From Fragile to Fearless
There is a Chinese vase from the 18th century, called a yangcai, that recently sold for over 40 million dollars at auction in Bejing. Made of double-layered ruby-ground porcelain, the vase has multiple moving parts, and is referred to as a revolving vase. Both layers are ornately hand painted – the outer, a phoenix in flamboyant shades of pink, yellow, and green soars against delicately etched white clouds. Looking inside, cranes, ducks and quail dance on turquoise water; some take flight over a jade forest. It’s said to be one of the most valuable and rare pieces of art in the world, mostly because these types of vases are so fragile – almost none have survived.
For a long time, I felt like a yangcai. A body instead of a vase, bones draped in tan skin with freckles sprinkled on the arms, torso, and cheeks. Made in 1994 – a complex construction of cells, tissues, and organs. In 2012, some additional ink was added to the exterior just at the top of the back – a brightly colored koi fish swims over the spine. Waves of messy brown hair cover the head. The face has dark, bushy eyebrows and bright green eyes that used to sparkle but now have sunken a little deeper into their sockets. Muted pink lips part to show pearly teeth slightly stained by occasional exposure to black coffee.
As with the vase, this body is rumored to be extraordinarily delicate and lucky to have survived 28 years. Only to be gently handled with white gloves, wrapped in bubble wrap, placed in a bed of styrofoam peanuts, a “fragile, handle with care” sticker placed over the mouth.
“She’s going to have to make significant changes to her lifestyle. She will never be able to do anything too high stress or she will relapse. She’ll need someone to watch her closely. Even with all her progress, she’s in a very vulnerable state.” The doctor and social worker spoke in low volume, almost a whisper. Loud enough to ensure they weren’t talking about me behind my back, but quiet enough to assume I couldn’t make out their words specifically. They had just finished reviewing my discharge instructions with my parents, here to pick me up after a long two-month inpatient eating disorder hospitalization. It was mid-September 2016, the day before my mom’s birthday. They loaded me up into my dad’s truck, and started the long drive home to Virginia Beach. I sat in the back seat and took a moment to reflect.
I had just survived one of the most traumatic yet monumental periods of my life. In the past year, I had lost most of my friends, my relationship, my job, and nearly my life after struggling with anorexia nervosa. On top of everything else, being told that my career pursuing my PhD in immunology was likely not the best for my recovery was daunting. My work had been stressful, but I had loved it. What would I want to do now? What would I even be able to do? The amazing staff during my hospitalization saved my life, inspired me to take care of myself, and through this entire process, I realized my goal to be able to make this kind of impact in someone else’s life.
After being discharged, I made it a priority to rebuild and recover, but maybe, eventually I would be able to find a career where I could make a difference too.
I arrived home and moved back in with my parents. I saw my therapist three times a week, followed a meal plan with my nutritionist, and attended support groups in the evenings – it was the full white-glove treatment. But it was getting old. I was tired of being treated like I was still so sick, like I could shatter at any moment if someone looked at me the wrong way. The first few months of recovery were hard work, but eventually, I was able to prove to myself that I may be ready to handle more responsibility. I decided to take a chance and apply to nursing school. I bounced ideas off of my therapist – going back and forth about if I wanted to speak about my struggle in my admission essay. In the end, I thought why not? It would be raw and vulnerable, but it was truly the reason that I wanted to become a nurse: to help people as I had been helped. I overcame the thoughts of inadequacy, doubt, anxiety, uncertainty, and pressed submit. To my surprise, I was accepted, and quickly on my way to start a new chapter in New York City.
My nursing school program was intense, and I loved every second. But, I would be lying if I say I didn’t struggle with this newfound independence in a city so fast-paced, a city known for high stress and high stakes. My recovery, like many others, was not linear – I began seeing a psychiatrist through my university. During one session, she said something that I will always carry with me: that by pursuing this career, I now have a responsibility to not only myself, but to my patients, to continue to put my recovery above everything else and stay healthy. It was a welcomed challenge and I made it work. However, during my last week of nursing school, my father passed away unexpectedly – yet another struggle that I had to face. But I did it: I graduated. After his passing, I moved back to Virginia where I, again, began rebuilding and recovering. He was always my biggest cheerleader throughout my life and my recovery, and I honor him by continuing to fight every day.
I got a job working as a psychiatric nurse on an inpatient mental health unit at a large university hospital, and now work at a VA hospital where I am able to serve veterans like my father. Working in the mental health field is rewarding beyond words, and I am successful and fulfilled in my career not in spite of my eating disorder, but because of it. I am able to empathize with my patients on a deeper level and know that I have been able to impact someone’s life for the better – something I had only dreamed of doing six years ago.
Every year, on the anniversary of my inpatient admission date, I reflect back on my progress and celebrate, realizing that it was not too long ago that I, myself, was a patient in a fragile state.
It has taken time, but I no longer find myself relating to a yangcai. I’ve traded in adjectives like ‘sensitive,’ ‘helpless,’ ‘weak,’ ‘sickly,’ for ‘strong,’ ‘empowered,’ ‘capable,’ ‘fearless.’ It’s a strange sensation, being 28 years old but only feeling like I have truly lived the short six years since I’ve been in recovery. In those six years, I have found that I can survive anything that life throws at me, and with each challenge I am stronger. I am a testament that you can not only survive an eating disorder, but you can go on to thrive and flourish because of it.
