Battling IBS and stress ... and their residual effects

(Editor's note: I'm republishing this column as I deal with the residual effects of a stomach virus or salmonella poisoning ... not sure which).

First came the burps, followed by the gurgles and the cramps. Then came the long, lonely, seemingly endless trips to the bathroom.

Seventeen years ago, I swallowed tablespoons of antacid and chewed on antacid tablets like candy, hoping these feelings would go away. They never really did.

Oh, well, it hasn't been all bad. Six months to three years can pass by without anything happening. But when it hits, it hits hard.

For 17 years, doctors have provided the same diagnosis: irritable bowel syndrome, a physical disease with, apparently, a psychological cause. Stress is believed to be the root problem, but no one knows for sure what really causes the bloating, the burps and the cramps that seem to spring out of nowhere.

Nonetheless, IBS has become one of the most common stress-related disorders in the nation. More than 30 million Americans have been diagnosed with some form of IBS, which is also known as spastic colon.

Because it could lead to a variety of other disorders, health experts say there's a growing awareness of the illness that's spurring people to seek medical attention.

"Most people rarely talk about their bowels. But the fact is that it's a widespread problem," said Edward Blanchard, a researcher at the University at Albany, State University of New York, who has written about IBS.

The symptoms are typically pain and cramping, diarrhea, constipation, bloating, flatulence and belching. Usually, a physician diagnoses the disorder when all other possibilities are ruled out.

The first step toward recovery is admitting there's a problem, some say. Blanchard estimates that 18 percent of the population suffers from IBS, but probably half never seek medical attention. Many people just live with it, keeping a container of antacid at the ready.

Ironically, those who seek treatment are typically a little more psychologically distressed than those who never do, studies have shown.

"It may be they're more desperate," Blanchard said. "They gave routine medical care a try, and it didn't work."

Many who suffer from it, however, have found ways to channel their frustration. Internet blogs and bulletin boards are devoted to the topic.

Blanchard has written a 373-page book called "Irritable Bowel Syndrome: Psychosocial Assessment and Treatment." The book looks at IBS' association with psychological distress and provides techniques for psychological treatments. Many times, he notes, it takes just one stressful event or crisis to trigger it.

In 1988, IBS hit me after a breakup with a girlfriend. It likely contributed to a decade-long battle I had with bulimia and other eating disorders, although Blanchard said studies have not established a link between IBS and bulimia.

I had it in college, and when I announced to my friends that I had "irritable bowel syndrome," most reacted by smiling or just letting out a big laugh. It was like some "Beavis and Butt-head" experience. "Huh," they'd say. "You said, 'bowel?'-"

Ashamed, I never really discussed it with anybody again. Luckily, over the past decade, it mostly disappeared.

Then in November 2004, I was involved in a car accident. Weeks later, my intestines started to feel as tight as guitar strings. While on assignment in Texas, I lay on a stiff hotel mattress for an entire day, afraid to move. Every slight twitch made my stomach feel like it was ready to bounce and roll out of my body.

Surprisingly, a week of fiber laxative use ultimately helped. It was the only time any medication or therapy proved to be useful. But I always live in fear of a recurrence. Research has associated hypersensitivity to IBS, and such psychological disorders are pervasive in my family.

Blanchard said there is a series of steps people can take to alleviate the symptoms. He recommends going to a primary care physician to help rule out more serious illnesses. He suggests maintaining a healthy diet.

Many are helped by education, research or changes in dietary habits - or even just the reassurance that they don't have a more serious illness, Blanchard said.

If push comes to shove, seek help from a mental health professional. "See if you calm yourself,," Blanchard said.

Lord knows I've tried.

Originally published in the The Record of Bergen County, N.J. on March 29, 2005.

Get paid, get plucked (Counting my chickens, Part II)

Lately, I've felt so plucked, I've felt like chicken feed.

OK, now that I've got your attention....

But, yes, sure...these are both exciting and stressful times for me. I'm writing for The Huffington Post, I have my own blog called "Coping with Life," I'm going to the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, I teach at Rutgers University.

Oh, yes, and I have full-time job, too: I work full-time for The Record of Bergen County, N.J., covering transportation issues...I'm a married father of three.. I coach Little League...I serve on my college newspaper's board of trustees....I pull tractors with my teeth. (Quick quiz: which of the three is more stressful?)

