without the pleasure? There was no denying the secondary benefits of my binge eating—the pleasurable taste of food, the high as I ingested those first few bites, the sugar-drunk feeling I had as my serotonin levels rose, and the immense relief from anxiety I felt when I finally satisfied my craving. In addition, binge eating often made me zone out or become numb to everything else going on around me; so that during and immediately after a binge, I often became apathetic about my fears, insecurities, responsibilities, and relationships.

I intrinsically knew that the temporary good feelings weren't worth the consequences of my bulimia—or I wouldn't have been in therapy trying to recover for all of those years. If I had thought the pleasure was worth it, I wouldn't have had any reason to want change. Even so, throughout my years of therapy, I was hesitant to give up the pleasure that binge eating brought me. To remind myself that I could indeed survive without the pleasure once I stopped binge eating, I asked myself this telling question:

If I had no urges to binge, would I binge anyway—just for pleasure?

Again, of course not! The desire for the secondary benefits disappeared with the urges to binge, and the idea of binge eating for pleasure seemed foolish. Without a craving for it, binge eating was no longer enticing; in fact, it seemed like just the opposite of pleasure. The idea of gorging myself with incredible amounts of food—for any reason—simply stopped making sense and became a disgusting prospect. In the absence of irrational urges, binge eating is not something anyone would do for pleasure or as a way to cope.

35: Triggers

In traditional eating disorder therapy, a trigger is any event, action, feeling, thought, or situation that leads to a binge. It was a primary goal of my therapy to look for patterns in my binge eating to determine triggers, then find ways to cope with those triggers. In theory, if I could identify and eliminate or cope with triggers properly, my desire to binge would go away. Triggers were the stuff of life—common events like an argument with my parents or boyfriend, a night alone with no plans, a less-than-perfect grade on a test, eating dessert, drinking alcohol, missing a meal, having a hard day at work or school, or any of a multitude of feelings, like worthlessness, stress, sadness, or even happiness.

The problem with this approach was that the triggers weren't the problem. The equation of all my binges looked like this:

Trigger —> Urge —> Binge —> Purge

So if I was feeling lonely (trigger), I experienced a desire to binge (urge). Then I followed that urge (binge), and then my true self returned and I felt guilty and fat, so I compensated for the binge (purge). In this example, what caused my binge? Assuredly, it was not the trigger, because loneliness does not cause binge eating. I may have indeed been lonely, but I didn't want companionship—I wanted large amounts of food. Once the urge surfaced, it became the problem in and of itself.

Technically, nothing can trigger binge eating, because that completely eliminates free will. That's like saying someone's anger triggered the gun. That's simply not possible. Regardless of anger or any other feeling, someone's voluntary hand muscles have to fire a gun. Likewise, I had to use the voluntary muscles in my hands, mouth, face, and throat to put large amounts of food in my mouth; and nothing could trigger those muscles to work without my consent. So, in therapy, when I said that this or that "triggered my binge," I was squeezing out room for the conscious choice of my highest human brain. The only thing that any situation, feeling, or life event could trigger was an urge to binge. So when I refer to my "triggers" in this chapter (unless I am talking about therapy), I will be talking about what triggered my urges to binge.

There's no denying that the idea of triggers has some validity, because I did have urges to binge more often in some situations and in response to some thoughts, feelings, and events, and less often in others. But those triggers never were the cause of my binge eating, and I think I always sensed that at some level. Prior to my bulimia, those situations, thoughts, feelings, and events hadn't led to binge eating; and today, those same situations, thoughts, feelings, and events don't lead to binge eating. Those "triggers," as it turned out, had become only temporarily, indirectly linked to binge eating.

To explain this, let's take a look at how my triggers worked in my brain.

HOW TRIGGERS WORKED IN MY BRAIN

As my habit developed, I essentially created my own triggers by bingeing in certain situations over and over again. At the beginning of my binge eating, I didn't have any specific triggers except hunger and the presence of highly palatable foods. I had urges to binge when I was food-deprived and had access to large amounts of sugary and fattening foods. Those first binges were instinct-driven—opportunity presented itself, I couldn't resist my urges, and I gave in to my lower brain's demands. There was not much rhyme or reason to it; however, my first binges did not occur in a vacuum.

I was, of course, in the midst of life—with all its problems, stressors, relationships, emotions, joy, and pain. Every time I followed an urge to binge, my brain learned an association between the binge and whatever else was going on in my life. At first, triggers remained primarily about food—I had urges to binge when I hadn't eaten enough for lunch, after I left a party where I'd denied myself dessert, or when I slipped on my restrictive eating plan and ate something sugary or fattening. But eventually, my triggers expanded to include events, thoughts, situations, people, and feelings surrounding my binges that didn't have much to do with food.

This didn't mean I was ill-equipped to handle certain aspects of my life, it only meant I'd conditioned associations, or patterns, in my brain. For example, from the start of my bulimia, I binged alone because I saw binge eating as a shameful act. This taught my lower brain that being alone was associated with binge eating, and it began responding automatically with an urge whenever I had some time to myself.

The brain "craves" patterns and looks for them endlessly.217 The brain associates significant patterns with meaning, and attaches appropriate responses.218 I believe triggers are nothing more than "stimulus-response patterns" in the lower brain. A stimulus is any outside event or inner feeling that causes a response—an automatic reaction. All of us have many stimulus-response patterns, some instinctual and some learned. For instance, if a woman is walking alone at night down a dark alley (stimulus), she may automatically feel fear and become hyperalert (response). When a driver sees a red light (stimulus), his brain automatically prompts his foot to press the brake (response). When someone hears a loud noise across the room (stimulus), she will automatically flinch (response). When someone thinks about a happy memory from childhood (stimulus), he will automatically feel positive feelings (response). Everyone has stimulus-response patterns attached to many situations in their lives, whether they are aware of it or not.

Once a stimulus-response pattern is conditioned in the lower brain, the stimulus automatically triggers the response, beyond conscious control. When the stimulus is encountered, neurons fire automatically down familiar pathways, and the brain generates the response. Much of the time, such responses are sensible and sometimes even vital to one's existence—like pressing the brake or becoming hyperalert in a dark alley. Other times, the responses aren't vital, but they cause no harm—like flinching at the sound of a loud noise or feeling nostalgic when recalling memories. However, sometimes the lower brain attaches inappropriate and even dangerous responses to stimuli. This was the case with my binge eating.

By repeatedly binge eating in certain situations, I created stimulus-response patterns that were not healthy—in which a normal daily event or stressor caused an inappropriate response: an urge to binge. I followed urges to binge when I was alone in my house at night, when I was in my car driving home from a party, after a stressful day at school or work, when I was bored, when I had eaten a little too much at a meal, when I didn't have enough at a meal, when I was feeling sad, lonely, rejected, or anxious ... the list could go on and on. As my lower brain remembered where, when, and how I had binged, it easily became conditioned to maintain the patterns.

Let's take a look at how this played out in real life.

In the first month of my freshman year of college, about six months after I began binge eating, my parents came to visit my sister and me, and we all met at a restaurant for dinner. I was still trying to restrict my food intake between binges and still trying (in vain) to maintain my low weight. I had binged the day before, but I hadn't been able to exercise too much that day because of their visit. So I felt I shouldn't eat very much for dinner. I ordered a low-calorie sandwich and ate only half of it.

When I stopped eating, I couldn't help but see disapproving looks on my parents' faces—whether they were real or imagined. Corey ate only a meager portion of her own dinner, yet my parents didn't seem to notice that. At the time, my sister was cutting calories, increasing her exercise, and losing some weight—as the majority of young women attempt to do at one time or another (see Chapter 18). Given that Corey and I had a similar upbringing, this wasn't surprising; and luckily, her very different personality traits spared her from serious consequences. Nevertheless, at the time, seeing her limit her food intake only served to remind me of my lack of willpower. That meal, like most family meals while I had an eating disorder, had an underlying tension about the food. I didn't feel full after I'd finished half of my sandwich, and I struggled internally to keep myself from eating more of it, while my sister's scanty eating seemed, to me, to take no effort at all.

As I sat there staring at the other half of my sandwich, a familiar urge to binge arose. I stopped paying much attention to the conversation and began wishing I could leave the restaurant to get more food. I tried to talk myself out of it and fight off my cravings, but when I finally was alone again, I gave in and binged.

My urge to binge was a response to my undereating, but this experience taught my brain several stimulus-response patterns. My lower brain learned an association between binge eating and going to dinner with my parents, watching my sister eat small portions, feeling uneasy in conversation with my family, feeling resentful of others' eating habits, and, of course, not eating enough at a meal. The next time I encountered any of these situations or feelings, my brain was more likely to send out urges to binge.

THE LOWER BRAIN REMEMBERS WHAT GETS RESULTS

The lower brain remembers stimulus-response patterns because the brain is opportunistic; it quickly seizes on whatever gets it the desired results. In behavioral psychology, it's called the "law of effect": behavior followed by consequences that are satisfying to the organism will be repeated, and behavior followed by unpleasant consequences will be discouraged.219

The binge eater's lower brain is like a little boy who throws a tantrum in a toy store because he wants a toy. If his mother gives in and buys him the toy, this only ensures that the next time the boy and his mother are in a toy store, he will be more likely to repeat the tantrum. Why? Because the tantrum was effective—it got him exactly what he wanted. Or, put another way, the behavior was positively reinforced. The little boy's brain will now remember that whenever he enters a toy store (stimulus), he should throw a tantrum (response), and he will get the desired result. When the response gets the desired result, the brain is more likely to repeat the response when the stimulus is encountered again.220

It was the same with my lower brain. When it got what it wanted—a binge, and all the rewarding biochemical changes that came along with it—it remembered the events leading up to the binge and it learned to repeat the same tactics. It remembered what urges were successful and what urges weren't; and since an urge was successful after dinner with my parents, then dinner with my parents became a powerful stimulus that—more often than not—produced an urge to binge. The more times I followed that urge and repeated this pattern, the more cemented in my brain that association became.

Anyone with an addiction has to deal with stimulus-response patterns. For example, it's common to hear smokers say they can't have a beer without having a cigarette; and while there is nothing about a beer that physically requires a cigarette, there is a often a strong pattern of association in the smoker's brain between the two, because he has repeatedly smoked and drank simultaneously. Because the stimulus-response pattern is so strong, his brain will automatically send strong urges to smoke whenever he is drinking. If he even dares to try to drink without having a cigarette, his lower brain will throw a tantrum. It will kick and scream until it gets what it wants; and if the smoker keeps giving in, the tantrum will repeat indefinitely.