And, despite having a workload that may send me to an early grave, everything was moving along fabulously for a while - that is, until I started screwing up (didn't Yogi Berra say that?).
Lately, I've been a little unprepared for things - on my teaching job, for example, I sometimes attract more laughs than listeners. That's what happens when you show up at 8:10 a.m. wearing the same smelly clothes you wore the night before, with a face showing overgrown whiskers and eyes as red as fire.

I've thought, geez, maybe I deserve some punishment way because I've taken on so much. I deserve having a bunch of Little Leaguers snicker at me, and try to hide their giddiness as they watched me struggle to keep my eyes open while teaching them the importance of catching with two hands.

Over the past year, I've lost hours upon hours of sleep - and not just to get work done. Sometimes I spend hours just worrying and fussing about everything - not seeing my family, meeting deadlines, feeling the pressure of school.

I drive when I'm too tired. I stay up and watch T.V. when I should be working.

Sometimes I wish it were still the 1990s, when I accomplished very little of anything other than writing stories on council meetings for small, substandard suburban newspapers in New Jersey.

Times like these remind me of what Malcolm X once said. Perhaps the chickens have come home to roost.

Yet, somehow, I manage to get through each crazy week, with my reputation seemingly in tact. Somehow, I manage to summon up the strength to get all my papers done, write all the stories for The Record I need to write by deadline and father three kids who don't appear to be on a track toward drugs and jail.

Over and over, I hear the same thing from people: "I don't know how you do it."

Well, the easy answer would be therapy. I've had a lot of that and, yes, it's helped. That, and willpower, determination - you know, the cliche stuff you hear about on T.V. or read on the back of a cereal box.

But, you know what's really helped? More than anything? More than anything you'll read in a book or seen in an informercial?

Fear.

Yes, fear.

Yes, the very thing that seminar talkers try to disassociate ourselves from. The very thing that FDR declared war on when he became president in 2003.

I fear the future. I fear that these could be the very last words I write. I fear my family growing up in a world where our leaders can't get along, can't keep us safe and can't balance a checkbook.
This fear doesn't cause me to run and hide to run and hide, however. In fact, I embrace this fear, and use it as a motivator.

Fear has kept me youthful and healthy. I live each day much like I did 10, 20 years ago. I run. I eat right. And I do as much as I possibly can to improve my standing in a world that's become so incredibly competitive - especially in age with a roller coaster economy and corporations downsizing by the thousands every month.

Perhaps this started with my mother, who suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder and eating disorders.

As I watched her struggle to survive before her death in 2003, I could see my own future. I saw the potential for failure that could haunt me once I reach the age of 65, when my brains, arms, legs and, in particular, stomach won't work as well as they did when I were 25.

After her death, I became a mental health journalist, writing a column that addresses the various issues facing people with schizophrenia, anxiety, OCD and other disorders.

I was also one of only six people to receive a Rosalynn Carter Mental Health fellowship n 2004, and I received $10,000 to travel the country and write about mental health treatment in the prison system.

The experience was therapeutic, too, because it taught more about what each mental illness means, and what kind of treatment options are available.

But it also told me that there is a world out there that's passing me by. I need to be involved in my children's future. I need to have control over my own future - whatever the cost.

This past spring, I buried myself in work - and went three to four days at a time without sleep - as I finished a final project at school, finished my teaching semester at work and worked my ass off as I met deadline after deadline at work.

I came to a point, in midst of all this, where I started to lose confidence and ask my wife, Is this all worth it?

That month, however, it was my youthful spirit that saved me. It came with with my appearance at the Metuchen Third and Fourth Grade Talent Show.

In the days leading up to it, my fear of failure hit an all-time high because I knew I would appear sleep-deprived, ego-blown and pale before 1,000 people. But, as it turned out, I determined it was one of those times when you gotta crawl out of your egg shell and find your inner kid.

This month, it was the joy of watching my 10-year-old son winning his town's Little League championship (see below).

This article was originally published in The Huffington Post on Friday, June 20, 2008.

Two decades later, stability is within reach

I've often thought that if my stomach were my brain, I'd be the smartest person alive.

That perpetually grumbling thing beneath my ribs has always been a master manipulator that, unlike any other part of my body, has the ability to control. It's like some mad scientist kidnapped my body, carved out the nerve center of my brain and inserted into my digestive tract.