Trigger situations for my binge eating grew more numerous over time, which only makes sense in light of the brain. As I binged more and more in many different situations, I created more and more stimulus-response patterns. In addition to growing more numerous over time, my triggers also grew more generalized over time, so that the stimulus didn't have to be specific to produce an urge to binge. When the habit was firmly entrenched in my brain, anything that even resembled the stimulus produced a response—again, this was my lower brain being opportunistic. To illustrate this, I'll return to the example of eating in a restaurant with my parents. Once this was established as a stimulus-response pattern, I found that similar situations generated the same response. Soon, I had urges to binge not only after going to a restaurant with my parents, but after eating at home with my parents, after eating at a restaurant with friends, and after eating in any type of social situation.

Again, my lower brain was like the tantrum-throwing little boy. When the boy realizes the tantrum works in a toy store, he may try it in a grocery store, a fast-food restaurant, at home. If the tantrum works in any of these similar places, those places will become additional stimuli that automatically produce the response: a tantrum. Likewise, when my brain effectively got me to binge in a situation similar to the original stimulus, that similar situation also produced an urge to binge.

WHY BINGES ARE OFTEN LINKED TO STRESSORS

Most bulimics report that their triggers are primarily negative events, thoughts, and feelings. In other words, bulimics often say that their binge eating "is preceded by situations they perceive as stressful,"221 and that's certainly what I reported to my therapists. Although this has some validity (which I will discuss soon), I believe reporting bias is a factor as well. When I was in therapy and searching for my triggers, I was seeking out only negative triggers, because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. Traditional therapy teaches that negative thoughts, feelings, and events cause binge eating, so that's what I focused on. If I had analyzed the binge after eating at a restaurant with my family, I would have blamed the binge on the tension of the meal, on watching my sister eat, on my parents' disapproval of my eating habits, or on another negative feeling.

If I looked hard enough, there was always something negative going on in my external or internal world before each binge, so I was always able to find a negative trigger. Furthermore, there was a benefit for me in the negative: it let me off the hook in my mind. If I could identify a negative trigger, I didn't feel as accountable for my own actions. I could blame the trigger for the binge, and this felt much better than blaming myself. If, in my mind, the binge was due to a fight with my boyfriend, a feeling of loneliness, or stress about an upcoming exam, I had an excuse for having engaged in such a disgusting and shameful activity.

But reporting bias aside, it did make some sense that my binge eating occurred more often following stressors than positive experiences. Why? Because of the secondary benefits of binge eating. It made me feel good, temporarily; so I automatically craved it when a little pleasure, distraction, numbness, or stress reduction was enticing. It's well known that eating reduces stress,222 even in those without eating disorders and even in animals. In some of the rat studies I've mentioned, the previously food-deprived rats binged on highly palatable foods after exposure to stress, whereas previously food-deprived rats not exposed to stress did not binge.223

In other words, stress did induce binge eating in the rats that were already rendered susceptible through a history of food deprivation. Stress and eating are certainly related, and this relationship is most likely mediated by the opioids.224 Like the food-deprived rats, I was probably susceptible to stress-induced binge eating. However, stress never triggered my binge eating, it only triggered my urges. Unlike the rats, I always had a choice—because of the capabilities of my highest human brain—of whether or not to follow those urges.

That my lower brain automatically produced urges to binge when I encountered negative thoughts, feelings, and events in my life was not an indication that I somehow needed to binge to cope with those things. There were simply strong patterns of association, so that my urges arose more often in the wake of negative circumstances and stressors; but always, I binged only to cope with the urge to binge. Negative thoughts, feelings, and events didn't cause binge eating prior to the development of my bulimia, and they don't cause binge eating now.

WHY DEALING WITH TRIGGERS WAS INEFFECTIVE

In the view of traditional therapy and specifically CBT, learning to cope with triggers—whether the trigger is a difficult external circumstance or a negative inner thought or feeling—should prevent most urges from arising and make existing urges go away. If, for example, I determined that feeling anxious led to binge eating, I could practice relaxation techniques as soon as anxious feelings arose, which should have prevented an urge to binge or stopped it once it started. If being alone at night led to binge eating, I could plan activities, and engaging in them should have prevented an urge to binge or stopped it once it started. These types of strategies were never effective for me, and I believe there were two reasons for that.

1. Dealing with the Triggers Was Not Addressing the Real Problem

In therapy, I identified my triggers and developed plans to deal with them, and I even tried avoiding some triggers altogether. Sometimes I decided not to go out drinking, solely because I feared I would binge when I got home; sometimes I stayed away from social situations, solely because they left me feeling inadequate—a feeling I believed triggered binges; sometimes I tried to avoid certain foods that I thought triggered binge eating. I had a long list of positive things to do when I felt lonely, sad, depressed, or anxious; I had action plans to deal with relationship conflicts and stressors at school and work.

Now that I know that the real problem was my urges to binge, I can see how unnecessary all of this was. Urges to binge led me to binge all those years—triggers didn't. Once my brain produced its response to a stimulus, trying to cope with the original stimulus did not erase the response.

Trying to substitute an alternative and emotionally fulfilling activity to deal with the trigger—like calling a friend to deal with loneliness—would be like the mother of the misbehaving boy in my example giving her child a hug instead of the toy for which he is screaming. The child will mostly likely reject the hug and escalate his tantrum. Even if he does have some unfulfilled emotional needs—as nearly everyone does, young or old—he isn't screaming for a hug; he is screaming because he wants the toy, and only the toy will do.

Moreover, dealing proactively with triggers—giving myself comfort and emotional fulfillment before urges could surface, as my therapists suggested I do—was also ineffective. To explain this, I'll return to the previous example of binge eating after going out with my parents.

When I began therapy, my therapists wanted to explore family dynamics and conflicts to see from where any stress might stem. In therapy, I pondered questions like these: Am I binge eating to rebel against my parents because they make me feel smothered? Am I binge eating as a way to get their attention? Am I binge eating to assert my independence from them? In theory, if I got to the bottom of my family conflicts and solved them, I could greatly reduce my binge eating. I found this not to be true. I can remember times when my parents came to visit and I truly had a great time, but I still had urges to binge and still binged.

Yes, I had some family conflicts at the time of my binge eating; but I also had them before my bulimia ever developed and before I ever dieted, and to this day, I have ever-changing family issues—nothing major, but I think most families are a bit dysfunctional in one way or another. The conflicts in my family prior to the development of my eating disorder didn't produce urges to binge; and after my recovery, they stopped producing urges to binge. This is because they were never the problem; family problems only became temporarily linked to binge eating.

Even if I could have managed to solve all of my family problems in therapy—which would have been unrealistic for any teenager or woman in her early twenties—it wouldn't have taken away my urges to binge. I still feel guilty that I ever blamed binge eating on others, especially my parents and sister, who have given me so much love and support over the years. The high school and college years are characteristically rocky times in the parent-child relationship; this is completely normal as teens assert their independence from their family of origin. For therapists to encourage young women like myself to see inevitable family conflicts as causes of eating disorders is, I believe, highly irresponsible, and it could even lead to permanent damage to family relationships.

2. Dealing with Triggers Was a Monumental Task

Even if dealing with triggers worked every time, which it didn't, it is a monumental task. To deal with triggers, I had to either avoid or learn to cope with all the situations, thoughts, and feelings that preceded binges, which could have been any of an infinite number of thoughts, situations, and feelings. Avoiding or coping with triggers diligently does have the possibility of preventing some urges in bulimics, because, as I've discussed, bulimics are more likely to have urges to binge when they feel bad and want some sort of pleasure, distraction, or numbness. So if a bulimic learns to cope well with all negative feelings, events, and thoughts, she may not crave pleasure or distraction as much, and therefore, her urges to binge may decrease. But there is no guarantee, because once the body and brain are hooked on binge eating, the binge eater will still be driven to do it at times, even if she feels good otherwise.

I never even came close to the ideal of coping well with all of my triggers; I guess I wasn't good at fending off or dealing with negative feelings, thoughts, and events. But was this really only my problem? I think it was unrealistic for my therapists to expect me to cope well with everything negative in my life, especially when I was still very young. To deal with every event, feeling, thought, situation, conflict, or stressor that could potentially trigger an urge to binge would be an insurmountable and life-consuming task for anyone, especially a teenager or young adult. Although I did try to deal with the triggers, and I did discover some coping strategies that have served me well in my life (even though they didn't do much to stop binge eating), the enormous chore of dealing with triggers was simply unnecessary for my recovery.

In fact, I believe focusing on triggers gave me more ways to procrastinate about stopping my habit. I found myself saying things like, "When I stop being anxious staying in the house alone, I won't binge when I'm in the house alone," or "When I feel more comfortable in social situations, I'll stop bingeing when I get home from parties," or "When I can become organized and study well before exam time, I'll stop bingeing the night before exams." All of these excuses just served to keep me from taking control of my own behavior, regardless of the situation.

AWARENESS OF TRIGGERS WAS HELPFUL

Once I knew I was no longer a slave to my lower brain's automatic responses, triggers didn't bother me anymore. My lower brain certainly continued generating conditioned responses—the urges to binge—in trigger situations. Those urges, and all the thoughts and feelings that came along with them, were beyond my control. However, I knew my actions were always under my control, regardless of what—if anything—may have triggered my urges.

I did learn something useful from studying triggers. After I stopped binge eating, it was helpful for me to know that some situations were more likely than others to cause urges to binge. I knew that certain foods, feelings, thoughts, and interactions were particularly likely to cause my brain-wiring problem to flare up. There was nothing inherently wrong with those trigger situations or my ability to handle them, but there was something wrong with my lower brain's reaction to them. In the weeks and months after I quit bingeing, I expected my lower brain to act up when I encountered my former triggers, and when it did, I made sure not to let it affect me. As long as I put brain over binge—viewing the urges as simply neurological junk and unrelated to my ability to cope with any given trigger—it was simple not to act on them.