How my stomach reacts to stressful events, high levels of anxiety, hectic work schedules and my occasionally erratic diet will usually dictate how things go over a period of days – or, in some cases, even weeks.

Indeed, for much of the past two decades, I've suffered from anxiety that's turned some days – and many meals – into spin-the-wheel carnival games. Many times, I've woken up, my head spinning, wondering what stomach ailment would dictate my mood for the day: Acid reflux? Diarrhea? Gastroenteritis?

The residual effect has been on-an-off bouts with eating disorders that – while now manageable – have been debilitating and self-destructive. Feeling anxious and obsessing about what I'm about to eat – as well as the potential bloated side effects of eating and digesting a hot, fat-laden meal – has only added to stress that has caused me to, at times, withdraw from reality.

Not until I was about 30 years old – married, ready to have kids and accept responsibility – did I determine that the connection between my brain and stomach was too much to overcome. The realization forced me to seek help from a psychologists and psychiatrists who, through a combination of therapy and medication, have helped me feel as close to comfort as I've ever felt.

I also looked at my family history – three cases of alcoholism, combined with obsessive compulsive disorder that affected my great-grandfather, grandfather and mother – and saw a genetic line of mental illness that, very likely, did not skip my generation.

The best thing I can say about it is, thanks to therapy and willpower, I'm alive.

Indeed, it's been 20 years since I first experienced symptoms of eating disorders. The signs first appeared in the summer of 1988, after a break-up.

I'm of British descent, so I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. That’s how I was taught to handle a personal crisis. But being a rock is not in my DNA. Instead, I crumbled to the point that I couldn't eat or sleep for days at a time.

I ran five miles each morning, skipped my Rutgers classes so I could wallow in my bed during the afternoon, stare at the ceiling and cry. At night, I shoved my fingers down my throat, losing whatever bird-food-size portions of bread and crackers I ate for dinner.

Eating anything, in fact, gave me stomach gas and acid reflux so bad that I spent hours combing local drug stores in search of the right cure. I popped anywhere from 8 to 15 Tums and Gas-X tablets each day, hoping that some sizeable combination of antacids would calm my gut down.

As the months went by, however, things just got worse. It wasn't until one of my roommates literally pulled my out of the bathroom, forced me to sit in a chair and talked me out of my misery that I finally summoned up my strength, and pulled myself out of the abyss. By that point, I was 6 foot 2 inches tall, 132 pounds.

I never forced myself to throw up again. In the years after that initial bout with bulimia, I only forced myself not to throw up. But each time I faced some kind of crisis, I also had to summon up that same personal strength that forced me to face the immediate, as well as the long-term, future.

Still, life was a struggle, and marriage in 1996 finally brought stability my very unstable state-of-being.

Until then – just like my stomach – my work as a journalist was very erratic. My social behavior was also unsettling, and downright scary. I spent many weekends in Belmar, N.J. drinking until I was totally numb. I slept with various women who were so tanked up with tequila shots and beer that they passed out before we even left the bar.

But it was my wife who introduced me to therapy, where I finally learned - in 2000 - that there was something about me that was different. From there, we were able to work with what we have.

"Nothing" is a book that is really something

Many popular novelists have a formula: For Tom Clancy, it's military intrigue. For John Grisham, it's law and injustice. Elmore Leonard draws on his law enforcement background to explore a criminal underworld that's painfully dysfunctional at its core.

Many novelists, as a result, sell because of their predictability, as well as their prestige. Their work is put together like a Hardy Boys Mystery novel - or, better yet, a McDonald's cheeseburger - where each one has the same flavor as the last. Few have the Hemmingway gift of producing literature so distinctive that each new piece appears as though more than one author is behind the work.

Lurking behind the mega-rich novelists are a host of up-and-coming authors who have audiences that are not nearly the size of a Stephen King's - yet - but their topics are so diverse that each new novel is more of a surprise than it is formulaic.

One such author is Robin Friedman, who has written a series of critically acclaimed children's and young-adult novels that explore the trivial - though often humorous - experiences of kids as they grow up.

Her next book, "Nothing," which will be released in August, is a slight diversion from that, largely because it opens the door to a more serious topic that's rarely explored in any form of media: Male eating disorders.