During that period, every time I encountered a trigger—such as eating at a restaurant with my parents—without binge eating, I taught my brain something new: that I no longer binged in response to that trigger. Without knowing it at the time, I was breaking all of my old stimulus-response patterns by not following my urges to binge. In behavioral psychology, this process is called "extinction": the gradual disappearance of a conditioned response to the stimulus.225 The most famous—and, in fact, the first—example of stimulus-response patterns and extinction was observed in the dogs of Ivan Pavlov.226

Pavlov conditioned the dogs to expect food after the sound of a bell, and a stimulus-response pattern soon formed. The dogs began salivating whenever they heard that bell, prior to the food arriving. The bell was the stimulus, which produced the response of salivation. However, if Pavlov stopped providing food after the sound of the bell, the dogs gradually ceased salivating when they heard the bell. In other words, if Pavlov took away the reward (the food), the stimulus (the bell) stopped evoking the response (salivation). It was the same with my binge eating. When I took away my lower brain's reward (the binge), all stimuli (triggers) stopped evoking the response (the urges to binge).

After I had encountered an urge-producing trigger a few times without providing my brain its reward, I noticed that the urges to binge faded in response to that trigger. Soon, I could have arguments with family or my husband without binge eating popping into my mind; I could feel depressed, anxious, or lonely, and my lower brain would not generate even the slightest urge to binge. The lower functions of my brain were like the child in the toy store—once he learns that tantrums won't get him what he wants, he will stop throwing them.

GETTING EXCITED ABOUT FACING TRIGGERS

Once I began seeing my urges to binge as the real problem, and I truly felt the power of my highest human brain over them, I found that I actually liked facing my old trigger situations. I found it empowering to know that my lower brain was going to act up, then feel it do so, all the while knowing I was not going to take it seriously. I got excited about overcoming my trigger situations—not by always coping well, but by simply not binge eating—and my excitement not only made me feel good, but I believe it solidified the changes in my brain. Since no situation was inherently dangerous, I no longer had to fear certain "triggering" people, places, foods, feelings, or situations, because I knew that nothing I encountered could make me binge. The situations I faced weren't always easy, but that's just life.

36: Purging

Apurge is a compensatory behavior—meaning it compensates for, or makes up for, something. That something is a binge. Take away the binge, and the purge serves no purpose. When I stopped binge eating, it followed that I simultaneously stopped purging. Why would I go through the misery of spending hours and hours exercising if I didn't binge eat? It simply wouldn't be necessary.

Purging was not a part of a disease I had; and in fact, purging was in no way a sign of psychological impairment. Although it was an unhealthy behavior, my purging began as a semi-rational attempt to undo the damage of each binge. Looking back at the beginning stages of my bulimia, when my survival instincts drove me to binge, reaffirms that there were two brain mechanisms at work: the survival instincts that produced those overwhelming urges to binge; and my true self. My true self was temporarily engulfed by urge after urge to binge; but once each binge was done, I returned to my senses and attempted to make up for what I had done.

In my case, my purging behaviors—overexercising and limiting food intake following a binge—weren't quite as dangerous or extreme as those of some other bulimics, because I physically couldn't make myself throw up (although if I could have at the time, I certainly would have). But even throwing up or abusing laxatives is not a sign of disease—it is the bulimic's attempt to take control back after a binge.

Until I knew what was going on in my lower brain, my true self felt powerless during each and every binge—as if it could see what was going on but could do nothing to stop it. So, I resorted to damage control. Once the binge was over and my true self returned, I felt I had to do something to compensate for my disgusting, gluttonous behavior—so I purged. Purging was never a good decision, but it was a rational decision made in times of desperation.

In therapy, I learned that purging, like bingeing, was a symbolic act that signaled a deeper emotional need or psychological problem. I learned that purging could be a form of self-punishment, a symbolic way of cleansing myself of unwanted feelings, an expression of anger, or a form of stress release. It was none of these things. It was a rash, yet understandable attempt to get rid of the massive amounts of food I knew I shouldn't have eaten.

PURGING BECAME HABITUAL TOO

Even though purging started as my own conscious—if bad—decision, it, too, became automatic and habitual as my bulimia progressed. This is because any behavior that is repeated enough gets relegated to the lower brain centers; then habit takes over. Purging became part of my whole binge-created brain-wiring problem, such that, after I binged, my brain automatically triggered an urge to purge. If I tried not to overexercise the day after I binged, I experienced strong urges to do so. I would get anxious and feel extreme guilt until I broke down and went to the gym. Even though overexercising was difficult and on some days excruciating, the feelings I had when I didn't purge were worse. I can imagine that the urges to purge are only amplified in those who practice self-induced vomiting, because the relief from guilt is so immediate.

Purging became linked to binge eating because my brain developed one of those stimulus-response patterns that I discussed in the previous chapter. Just as triggers produced urges to binge, binges became triggers that produced urges to purge. Bingeing and purging became physically linked in my brain, so that binge eating became the stimulus and the urge to purge became the response. When I took away the stimulus (binge eating), I by and large stopped having the response (the urge to purge). Since I never binged, the neural pathways that produce urges to purge never got a chance to fire. It was as if I'd put up a roadblock in my brain, so that the stimulus-response pattern never got set in motion.

However, I noticed that it was possible for my brain to generate a desire to purge even if I had not binged. Two situations sometimes brought this about.

1. The Urge to Purge from Simple Overeating

This was the situation where I was most likely to experience an urge to purge. If I ate a big meal or felt a bit too full, the feeling of fullness sometimes triggered a response similar to the response binge eating triggered. I found myself thinking, I can just work out for a long time tomorrow to burn it off.

The problem was, since fullness was part of the old stimulus of binge eating, my lower brain acted as if I had actually binged whenever I felt a bit too full. For a short while after I quit binge eating, I just had to live with this. I ignored the automatic messages telling me that I needed to overexercise simply because I ate a little too much, and soon, fullness stopped producing urges to purge.

2. The Urge to Purge When I Ate Former Binge Foods

No food can cause purging; but certain foods—especially those I used to binge on—sometimes created urges to purge just as they sometimes created urges to binge. Even though I ate the former binge foods in normal quantities, my lower brain sometimes reacted nonetheless. It was reacting to the quality and type of food that I ate—sugary and fattening—and not necessarily the quantity.

For example, I used to binge on entire bags of potato chips; so if I ate a normal portion of potato chips, I sometimes had automatic thoughts telling me that I needed to work out more to make up for eating the chips. This doesn't mean chips were a problem or that I needed to eliminate them; it only meant that my lower brain had learned to associate eating chips with purging. Since I didn't act on my urges to purge, they soon went away.

DEALING WITH URGES TO PURGE

I dealt with urges to purge the same way I dealt with urges to binge. I recognized the urge as neurological junk—a remnant of my old habit—separated my highest human brain from the urge, didn't react emotionally to it, and, of course, didn't act on it. I remained aware of situations that could give rise to urges to purge, but I didn't need to avoid them or learn to cope well with them. I just knew that I didn't have to do what my lower brain was urging me to do. I could veto any eating disorder-related urge, whether it was to binge, to spend many hours in the gym, or to restrict my food intake after simple overeating. The neural connections that once produced my urges to purge simply faded away with lack of use; and now I can eat a big meal without any desire to compensate for it, and I can feel normal after exercising for only twenty minutes.

PURGING WITHOUT BINGE EATING

Before I end this chapter, there is one more issue to address. There are some with eating disorders who do not binge, but they nevertheless purge after normal meals or even after eating a very small amount. It is common for anyone who self-induces vomiting or abuses laxatives to consider herself "bulimic," but this is actually a misuse of the term. Bulimics—by definition—binge eat. When someone is purging regular meals or small amounts of food, she is engaging in a severe and dangerous form of restrictive dieting. Some have suggested that a new eating disorder—purging disorder—be added as a distinct classification.227

Purging without binge eating can be more complicated than bulimia or BED, I believe, for the same reasons that anorexia can be more complicated. If the woman sets out to lose weight, and that's what she is doing by purging, then she will have less motivation to quit. The purging may be ego-syntonic—in line with what her true self wants. Making it more difficult is the fact that purging can become addicting, so that any amount of food can trigger an urge to get rid of it. Furthermore, purging can lead to severe gastrointestinal problems, which can make keeping down any food painful and the urges to purge harder to resist.

Once the purging habit forms, the urges to purge are the only true cause of purging; however, the woman may have a hard time separating herself from those urges if she sees them as her true intention. Like I've stated previously, the first step in both traditional therapy and in my opinion is wanting to recover. Certainly, the advice I've given for resisting urges to binge and purge could apply to someone with purging disorder, but only once recovery is desired and the woman can see the urges as an unwanted intrusion in her life. The same holds for anorexia: once the woman can see the desire to starve as something apart from her highest self, only then can she overcome the problem.

37: Coexisting Problems

Research does show a frequent correlation between bulimia and other psychiatric conditions.228 Those diagnosed with bulimia are often diagnosed with a coexisting problem, such as depression, anxiety, substance abuse, or personality disorders.229 Coexisting problems are called "comorbidities" by health professionals, and it's been shown that about 75 percent of bulimics are affected by other behavioral, emotional, or psychological problems.230 It's often difficult to tell if the coexisting problems are the consequences of the behavior or if they are the traits that make one more vulnerable to developing bulimia in the first place.231

In my case, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety, and as I've discussed, I spent much time in therapy addressing these coexisting problems, hoping that would make my urges to binge go away. Even if fixing coexisting problems could have completely eliminated my urges to binge, it still would have been a gargantuan task. I think that I may always be prone to depression and high anxiety. This doesn't mean I have to resign myself to those problems and do nothing to help myself change; it only means that if I were still waiting for my coexisting problems to go away in order to stop my habit of binge eating, I would still be waiting, because my anxiety and depressive tendencies seem to be stubborn parts of who I am.

I believe that even if I would have solved my depression and anxiety—fully and completely—it would not have cured my bulimia. If I would have overcome depression, I would have overcome depression; if I would have learned to manage my anxiety well, I would have learned to manage my anxiety well. Bulimia is a separate problem with a separate cure.

This is not to say there is no correlation between bulimia and coexisting problems. I believe coexisting problems can be one of three things:

Susceptibilities to dieting

Results of bulimia

Reasons bulimics don't want better for themselves

COEXISTING PROBLEMS AS SUSCEPTIBIUTIES TO DIETING

Problems like depression and anxiety—if they exist prior to the development of disordered eating—can make someone more likely to diet and let that diet get out of control, which in turn can lead to the development of an eating disorder. If a young woman is depressed, she may begin restrictive dieting thinking thinness will make her happy. If a young woman has high anxiety, she may take a simple diet too far by worrying about every calorie and every pound. If a young woman has OCD, she may be more likely to become obsessive about her eating behavior.