What's amazing is that - despite the fact that her previous work did not dig deep into the convoluted psychology of youth - "Nothing" is able to capture the dark and light elements of an illness that would be tough for anyone to describe, including the people who live it.

And Friedman even admits to being surprised herself because men, or boys, are not typically associated with an illness that's more closely associated with women - and nearly glamorized by female stars such as Nicole Richie and Mary Kate Olsen.

"When I tell people I have a book coming out about a boy with bulimia, they are very, very surprised," Friedman said. "Most people, including myself, were not aware that men and boys could suffer from eating disorders."

I've known Robin for 22 years, and she has a gift for comic timing in her storytelling that would make any stage actor envious. Indeed, she's practically "Seinfeldian" in her ability to demonstrate the qualities of people that are unique, idiosyncratic and, in many ways, downright funny.

"Nothing," however, shows how Friedman has the ability to easily crossover into another, more serious topic without losing her voice - particularly her ability to peer into the human soul and discover what's uniquely compelling about each individual.

"It was a challenge for me to present this story from the point of view of my main character, 17-year-old Parker Rabinowitz, because it's told in first person in his voice," Friedman said. "And, like all of the other characters in the book, Parker does not know, nor understand, what's happening to him — why he's binging, why he's purging, what it means, what it is, what the consequences will ultimately bring."

Yes, the subjects are young adults, or teenagers, who are the typical characters in Robin's novels. But they're not prepping for a casting call on "High School Musical." They're not the players in another simplistic "ABC AfterSchool Special" that explores - yet again - the dangers of smoking and taking drugs.

No, Friedman's novel explores the dark, though complex world of male eating disorders while digging up the complexities of people who could fit the prototype of the typical teenager - or, the prototype of what a teenager should be like. But, in reality, they don't.

Indeed, Friedman gives these characters more credit than that. They're young adults with adult problems. And they're problems that are not typically associated with age, socio-economic class and, in particular, their gender.

Parker, for one, confronts eating disorders with the vulnerability of a teenager, but he also shows the insecurities - and even the maturity - of someone who is 10 years older than him. His struggles bring him down, but also help him grow.

"It was also important to me to present bulimia in all its complexity," Friedman said. "My research showed eating disorders aren't about food, but about control. I needed to create a sadly familiar world of modern teenage pressures, in which competitiveness, stress, the need for approval from others, and the pursuit of unattainable perfection can wreak total, tragic havoc on a seventeen-year-old's body and soul, in ways that last a lifetime."

Friedman credits me for being an inspiration for the book. Prior to 2004, we hadn't seen each other in nearly two decades, but a coffee-shop get-together and reminiscing led to stories of my own struggles with eating disorders that began in college.

As I told her the stories, I could see her connecting in a way that displayed a combination of humility, empathy and sympathy - a rare trait for anybody in a society that's too busy to communicate in ways that are more complex than a one-sentence e-mail.

Robin, in fact, is on a short list of people in, say, the history of my life who, I believe, have connected with me on an emotionally deep level. She has a sincerity - as well as a raw and honest, but affecting laugh - that can put the most unrefined person at ease.

Perhaps that's why I'm not surprised that she, through her writing, was able to make something out of a life that was seemingly "nothing."

Childhood sex abuse shows link to bulimia

Childhood sex abuse can have long lasting unpredictable effects. Now add bulimia to the list of surprises.

A new study headed by Lena Sanci, a senior lecturer in general practice at the University of Melbourne in Australia, suggests that bulimia is just as likely to result from abuse as any other mental illness. Results were published in the March Archives of Pediatrics and Adolescent Medicine.

Sex abuse already has destroyed young people psychologically and rendered them vulnerable to a spate of mental illnesses — such as alcohol abuse, depression, drug abuse, panic disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder and suicide attempts, according to writer Joan Arehart-Treichel.

Sanci and her coworkers randomly selected some 1,000 female students from 44 public, Catholic or private schools to participate in their study, according to Arehart-Treichel. They followed their subjects until they were young adults to see whether they developed bulimia nervosa or anorexia nervosa.

Thirty-five were found to have acquired bulimia and 32 anorexia during that age span, said Arehart-Treichel.

At age 24, the subjects were asked certain questions to determine whether they had experienced sexual abuse before age 16, she said.