I could theorize about how my own tendency toward high anxiety and depression played into my decision to diet, but none of it is hard fact. All that matters is that I had some susceptibilities, two of which were anxiety and depression, that made me more likely to diet and made dieting more likely to be problematic. After I binged for the first time, my high anxiety probably made me more likely to purge, setting the binge-purge cycle in motion, which led to habit formation.

COEXISTING PROBLEMS AS RESULTS OF BULIMIA

The coexisting problems that I experienced while I was bulimic were often consequences of the bulimia itself. It was often difficult to tell which problems were results of binge eating and which were separate problems. It was hard to remember which issues existed before the binge eating started, because I looked into my past with bias. Once I learned that problems like depression and anxiety can cause eating disorders to develop, it was easy to look back and find instances of depression and anxiety in my childhood.

Once bulimia developed, it only compounded whatever anxiety and depression I did have, because binge eating was a constant source of stress and sadness. Once I ended my habit and took away that source of guilt, isolation, self-hatred, and stress, much of my anxiety and depression alleviated. Even if I was more anxious or depressed than the average person before developing bulimia, and even if I am more anxious and depressed than the average person now that I am recovered, one thing is for certain: my binge eating made it so much worse.

COEXISTING PROBLEMS AS REASONS BULIMICS DON'T WANT BETTER FOR THEMSELVES

In the winter of my senior year of college, my binge eating was the worst it had ever been, and my depression increased greatly, to the point that it made me apathetic toward recovery. I couldn't see a way out. I thought I would be doomed to binge for the rest of my life. I was completely exhausted, and I didn't see the point of trying anymore. I gained weight rapidly and binged continuously, sometimes for days at a time. I stopped trying to fight, which had never helped me quit in the past, but at least a fighting spirit helped me from completely folding. My depression allowed me to resign to my lower brain and let it have complete control.

I didn't care what health consequences I was suffering, and some days I wasn't sure if I wanted to live anymore, let alone recover. My relationships fell by the wayside, and I felt like my life had no direction or purpose. My highest human brain temporarily gave up and my habit completely took over. Luckily, I snapped out of this low state of mind and began trying to recover again. However, my ways of trying to recover at that time—therapy's methods—were not effective, so I continued to binge even when my severe depression lifted.

With the right information, I think I could have conquered my habit even during that time of severe depression; but I think it would have been much harder to capture the power of my highest human brain when I felt so low. To stop my habit, I had to know that my true self was powerful, capable of overriding the automatic functions of my brain. Even with the right information and tactics for handling my urges to binge, my true self might have needed a little boost in the form of depression treatment— medication or some other alternative. This was the only time during my bulimia that I could argue that treating my depression first—so that it lifted slightly—prior to stopping the habit might have made some sense; but otherwise, it was unnecessary for recovery.

WHAT TO SOLVE FIRST?

In the majority of cases where coexisting problems are present (except, perhaps, for severe depression), I would argue it simply makes more sense to solve the bulimia first. It's a losing battle to try to solve problems that are the results of bulimia while continuing to indulge the habit; furthermore, solving the bulimia is the only way to see which problems truly are separate problems and which are consequences of the bulimia itself. Bulimia and BED are usually the simplest and most clear-cut problems to solve with the most straightforward cure: stop binge eating. If some problems don't go away completely after the binge eating stops, at least the woman will be more clearheaded to tackle the conditions that remain. Or she may find that the coexisting problems are not significant without the bulimia amplifying them and, thus, that there is nothing left from which to recover.

38: Medication

Drugs are often used to treat anxiety, depression, or other conditions that coexist with bulimia or BED; but some drugs are prescribed specifically to treat bulimia or BED itself. Antidepressants are the most commonly prescribed,232 although only one antidepressant—Prozac (fluoxetine)—has been approved by the Food and Drug Administration to treat bulimia.233 During the course of my bulimia, I took Prozac as well as two other types of antidepressants.

SEROTONIN

Prozac, and antidepressants like it, are selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), which work by increasing the level of the neurotransmitter serotonin in the brain.234 Serotonin is associated with appetite and mood.235 Low serotonin levels are linked to low mood and increased appetite, and high serotonin levels are linked to elevated mood and decreased appetite. Since bulimics and those with BED show symptoms of low mood and increased appetite, they are often assumed to have low serotonin levels. A serotonin deficit may be related to bulimia;236 however, it's unknown whether these chemical abnormalities precede the eating disorder or are consequences of the eating disorder.237

A popular theory of bulimia and BED is that binge eating results from these low serotonin levels.238 Bulimics binge eat to raise their serotonin levels and therefore improve their mood, decrease stress, and alleviate depression.239 So, as this theory would have it, binge eating is a form of subconscious self-medication.240 The carbohydrate cravings, then, are a means of the brain trying to correct a chemical imbalance—in this case, of serotonin.

Although binge eaters may indeed have low serotonin levels, believing this theory led to two problems for me.

Problem 1: False Expectations for a Cure

The measure of any theory or course of treatment is effectiveness. If low serotonin levels are the true cause of binge eating, then the antidepressant medications I took would have been fail-safe treatments. If I had only been bingeing to raise my serotonin levels, then increasing serotonin in my brain would have eliminated all binge eating. But antidepressants did not cure my bulimia, and they do not cure all cases of bulimia. No antidepressant—or any other psychiatric drug, for that matter—has been shown to stop binge eating. Although Prozac and other types of antidepressants have been shown to lessen bingeing and purging in the short term, and lessen depressive symptoms overall,241 that is not a cure.

Antidepressants and other psychiatric drugs were not acting directly on my real problem: my urges to binge. No drug completely and permanently erased those urges, although Topamax temporarily reduced them greatly. No drug could undo my habit; no drug could change those faulty neural pathways that I created by binge eating over and over again; no drug could correct my binge-created brain-wiring problem. Even though psychiatric drugs did indeed have a physical effect on my brain, and the antidepressants I took certainly elevated my mood, those brain changes could not cure my bulimia.

Furthermore, I think I expected the drugs to provide the secondary benefits of binge eating. But a psychiatric drug can't do that. Medication didn't taste good, it didn't feel good going down, and it didn't provide instant satisfaction, distraction, or numbness—all of the things I came to crave once the binge eating was established. By expecting a pill to take away my desire for those secondary benefits, I was setting myself up for disappointment. Nothing else could provide those benefits; the hard truth was, I just had to give them up.

Problem 2: The Serotonin Theory Gave Me Excuses to Binge

Like so many concepts and theories touted by traditional therapy, the serotonin theory of bulimia gave me excuses—two of them, in particular—to keep following my urges to binge.

Excuse #1: When I am happy and feel good, I will stop binge eating.

I knew that the serotonin-raising antidepressants and other drugs I was prescribed were designed to improve my mood, which in turn was supposed to take away my "need" to binge eat. The serotonin theory promoted the harmful mind-set that I needed to feel good and be happy—through psychiatric drugs or other means—in order to stop binge eating.

So what happened when I did not find happiness and continued to feel low? My brain used that to produce self-pitying thoughts and feelings that encouraged me to binge. When I felt low, I believed I was justified in continuing to binge eat because, after all, bingeing was the "only thing" that made me feel good and elevated my mood (at least that's what my brain told me). I knew better, and I knew any good feelings bingeing gave me simply weren't worth it.

What's more, there were times during my bulimia when the antidepressants were effective in elevating my mood, or when I was just happier in general, without the use of medication, but I nevertheless continued having urges to binge and continued binge eating—maybe slightly less, but continued all the same. When this happened, I thought maybe I just wasn't happy enough. Maybe if I could feel just a little better, a little more fulfilled in my life, then I could stop binge eating. This endless quest for a higher level of happiness could have gone on indefinitely without ever stopping my habit.

As I talked about in Chapter 35's discussion of triggers, binge eating can be associated with low moods and negative events more than positive ones. This is because when a woman is feeling down, she may crave something to make her feel better; and, of course—if the woman is a binge eater—the first thing her brain will habitually suggest is food, lots and lots of food. So, theoretically, if the woman felt down less often—say, with the help of drugs to increase her serotonin level—she may crave binge eating less often.

Yes, medication can address triggers by taking away the stimulus (e.g., feeling depressed and lonely) so that the response (the urge to binge) doesn't occur. However, because a bulimic's urges to binge don't occur solely in response to feelings of depression and loneliness, she will still have the urges; and if she doesn't know how to deal with them, she will still binge. Additionally, if the medication's effects wear off or if she stops taking it, her depression and loneliness will return and her urges will again escalate.

I am glad I did not attribute my recovery to increased happiness or elevated moods, because that would put me constantly at risk for relapse. Inevitable low moods and unhappiness would automatically make me think that I needed to binge. Whether it relates to recovery or relapse, the mindset that feeling good equals a cessation of binge eating is dangerous.

For me, feeling good through medication (while still binge eating) was probably more dangerous than binge eating without the mood-elevating effects of medication. The best example of this was when I was first prescribed Prozac during the second semester of my freshman year of college. After a few weeks on the medication, my mood certainly improved, to the point that I was almost giddy. It felt unnatural, but I enjoyed the huge lift that the medication gave me. Although feeling better gave me a sunnier outlook on life, my elevated mood actually served to make me nonchalant about my binge eating and purging.

When I binged and purged, I didn't feel very guilty—I didn't worry about it much at all. But just because I felt less guilt, shame, and stress surrounding my destructive behaviors didn't mean I stopped engaging in those behaviors. The medication was not a cure, and it was also not an improvement. A blasé attitude toward the seriousness of my problem was not conducive to recovery, and it put me at risk for ignoring dangerous health consequences.

Excuse #2: It's not really my fault—I have low serotonin levels!

The serotonin theory taught me that I binged for a deeper purpose. It taught me that I was "using" food to correct a physical defect in my brain—the lack of a specific neurotransmitter. This set me up to blame my behavior on my neurotransmitters and avoid personal responsibility. I adopted the harmful idea that "chemically caused eating is not your fault."242 I erroneously believed I was sick and binge eating was my medicine. Even if I did truly have low serotonin levels or some other chemical imbalance in my brain, and even if I still do, binge eating is surely not a cure for that problem. If I happened to talk to a doctor about possible low serotonin levels in my brain, I guarantee he would not recommend binge eating.