"We measured childhood sexual abuse in adulthood because our state has a statutory requirement to report all abuse in children younger than 17 years to government services," Sanci and her coworkers explained in their study report.

Ninety-six of the subjects reported one episode of sexual abuse, and 70 reported two or more episodes, according to Arehart-Treichel. The researchers then looked to see whether there were any links between subjects' retrospective reports of having been abused sexually as a child and their later developing bulimia or anorexia.

During this analysis, subjects' background differences — such as their parents' educational levels and whether their parents were divorced — were considered, said Arehart-Treichel.

Sanci and her colleagues found no link between reports of having been sexually abused in childhood and developing anorexia, but they did find a link with bulimia, said Arehart-Treichel. Compared with subjects who had experienced no childhood sexual abuse, the incidence of bulimia was three times higher among those who reported one episode and five times higher among those who reported two or more episodes.

Thus, "childhood sexual abuse seems to be a risk factor for the development of bulimic syndromes, not necessarily mediated by psychiatric morbidity or severe dieting," Sanci and her group concluded in their report.

Their findings largely jive with those obtained by other investigators, they pointed out. In four different studies, investigators were able to link childhood sexual abuse with both bulimia and anorexia, but the links they found were much stronger for bulimia, said Arehart-Treichel.

"I was surprised that we found such a clear association between childhood sexual abuse and bulimia symptoms, as there has been so much controversy in the past [about whether such a connection exists]," Sanci told Psychiatric News.

"This paper takes us a step further in confirming suspicions that clinicians have long had that childhood sexual abuse is common in young women with bulimia," George Patton, a professor of psychiatry at the University of Melbourne and senior investigator of the study, added.

"The paper [also] takes us a step further by suggesting that sexual abuse may initiate a pattern of dealing with emotional distress that brings a high likelihood of bulimia. Young bulimics share both emotional secrecy and profound guilt with many victims of sexual abuse. It is possible that for some patients, this emotional style begins with the abusive experience. This psychological style may be an important focus for psychotherapy."

The study was funded by the Australian National Health and Medical Research Council, the Australian Center for Excellence in Eating Disorders and a research grant from the Australian National Depression Initiative, said Arehart-Treichel.

After many ups and downs, life nearing 40 is peaceful

[Sunday was my birthday - this is a column I wrote last year to recognize my 40th birthday]

At 21, while mired in eating disorders, I never thought I'd live to see 40 — or even 30. Just before hitting the milestone in March 2007, I was a little unprepared.

Once you hit middle age, what do you do? Dye your hair? Take a Caribbean cruise? Learn to square dance?

Indeed, many at this age seek a life renewal.

Aging, however, brings physical changes - and for many, they're changes for the worse.

The irony is that, approaching 40, I felt better than I did when I was 30 — and, certainly better than I did at 21. After years of setbacks and successes in my life and career, I felt as though I had finally found mental peace.

Though some may dismiss it as a cliché, it really was the power of positive thinking that carried me through. Some time ago, I found a way to take a deep breath in stressful situations and put things in perspective. I got help through therapy and educated myself on the mind and the brain.

I found a way to feel better about my body and what I put in it. I came to some understanding of my abilities as well as my limitations. I treated my mistakes as gifts, not setbacks, and learned from them.

Most important, I found a way to not worry. With a family of five and a job that offers some rewards, I felt a sense of security that once seemed so elusive. Attitude is the foundation of a successful and healthy lifestyle, mental health advocates say.

"You have people who look at the cup half-full, and the cup half-empty," said Debra Wentz, chief executive officer of the New Jersey Association of Mental Health Agencies. "I'm just happy that I'm happy and healthy."

It's hard to pinpoint what changed the direction of my life for the better. Perhaps it was a series of life changes that caused me to look in the mirror and reevaluate.

For years, I treated life as a nuisance. I hated waking up in the morning, but I hated going to sleep at night even more. While others partied in their early 20s, I hid mostly in my apartment, where the only light came from a TV. My diet consisted of canned ravioli and TV dinners.

I often fell asleep after eating a bag of pretzels and drinking a gallon of milk.

Stability first came through marriage, in 1996. Until then, relationships were rarely healthy — only headaches. The woman who became my wife was a rock, but with an open mind. She tolerated my idiosyncrasies but was ready to challenge me if I made a mistake.