In any case, whatever chemicals were off balance in my brain didn't automatically propel me toward the refrigerator. I always had a choice because of my highest human brain. My individual brain chemistry may have given me tendencies to feel and act in certain ways, but all it gave me was tendencies. Although blaming my behavior on my brain chemistry allowed me to avoid responsibility, I found it infinitely more gratifying when I accepted responsibility for my behavior and chose to change it.

OTHER DRUGS

I have mentioned that opioids are a factor in the pleasurable and habit-forming nature of binge eating. Opioid blockers such as naloxone have been shown to decrease feeding and decrease a preference for sweets in animals;243 however, opioid blockers have been found to be an ineffective treatment for binge eating in humans.244 Likewise, drugs that block dopamine—another pleasurable brain chemical that may be involved in binge eating—are not effective in the treatment of eating disorders.245 Anti-epileptic drugs, like Topamax, have been shown to temporarily decrease or stop binge eating, but they have adverse side effects that limit their use in many eating disorder patients.246

BRAIN CHANGES WITHOUT DRUGS

I believe the ineffectiveness of these drugs—those that affect serotonin, opioids, dopamine, and even multiple systems like the anti-epileptics—show that we can't simply tweak one part of the brain or one chemical process to effect major and lasting changes. Eating is far too complex of a behavior for that. Too many brain regions, neurochemicals, and hormones are involved in eating—in the brain itself and in the peripheral nervous system. Maybe one day, as our understanding of the nervous system improves, scientists will be able to come up with a medication that fixes all the right brain and peripheral chemicals and systems—completely and permanently. But if that ever occurs, what side effects will that medication have? Will all the artificial changes be worth it—just for an easy fix for a binge-created brain-wiring problem?

I believe that I was able to access all the right neurochemicals and brain systems that drove my habit through safe and natural behavior change. No medications required.

BRAIN CHEMICAL IMBALANCES AS VULNERABILITIES

As I've said before, of course there was something different about me that made me susceptible to dieting, overly restrictive dieting, and prone to develop the habit of binge eating. Brain chemical differences certainly could have been one of those factors. Maybe some of those chemical differences caused me to enjoy dieting when I first began; maybe some of them explain why my survival drives were so strong; maybe some of them provide reasons for why I derived pleasure from binge eating, why large amounts of highly palatable foods were addicting to me, why my lower brain developed and held on to my habit.

Maybe the particular makeup of my brain made me more likely to make the wrong choices when it came to dieting and binge eating; and without knowing what was going on in my brain, I followed my neurochemicals into those wrong choices. This is not my way of excusing the choices I made. I'm only saying that something surely made me susceptible to bulimia in the first place. But that didn't matter when it came to recovery. I still retained the ability to overcome my automatic brain functions; I still retained the ability to put brain over binge. Even if I did have differences or abnormalities in the makeup of my neurotransmitters, I no longer had to let it lead me into the wrong actions.

My change of perspective about brain chemicals is best summed up by Dr. John J. Ratey in A User's Guide to the Brain: "blaming yourself for the physiological shortcomings of your brain, whatever they may be, is misdirected energy, energy better spent in changing your habits and lifestyle to live the most productive life you can."247

39: Prevention

I often think of things that may have kept me from developing bulimia in the first place, and there is only one thing that would have prevented it: avoidance of dieting. If I could have somehow avoided dieting, I could have avoided an eating disorder. So what would have prevented me, and what will prevent other young women from dieting?

Restrictive dieting is serious and potentially dangerous, especially in young people, but I don't believe the dangers are clearly communicated. Dieting is praised in our culture, and the aim to prevent it in young people isn't strong enough. I often see advertisements to discourage kids from taking drugs, which are sometimes terrifying in nature. I've seen billboards showing a ghastly figure of a drug addict; I've heard a radio commercial featuring an addict talking about all the horrible consequences he faced as a result of his drug use. Police go to high schools and put on chilling presentations about the risks of drinking and driving. None of this is done in regard to dieting.

Since eating disorders are viewed as diseases, like diabetes or lupus, plenty of groups—like the National Eating Disorders Association—raise awareness about them, just as the American Cancer Society raises awareness about cancer. It's fine to raise awareness about eating disorders, but that's not a preventive measure. That only promotes the idea that eating disorders are illnesses that inexplicably happen to people, when in fact nearly all cases of anorexia and bulimia, and a large number of cases of BED, would never occur without the initial diet, just like a drug addiction would never occur without that first hit.

There are susceptibilities to eating disorders just like there are susceptibilities to drug addictions, but the first diet, like the first hit of a drug, is not inevitable based on those susceptibilities. It's a choice, and one that can be prevented. When parents tell their kids not to smoke, they say, "Don't smoke" and possibly inform them of the horrible consequences of smoking. They don't say, Smoking is a disease you should be aware of. I'm not suggesting that scare tactics are the most effective way to prevent restrictive dieting, smoking, drinking and driving, or drug abuse; but there have to be measures to discourage all of these behaviors in young people. Restrictive dieting should not be excluded from the list of detrimental behaviors, and it should definitely not be praised.

PREVENTION CAN BE COMPLEX

I realize that "don't diet" is a more complicated message than "don't smoke" because smoking is clearly definable and dieting is not so clear-cut. Cutting back on junk foods and cutting down excessive portions is not truly "dieting;" it's learning to eat healthier. But even healthy improvements can have the effect of throwing the body from homeostasis and triggering survival instincts. In other words, the diet doesn't necessarily have to be restrictive to cause problems. Adolescents in a situation where they need to make changes to become healthier should be educated about survival instincts and why their bodies initially protest even healthy changes in eating habits. They should also be encouraged that soon, if they stick to it, healthy changes will become habitual and effortless.

Discouraging dieting is also a tough issue in that it could send the wrong message; that is, it could encourage teens to eat excessively in the name of "not dieting." Furthermore, harping on adolescents' eating habits to ensure they don't diet could run the risk of making them overthink their eating and lose touch with their natural hunger and fullness cues. Because of these issues and more, I'm not claiming there is an easy answer to dieting prevention, but I do think there are three things that may have helped me avoid dieting in the first place. I'm not blaming any of these factors for my own choices, but I believe that the following changes may have helped me choose to keep eating naturally.

Less Emphasis on Weight in the Family

Too many young women are raised by mothers and sometimes fathers obsessed with their weight, talking about their diets and workout plans, talking about how fattening certain foods are, lamenting about parts of their bodies they consider fat. I don't need to share exact details about my own family's issues surrounding weight while I was growing up to admit that there were definitely issues. There were comments—nothing too outrageous or out of the ordinary—that led me to believe that any excess weight was not preferable, and not just for health reasons, but for personal worth. I personally believe weight and food should be discussed in a family in the context of health, not in the context of appearance. I think positive role models, both in and out of the family, could do much good in dieting prevention.

More Preparation for Weight Changes During Puberty

Because my background involved believing that weight gain was bad, puberty was more worrisome than it should have been. Now, with perspective, I know that the natural weight gain I experienced in puberty would not have kept up indefinitely. My body would have leveled off at a natural weight—a woman's weight, not a child's—and it would not have escalated to me being overweight. Back then, I needed to know that the extra weight in puberty was healthy, normal, and beneficial, not only for my future childbearing years, but in the present for athletics and strength. I wish I would have welcomed the change. I sometimes see skinny little girls like I was and hope they are prepared for weight gain later in life. Since being thin is praised so much, I think skinny girls risk fighting the change or lamenting the loss of their girlish bodies even more than others do.

Knowledge of Ineffectiveness of Restrictive Dieting

When I started dieting after my tonsillectomy, my parents recognized it soon enough. However, their main message, it seemed, was to try to convince me there was nothing to worry about, that I was thin and didn't need to lose any weight. I remember asking to buy a diet book in Walmart one day and my mom telling me that I was skinny and didn't need to diet. I'm not saying theirs was the wrong approach, and it was certainly well-meaning; but it wasn't effective. Telling me not to worry about my weight when I'd clearly watched it go up in recent years wasn't going to quell my concerns. The message I got was, You are still skinny, so stop worrying about it. From this message, I took away, You better watch out, because if you don't cut back on calories, you won't be skinny anymore.

I think a little validation of my feelings might have helped, as in, Yes, you have gained weight in high school; yes, it's normal; yes, it's healthy; and yes, it's going to stop. I also needed to know that it was normal for a girl my age to become concerned with appearance, based on biological drives (see Chapter 18), and that these concerns would only be transitory. More importantly, I needed to know that restrictive dieting wasn't the answer and would only make things worse. I needed to know that—regardless of how I felt about my body—I had to avoid restrictive dieting to avoid dangerous consequences; just like I learned that—regardless of how much I wanted to fit in—I had to avoid smoking to avoid dangerous consequences.

I also needed to understand and appreciate that eating is for health, not weight. I'm not saying I shouldn't have changed any of my eating habits at the time, I simply should not have turned to "dieting." There would have been nothing wrong with me cutting back on soda and some other unhealthy foods in my diet in the name of health, all the while being aware of my survival instincts. But I did not do this. I cut back on my food purely in the name of weight loss.

Once my weight loss escalated, I believe the slide into bulimia could have still been prevented. My parents, in wanting to help me overcome my problem—anorexia—sought information about eating disorders and attended a support group. There, they received the wrong information. They were told I had a disease, that I couldn't truly control my behavior, that they had to be unconditionally supportive, that they couldn't question me or bring up my eating unless I brought it up. In short, they were told they had to keep their mouths shut and let me find my own way, offering support only if I requested it.

This advice, I think, made them afraid to mention my restrictive eating or confront me about the dangers of dieting. I think when a kid is engaged in harmful eating behavior, it needs to be treated just as firmly as someone on drugs or smoking. In smoking or drug use, it would be unheard of to tell a teen, It's not your fault you smoke or do drugs or You have a disease you can't control. In smoking or drug use, unconditional support and an unquestioning attitude toward the destructive behavior is not a typical course of action; and I don't think it should be a typical course of action for friends, family, coaches, and teachers of those with eating disorders, either.

I think it would have been helpful for others to take a more direct approach with me. My teachers, coaches, and people I looked up to had every right to question me and criticize my destructive actions, but they didn't. Some approached my parents delicately but never earnestly confronted me. There was only one person who ever told it like it was, and that was an old coach of mine—one known and loved for her honest approach. When my weight loss first became noticeable, I remember going to dinner one night with a few friends and teammates. One of them—I'll call her Mary—had a stomach problem at the time and noticeable weight loss as well. Mary and I didn't order any food; she had a good excuse, I didn't. Our former coach saw us at the table and came to talk to us. She noticed we weren't eating anything and said, "You don't have that stupid anorexia nonsense, do you?"

Some would call this comment uninformed and insensitive. Looking back, I don't think it was. Maybe true anorexia is not stupid, because once the starvation habit is firmly in place, it's much harder to see the problem and to change it, but restrictive dieting is stupid. It's stupid like smoking is stupid; it's stupid like shooting heroin is stupid; it's stupid like getting drunk every night is stupid. And it's stupid because it simply doesn't work for weight control in the long run. This lone comment from my old coach didn't make me stop, but perhaps the message that dieting doesn't work and is dangerous—from a variety of sources prior to beginning dieting and after it escalated—could have helped me avoid it.

40: Bridges to Traditional Therapy

The primary message of this book is that in order to recover from bulimia or BED, one has to stop binge eating. It may seem overly simplistic, but it is the truth, even from the perspective of traditional therapy. All paths to complete recovery inevitably involve quitting binge eating, regardless of how long that takes. Since quitting binge eating changes the brain, it follows that all paths to recovery ultimately lead to desirable brain changes.

Traditional therapy can work for some people, by ceasing binge eating and preventing it from ever coming back. In these cases, the brain is already undergoing or has already undergone the necessary changes. My mission in this book is not to take away what is already working or has already worked for other people. Like I've said, some binge eaters indeed recover using traditional therapy. So I'm just trying to offer an alternative for when therapy isn't working, isn't resonating, isn't effective, and isn't possible or desired.

I don't think my ideas are altogether antithetical to those of traditional therapy. On the contrary, in some ways, my "brain over binge" approach might be compatible with each major therapeutic approach, as discussed below.

A BRIDGE TO PSYCHODYNAMIC THERAPY

With this form of therapy, it is most difficult to build a bridge; yet I see two ways in which psychodynamic therapy and brain over binge could be used together.

First, I have been told by a few critics that my basic argument is simply to "stop the behavior first, then work on underlying issues." Actually, this is not what I'm saying, because this still contains the potentially harmful idea that the eating disorder and the other problems are intimately related, and solving the other problems is necessary for full recovery and relapse prevention. I believe that once the BED or bulimia is stopped, any personal improvements made are only quality of life improvements, unrelated to recovery.

Even though "stop the behavior first, then work on underlying issues" is not the message of this book, I do believe that it is the most useful order of events when psychodynamic therapy is employed. Psychodynamic therapy could be presented in conjunction with brain over binge, such that the bingeing could stop first, then the emotional changes could occur afterward. This would avoid binge eaters getting the message that they can stop only once they resolve this or that issue or become whole or happy.

Stopping the habit first would have the added advantage of weeding out any problems that are actually results of the bulimia, meaning that lots of time and money wouldn't have to be wasted in therapy talking about side effects that would just go away when the habit disappears. Also, there is no reason that a patient can't solve emotional problems or underlying issues while she simultaneously stops the binge eating—as long as the two endeavors are kept separate.

Secondly, psychodynamic therapy could be used as "readiness" therapy. Recall my belief that the first step in recovery is wanting to recover. This book is intended for people who fully realize they have a problem and want to recover from it—or, at least, part of them wants to recover. However, I'm sure there are binge eaters out there who do not feel any pull toward recovery, who are complacent in their behavior, who don't have any desire to give it up. Without the will for recovery, the separation between the self and the binge-created brain-wiring problem is irrelevant; being driven by the lower brain will remain the status quo.

The highest human brain has to be on board with recovery, even though the lower brain will resist. Psychodynamic therapy could then be used to help find a spark of the true self who wants to recover. I'm not talking about "finding the true self" in the sense of becoming fulfilled and developing a cohesive identity prior to stopping binge eating, because this could put off recovery for a very long time. I'm talking about using psychodynamic therapy as a way to catch a glimpse of the highest human brain that does not want to be run down by the lower brain any longer.

In summary, a patient doesn't have to transform in psychodynamic therapy in order to recover, but she can use it to transform afterward—if a transformation is desired—just like anyone, with or without bulimia, could use this type of therapy. Alternately, psychodynamic therapy could be the vehicle that helps a patient find the part of herself that wants to recover.

BRIDGE TO COGNITIVE BEHAVIORAL THERAPY

Cognitive behavioral therapy is the easiest to build a bridge toward, because on the surface it doesn't seem that much different from the brain over binge approach. The ultimate goal in CBT is to substitute healthy behaviors for binge eating. In substituting healthy behaviors for unhealthy ones, CBT activates executive systems (the prefrontal cortex) and can develop new neural pathways that support substitute behaviors.248 Isn't this similar to what I've been talking about?

Ideally, it could be. If the bulimic goes for a walk, takes a warm bath, sews, or does another fulfilling or distracting activity every time the urge to binge hits, then yes, the neural pathways that support those new behaviors would become strong and the pathways that support binge eating would weaken. However, CBT—at least for me—made it so that I could rarely substitute one of those positive behaviors. I had lists upon lists of things to do instead of binge, but actually doing the things on those lists was overwhelming.

It was so difficult because of the value CBT placed on my urges. My urges to binge were supposedly the result of something significant, like a stressor, a trigger, or an emotion I supposedly couldn't cope with. I gave the urges attention and emotional significance in trying to decipher them, which only made them more powerful. Furthermore, I thought that substituting a healthy coping skill or distracting activity was supposed to take away or significantly lessen my desire to binge, which, of course, it didn't.

I couldn't resist my urges as long as they had any measure of value—physical or emotional. It was only when I learned to view them as neurological junk that I was able to resist.

When I did stop acting on my urges, I didn't necessarily substitute positive activities for them, mainly because that's what I tried to do in vain for many years and I wanted to do something different. That said, I could have substituted specific, positive behaviors. This is where the bridge to CBT lies. If you are using CBT, you may find that a change of perspective regarding your urges allows you to easily choose alternate activities over binges. Once you stop giving your urges attention and attaching meaning to them, you will have the power to assert your will and substitute any positive behavior you want.

In the OCD study I have repeatedly discussed, the majority of Schwartz's patients were able to engage in alternative activities—such as gardening—instead of acting on OCD urges. He found that his patients' ability to perform those substitute behaviors was related to the value they placed on their urges. In fact, the "key predictor" of whether his therapy would help an OCD patient was "whether he learns to recognize that a pathological urge to perform a compulsive behavior reflects a faulty brain message—in other words, to Revalue it."249 Revaluing was the step where he taught his patients to "quickly recogniz[e] the disturbing thoughts as senseless, as false, as errant brain signals not even worth the gray matter they rode in on, let alone worth acting on."250 The more detached the patients were from their urges, the less significance they placed on them, the greater their ability to focus their attention on an alternate activity.251

Based on my premise that the urge to binge is the only true cause of binge eating, if the bulimic learns to view the urge differently—as simply junk from the lower brain—it doesn't have to cause binge eating. If CBT added this simple concept to the vast array of cognitive and behavioral techniques it endorses, then I believe those techniques could become doable for many. Separation and detachment from the urge can make doing any number of alternate activities possible—even if it's simply something distracting like surfing the Internet, doing a crossword puzzle, or listening to music. In other words, brain over binge could give patients the willpower they need to use CBT-recommended techniques and therefore make CBT a more effective therapy. It's a subtle change in the approach, but it could make a world of difference for many.

CBT is also useful in changing cognitive distortions regarding weight and body shape. If a woman is determined to diet restrictively when she stops binge eating, then her urges to binge probably won't go away quickly or at all. CBT could help her give up the desire to deprive herself, by helping her think healthier thoughts about food and weight or by providing nutritional counseling. This is useful to women (and men)—with or without a history of an eating disorder—who place an unhealthy value on their weight and appearance. Furthermore, CBT can help correct thoughts that lead to depression, anxiety, perfectionism, or negative feelings—again, useful for anyone with or without an eating disorder who suffers from those problems. As long as recovery doesn't hinge on solving any coexisting problems, CBT is useful in solving a wide variety of them.

BRIDGE TO ADDICTION THERAPY

If you believe you are addicted to certain foods—especially sugar and white flour—then you are probably right. But we don't actually experience a true loss of control when we eat those foods. Like I've said, the loss of control in binge eating is only a perceived loss of control, not a biologically based loss of control.252 What we don't have control over is the surfacing of our urges to binge. If the lower brain is conditioned to binge on certain problematic foods—like sugary ones—then even one bite of something sugary will automatically produce an urge to binge. It's these urges to binge that we have no control over, not the actual binge eating.

Knowing this, a binge eater could use the addiction model in this way. She could avoid all problematic foods for a while if she wants, knowing she will probably crave them and knowing she can detach herself from these cravings. Then she could gradually introduce them in moderate amounts—that is, if she wants them to be a part of her normal diet. When reintroducing the foods, she should set a limit and stick to it; but she should know that the brain will send urges to eat much more than the set limit. For example, if a limit of four cookies is set, eating those four cookies will probably set her lower brain aflame with desire for the whole box. But if, using her highest human brain, she remains separate and detached from this automatic brain reaction and assigns it no value, she should be able to refrain from reacting to the urges and acting on them.

Once normal amounts of problematic foods are eaten many times, the old binge eating habit will subside and eating moderate portions will be become normal and effortless. Or, if she doesn't want to eat any amounts of former problematic foods—perhaps for health reasons—there is no pressing reason to, as long as she knows how to deal with her urges to binge when she inevitably eats those problematic foods someday. It seems unrealistic to expect that anyone will never eat even a bit of sugar for the rest of their life, so it's vital to be prepared for when we do eat a problem food. Prepared only means being aware of the brain and dismissing any faulty messages it may send.

Overeaters Anonymous

Overeaters Anonymous applies the addiction model to eating disorders, although not all OA groups advocate complete abstinence from problem foods. All groups do advocate a plan of eating but maintain no specific requirements for that personal plan.253 Since OA is the most popular group using the addition model, I will attempt here to build a bridge between OA and the brain over binge model using the first three of the 12 steps of OA:

Step 1: We admitted we were powerless over food—that our lives had become unmanageable.

Step 2: We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Step 3: We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

The rest of the 12 steps involve admitting wrongdoings and shortcomings, making amends with others, and ultimately, having a spiritual awakening and carrying the message to others—worthy life goals that don't have much to do with recovery from the actual eating disorder. In looking at the first three steps, I realized that I could reword them to describe my own recovery:

Step 1: I admitted that I was powerless against the surfacing of my urges to binge in my lower brain and that I had stopped managing my own life.

Step 2: I came to believe that I had great power within myself—my highest human brain—and that I could use that power to restore myself to sanity.

Step 3: I made a decision to use my highest human brain to exert my free will over the urges, and I took my life back.

The difference in my steps and OA's steps is self-reliance. I used my own power, my own brain, my own free will to stop binge eating, without relying on anything or anyone else to do it for me. I am not suggesting that binge eaters cut God, as they understand him, out of their recovery, because religious belief, prayer, and spirituality give many people strength in all facets of life. However, if reliance on God—or on another power outside oneself—does not enable cessation of the destructive behavior, then it is time to change perspective and take full responsibility for quitting.

There is nothing magical about making amends with other people and having a spiritual awakening that will turn off automatic urges in the brain. I believe binge eaters have to do that on their own through refusing to act on each and every urge. Redefining "Higher Power" to mean the highest human brain could lead many in OA toward a more practical solution to binge eating.

A CHANGE OF PERSPECTIVE

In trying to build a bridge between the traditional therapeutic approaches and my brain over binge approach, I've argued that a change in perspective is possibly all that's needed for those whom therapy fails. In its simplest terms, this change of perspective includes separating the binge eating from life's other problems, learning to view urges to binge as valueless neurological junk, and using the capacity of the highest human brain to resist them. Perhaps these three changes could make any form of therapy effective.

I think many people in therapy make the same mistake I did in thinking the therapists, therapeutic techniques, or any number of life changes or character improvements will make quitting effortless, will somehow take away the desire to binge. Who knows—maybe there is someone or something out there that can completely take away urges to binge; maybe if a binge eater continues therapy for many years, keeps talking about her problems, tries different medications, works hard on improving her self-esteem and anxiety, and deals with every possible underlying issue, the urges to binge will go away.

But why leave it to chance? Urges will assuredly go away if the binge eater stops binge eating, so why not stop it now? Since any path to recovery eventually and essentially involves a cessation of binge eating, why put it off any longer? To feel the urges to binge and not act on them is the quickest, simplest, and easiest path to a full recovery. It trains the brain to undo the habit right then and there and gradually puts a stop to the urges. It is also a foolproof protection against relapse, because if one never acts on an urge to binge, one can never relapse. If such a simple solution is available, why would anyone want to wait around for months or years for the urges to possibly go away? There is no reason to stop therapy if therapy is serving a useful purpose—as long as the binge eater changes her perspective surrounding the urges to binge and stops acting on them.

41: Conclusion

Fulfilling some need ...

My binge eating certainly did fulfill needs, but not the complex emotional needs that my therapists spoke of. It fulfilled the needs of my survival drives; then it fulfilled my lower brain's need to maintain the very habit it started. If only someone had told me bulimia was a simple brain problem from the moment I entered therapy, I could have easily fixed it. This is now my mission—to be that someone who tells other binge eaters that a simple and quick recovery is possible, without therapy.

If you are bulimic, or if you suffer from binge eating disorder, or if you binge only occasionally, I want to tell you that there is nothing wrong with you. You have only temporarily become a victim of your own healthy brain. If you are confused by therapy and not finding help there, I want to tell you that I believe there is a quicker and more cost-effective way to stop your behavior. I want to tell you that you can learn to view your binge eating differently—not as a symptom of underlying emotional issues, but as a symptom of something very real and concrete going on in your brain. I want to tell you that change is much easier if you dismiss the belief that you binge for deeper, more profound reasons, and instead learn how your lower brain works to keep you binge eating. I want to tell you that you have the power to take control of your actions, overcome your habit, and escape the daily torment binge eating brings.

The bottom line is: in order to recover from bulimia—or stop any other habit, for that matter—you have to stop the behavior. It is the simple and difficult truth. My own experience leads me to believe it is possible to quit on your own, even right now—without undergoing a major character transformation, without spending thousands of dollars on therapists or treatment centers, without stopping your life, and without having to deal with your eating disorder every day for the rest of your life. I truly believe that if I did it, anyone can; because, believe me, there is nothing special about me—and yet I was able to change my brain to erase any desire to binge eat.

Repeating the same old destructive behavior is not only a problem of bulimics, binge eaters, and other addicts; it's a problem shared by the whole human race. We humans are the lucky ones, though, because we do not have to follow every impulse from our brains. We can observe our own thoughts and feelings, and from moment to moment, we can choose which ones we will follow through on and which ones we will disregard.

Our marvelous highest human brains give us great responsibility. We have the ability to write our brains' own programs by what we repeatedly do. This means that our actions carry much weight. Each day, we can choose to act in ways that are consistent with our goals and identities, or we can make poor choices and let bad habits take hold. What we do will affect our futures in a very real and physical way, by altering the neural footprints in our brains.

I hope that reading my story has helped those of you caught up in binge eating to detach yourself from the urges that drive you to destructive actions and disregard them. I hope that it has helped you see that you truly do have a choice in how you act and that your choices can change you. I can't say what your life after bulimia or BED will be like, and I can't guarantee that you will achieve great things or be transformed into the person you want to be. But I do know that once you free yourself from binge eating, you will be free to discover your own possibilities.

Notes

Preface

1. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 54.

2. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 30.

3. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 73-74.

4. Kaye, "Eating Disorders."

5. Medina, Bulimia, 45.

6. Bulik and Taylor, Runaway Eating, 57.

7. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 84.

8. Eating Disorders Coalition, "Facts About Eating Disorders."

Introduction

9. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 22.

10. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 56.

11. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 57.

12. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 5.

13. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 56.

14. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 22.

Chapter 6

15. American Psychiatric Association, DSM-IV-TR, 585.

16. American Psychiatric Association, DSM-IV-TR, 591.

17. American Psychiatric Association, DSM-IV-TR, 591.

18. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 30.

19. National Institute of Mental Health, "How Are We Working."

20. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 77.

Chapter 10

21. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 6, 9.

22. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 124.

23. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 18.

24. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 110.

25. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 113.

26. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 36.

27. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 120-122.

28. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 114.

Chapter 12

29. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 181.

Chapter 15

30. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 166.

31. Normandi and Roark, It's Not About Food, xxi.

32. Heller, Eating Disorders, 111.

33. Johnston, Eating in the Light of the Moon, 173.

34. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 76.

35. National Eating Disorders Association, "Learn Basic Terms and Information."

36. National Eating Disorders Association, "Learn Basic Terms and Information."

37. American Psychiatric Association, DSM-IV-TR, 594.

38. Davison and Neale, Abnormal Psychology, 225.

39. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 155.

Chapter 17

40. Heller, Eating Disorders, 8; Barnhill and Taylor, If You Think You Have an Eating Disorder, 2, 58, 65-66; and Charney and Nestler, Neurobiology of Mental Illness, 1349.

41. Charney and Nestler, Neurobiology of Mental Illness, 1350-1351.

42. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 31.

43. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress Evoke Exaggerated Responses to Opioids."

44. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 32-33.

45. Hagan and Moss, "An Animal Model of Bulimia Nervosa"; and Hagan et al., "Combined Naloxone and Fluoxetine."

46. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 371.

47. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 378.

48. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 371.

49. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 154.

50. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 373.

51. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 371.

52. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 373.

53. Shapiro, Animal Models of Human Psychology, 117.

54. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 380.

55. Noback et al., The Human Nervous System, 380.

56. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 46.

57. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 46.

58. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 46.

59. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 47.

60. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 47.

61. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 47.

62. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 20.

63. Normandi and Roark, It's Not About Food, 2.

64. Barnhill and Taylor, If You Think You Have an Eating Disorder, 68.

65. Nunley, "How the Adolescent Brain Challenges the Adult Brain."

66. Gurian, Nurture the Nature, 242.

67. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 215.

68. Nunley, "How the Adolescent Brain Challenges the Adult Brain."

69. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 24.

70. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 141.

71. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 141.

72. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 144.

73. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 23.

74. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress Evoke Exaggerated Responses to Opioids."

75. Dum and Herz, "Activation of Hypothalamic Beta-Endorphin Pools"; and Welch et al., "Palatability-Induced Hyperphagia."

Chapter 18

76. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 34.

77. Glass, The Animal Within Us, 38.

78. Glass, The Animal Within Us, 39.

79. Charney and Nestler, Neurobiology of Mental Illness, 1349.

80. Kaye, "Eating Disorders."

81. Lilenfeld et al., "Eating Disorders and Personality."

Chapter 19

82. Hagan et al., "The Effect of Hypothalamic Peptide YY."

83. Glass, The Animal Within Us, 138.

84. Hagan and Moss, "An Animal Model of Bulimia Nervosa"; and Hagan and Moss, "Persistence of Binge-Eating Patterns."

85. Hagan and Moss, "An Animal Model of Bulimia Nervosa."

86. Coscina and Dixon, "Body Weight Regulation in Anorexia Nervosa."

87. Keys, Brozek, and Henschel, The Biology of Human Starvation, 783-818.

88. Hagan et al., "The Role of Palatable Food and Hunger as Trigger Factors"; and Coscina and Dixon, "Body Weight Regulation in Anorexia Nervosa."

89. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress Evoke Exaggerated Responses to Opioids."

90. Hagan and Moss, "Persistence of Binge-Eating Patterns."

Chapter 20

91. Folensbee, The Neuroscience of Psychological Therapies, 17.

92. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 107.

93. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 108.

94. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 15.

95. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 15.

96. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 130.

97. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 64.

98. Begley, Train Your Mind, Change Your Brain, 8-9.

99. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 366.

100. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 165.

101. National Institute of Mental Health, "How Are We Working."

102. National Institute of Mental Health, "How Are We Working."

103. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 149.

104. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

105. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

106. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

107. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

108. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

109. Charney and Nestler, Neurobiology of Mental Illness, 1355.

110. Bulik and Taylor, Runaway Eating, 79.

111. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

112. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

113. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress Evoke Exaggerated Responses to Opioids"; and Bencherif et al., "Regional μ-Opioid Receptor Binding."

114. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress Evoke Exaggerated Responses to Opioids."

115. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress Evoke Exaggerated Responses to Opioids."

116. Miller, Binge Breaker, 64.

117. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 151.

118. Davis, Strachan, and Berkson, "Sensitivity to Reward"; and Beaver et al., "Individual Differences in Reward Drive."

119. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

120. Marsh et al., "Deficient Activity in the Neural Systems"; and Mikami et al., "Eating Pathology Among Adolescent Girls."

121. Marsh et al., "Deficient Activity in the Neural Systems."

122. Mikami et al., "Eating Pathology Among Adolescent Girls."

123. Spurrell et al., "Age of Onset for Binge Eating."

124. Society for the Study of Ingestive Behavior, "High-Fat, High-Sugar Foods Alter Brain Receptors."

125. Society for the Study of Ingestive Behavior, "High-Fat, High-Sugar Foods Alter Brain Receptors."

126. Pelchat, "Food Addiction in Humans."

127. Avena, Rada, and Hoebel, "Sugar and Fat Bingeing Have Notable Differences."

Chapter 21

128. Glass, The Animal Within Us, 84.

129. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 120.

130. Shapiro, Animal Models of Human Psychology, 137.

131. Avena, Rada, and Hoebel, "Evidence for Sugar Addiction."

132. Ratey, A User's Guide to the Brain, 243.

133. Bulik and Taylor, Runaway Eating, 145.

134. Miller, Binge Breaker, 64

135. Glass, The Animal Within Us, 81.

136. Beaver et al., "Individual Differences in Reward Drive."

137. Beaver et al., "Individual Differences in Reward Drive."

138. Beaver et al., "Individual Differences in Reward Drive."

Chapter 22

139. Medina, Bulimia, 61.

140. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 51.

141. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 51.

142. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 77.

143. Medina, Bulimia, 61.

144. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 55.

145. Medina, Bulimia, 62.

146. Medina, Bulimia, 61.

147. Kraly, Brain Science and Psychological Disorders, 151.

148. Medina, Bulimia, 62.

149. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 333-334.

150. Barnhill and Taylor, If You Think You Have an Eating Disorder, 166.

151. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 84.

152. Avena, "Examining the Addictive-Like Properties of Binge Eating."

153. Michel and, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 43.

154. Lore, The Pathfinder, 135.

Chapter 23

155. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 209.

156. Ratey, A User's Guide to the Brain, 31.

157. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 366.

158. Pliszka, Neuroscience for the Mental Health Clinician, 107.

159. Glass, The Animal Within Us, 70.

160. Glass, The Animal Within Us, 70.

161. Pliszka, Neuroscience for the Mental Health Clinician, 120.

162. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 311.

163. Pliszka, Neuroscience for the Mental Health Clinician, 82.

164. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 35-36.

165. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 35-36, referencing W. J. Nauta, "Neural Associations of the Frontal Cortex," Acta Neurobiologiae Experimentalis 32, no. 2 (1972): 125-140.

166. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 215.

167. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 218.

168. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 306.

169. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 307.

Chapter 25

170. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 55.

171. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 75.

172. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 75.

173. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 316.

174. Charney and Nestler, Neurobiology of Mental Illness, 1349.

175. Charney and Nestler, Neurobiology of Mental Illness, 1349.

176. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 25.

177. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 8-9.

178. Begley, Train Your Mind, Change Your Brain, 139.

179. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 13.

180. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 82.

181. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 339.

182. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 333-334.

183. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 361.

184. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 339.

185. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 368.

186. Schaefer, Life Without Ed.

Chapter 26

187. Pliszka, Neuroscience for the Mental Health Clinician, 83.

188. Folensbee, The Neuroscience of Psychological Therapies, 23.

Chapter 27

189. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 90.

190. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 317.

191. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 360.

192. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 94.

193. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 368.

194. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 90.

195. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 90.

196. Goldberg, The Executive Brain, 209.

Chapter 28

197. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 144-145.

198. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 145.

199. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 60.

200. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 58.

Chapter 29

201. Roth and Fonagy, What Works for Whom? 255.

202. Keel et al., "Postremission Predictors of Relapse."

203. Medina, Bulimia, 45.

Chapter 30

204. Trimpey, Rational Recovery, 225.

Chapter 32

205. In Bulik and Taylor, Runaway Eating, x.

206. Reba-Harrelson et al., "Patterns and Prevalence."

207. Medina, Bulimia, 12.

208. Bulik and Taylor, Runaway Eating, x.

Chapter 33

209. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 101.

210. Silverstone, "Is Chronic Low Self-Esteem the Cause of Eating Disorders?"

211. Heller, Eating Disorders, 31.

212. Heller, Eating Disorders, 31.

213. Moe, Understanding the Causes, 27.

214. Heller, Eating Disorders, 31.

215. E.g., Nelson, Erwin, and Duffy, Positive Discipline for Preschoolers, 64

216. Nelson, Erwin, and Duffy, Positive Discipline for Preschoolers, 114.

Chapter 35

217. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 133.

218. Czerner, What Makes You Tick, 135.

219. Davison and Neale, Abnormal Psychology, 42.

220. Davison and Neale, Abnormal Psychology, 42.

221. Shapiro, Animal Models of Human Psychology, 133.

222. Shapiro, Animal Models of Human Psychology, 136.

223. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress."

224. Boggiano et al., "Combined Dieting and Stress."

225. Davison and Neale, Abnormal Psychology, 42.

226. Davison and Neale, Abnormal Psychology, 41-42.

Chapter 36

227. Keel et al., "Clinical Features and Physiological Response."

Chapter 37

228. Medina, Bulimia, 12.

229. Davison and Neale, Abnormal Psychology, 225.

230. Walsh and Cameron, If Your Adolescent Has an Eating Disorder, 46-47.

231. Charney and Nestler, Neurobiology of Mental Illness, 1352.

Chapter 38

232. Barnhill and Taylor, If You Think You Have an Eating Disorder, 97.

233. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

234. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 147.

235. Kirkpatrick and Caldwell, Eating Disorders, 147.

236. Davison and Neale, Abnormal Psychology, 227.

237. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 34.

238. Miller, Binge Breaker, 64; and Katherine, Anatomy of a Food Addiction, 25.

239. Katherine, Anatomy of a Food Addiction, 37.

240. Katherine, Anatomy of a Food Addiction, 25.

241. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 64.

242. Katherine, Anatomy of a Food Addiction, 37.

243. Shapiro, Animal Models of Human Psychology, 137.

244. Shapiro, Animal Models of Human Psychology, 139.

245. Shapiro, Animal Models of Human Psychology, 130.

246. McElroy et al., "Role of Antiepileptic Drugs in the Management of Eating Disorders."

247. Ratey, A User's Guide to the Brain, 13.

Chapter 40

248. Folensbee, The Neuroscience of Psychological Therapies, 163-164.

249. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 292.

250. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 88.

251. Schwartz and Begley, The Mind and the Brain, 355.

252. Michel and Willard, When Dieting Becomes Dangerous, 43.

253. Overeaters Anonymous, "Tools of Recovery."

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Acknowledgments

I want to offer humble appreciation to all of those who helped make this book a reality. Specifically, I want to thank:

My husband and best friend, Greg, for encouraging me every step of the way and never letting me give up. Without your unwavering commitment and faith in my project, I never would have kept returning to my laptop night after night while our children slept.

My parents, Tom and Ann, and my sister, Corey, for always believing in me and being my biggest supporters through the writing process. My in-laws, Gene and Elizabeth, who gave me many hours of writing time while cherishing their grandchildren. My creative and dear friend Emily, for seeing me through my very first drafts and helping my book begin to take shape. My talented cousin Kimberly, for helping me early in the editing process and offering insightful feedback.

My editors: Penelope Franklin, who went above and beyond in helping me bring life and better organization to the pages of this book; and Cindy Kaufman-Nixon, whose patience, enthusiasm, and diligence helped me bring this lengthy project to its finish line.

Jack Trimpey, because without him, this book may not have had a starting point. The hard-hitting and empowering message in his book Rational Recovery: The New Cure for Substance Addiction was just what I needed to start taking back control of my life.

Finally, I want to thank Max and Amelia, for keeping me grounded and filling my life with love; and my new baby girl (who is due very soon), for giving me a firm deadline to finish this book.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Preface

A Note to the Reader

Introduction

PART I: MY BULIMIA AND RECOVERY

1 A Typical Day's Binge

2 A Typical Day of Purging

3 Choice and Consequences

4 Introduction to Therapy

5 My First Binge

6 Accepting Therapy

7 Topamax to the Rescue

8 Some Things Change, Some Remain the Same

9 A New Book and New Hope

10 My Two Brains

11 I Had Control All Along

12 Resisting the Urge

13 The End of My Bulimia

PART II: MY BULIMIA REDEFINED AND RECOVERY EXPLAINED

14 Investigating the True Story Behind My Bulimia and Recovery

15 Was I Really Recovered?

16 Why Did I Binge?

17 What Caused My First Urges to Binge?

18 Why Did I Diet and Why Was It Such a Problem for Me?

19 Why Did I Continue Having Urges to Binge?

Reason 1: Persistence of Survival Instincts

20 Why Did I Continue Having Urges to Binge?

Reason 2: Habit

21 Why Did I Follow My Urges to Binge?

22 Why Didn't Therapy Work for Me?

23 Revisiting Recovery: How Did I Do It?

24 Brain over Binge, Step 1: View Urges to Binge as Neurological Junk

25 Brain over Binge, Step 2: Separate the Highest Human Brain from Urges to Binge

26 Brain over Binge, Step 3: Stop Reacting to Urges to Binge

27 Brain over Binge, Step 4: Stop Acting on Urges to Binge

28 Brain over Binge, Step 5: Get Excited

29 Is Relapse a Possibility?

30 Where I Am Today

PART III: THERAPY CONCEPTS REEXAMINED

31 Normal Eating

32 Body Image, Weight, and Dieting

33 Low Self-Esteem

34 "Coping"

35 Triggers

36 Purging

37 Coexisting Problems

38 Medication

39 Prevention

40 Bridges to Traditional Therapy

41 Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

Back Cover