She also educated me about survival. Having lost her father in the Vietnam War, she knew it as well as anybody. It was through her that I learned to pause, to restrain my impulses and to evaluate each life decision as though it was my last.

Next came therapy, in 1998, and a few more sessions in 2000. The latter visits ultimately led to a diagnosis of eating disorders. While it was a long wait for a diagnosis, it confirmed what I knew was true for some time. I felt validated, and I developed coping strategies for managing the problem.

This column also helped me put things in perspective.

Writing, mental health professionals say, often gives people an outlet for their emotions. For me, the column gives me an opportunity to write about others who have had similar experiences. I've felt not only validation, but also a feeling that I'm not alone.

Writing also has given me experience that helps educate me on how to handle life's obstacles. That means being humble enough to admit to a problem, and seeking help for it. Or taking care of myself and maintaining a positive attitude.

I no longer live my life dreading what's going to happen next. Now I embrace the future as much as the past. Things that once seemed so scary now seem trivial. I watch my waistline grow, and laugh.

[This column was originally printed in The Record of Bergen County, N.J. on March 13, 2007]

Rescued from a self-destructive downward spiral

This story pays tribute to National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, which began Sunday and runs through March 1

That red Rutgers University yearbook from 1989 (left) contains a lot of good memories.

Too bad I can barely look at the picture of myself.

I was a 6-foot-2, 145-pound stick, worn practically to the bone. My face was pale, and my hair was flat and lifeless. My suit jacket was so big on me that the shoulders looked like mountain peaks. I certainly wasn't smiling - my lips were so thin and my frown so straight, it was as if a cartoonist had drawn a line across my face.

I was 21 when this picture was taken in October 1988. Only two months earlier, I was 185 to 190 pounds and enjoying the typical youthful excesses. But by fall, after days and weeks of starving myself, I descended into a shell of a human being, living in a virtual, self-imposed hell, with little will to continue.

Doctors diagnosed me as having anything from hypoglycemia to an ulcer. They gave me X-rays and prescribed medication, but nothing helped. If anything, I refused to be cured, because I was so focused on wallowing in my own misery.

Some years later, it became pretty clear to me what this was, even if the diagnosis was never official. It's been suggested to me - by people with the sort of degrees that specialize in this kind of thing - that I exhibited some of the textbook symptoms of bulimia. And I've learned that certain mental illnesses associated with this disease, such as obsessive-compulsive disorder, are hereditary, and as much a part of my family history as hazel eyes and premature gray hair.

I now consider myself "recovering," although in many ways, I still suffer from it. And rarely does a meal go by without a thought back to that time, when eating was the hardest thing I could do.

People have said to me, "Isn't that something that happens to teenage girls? How can a man suffer from bulimia?"

Well, I tell you, that man was me.

It's one of the reasons I began writing a column called "Coping" for The Record of Bergen County, N.J. five years ago.

It's why whenever I think back to that time - a summer of romance that ended in a breakup, followed by my failure to accept it - I still get chills. When the breakup happened, I cried like a baby. The loss, however, really didn't hit me until days later, and after the crying finally stopped.

I got this attack of chronic nausea that just refused to go away, and the acid in my stomach and throat was ripping up my insides like a weed-whacker. Virtually anything I ate caused acid reflux, and the mere sight of a cheese steak was cause for panic. For a college student whose very livelihood depends on where his next beer is coming from, it was more than an inconvenient disruption from the routines that gave me life.

Doctors didn't help me at all. In fact, they looked at everything way too clinically and practically made up physical diagnoses for me, since they couldn't find anything on an X-ray. They put me on a bland diet, and that was the worst thing they could have done. For two months, I obsessed over every little crumb of food that entered my body. If I ate it, and it wasn't on the "safe" list, I'd go into such a panic that I would fast for two, maybe three days, hoping to reverse whatever wrong I did to my body.

By the time the yearbook photo was taken, however, even fasting wasn't good enough for me - and I don't think I need to tell what I mean. Just think of bulimia, and what it is, and what people do when they have it. Let's just say that when I entered this stage, my weight took it's biggest nosedive. And not until a friend literally pulled me out of the bathroom and talked some sense to me did I finally dust myself off and return to reality.

Within the next month, I quickly gained the weight back. I reached a "leveling-out" point, about 11 years ago, when the old obsessions finally began to fade from consciousness and life got a little easier.

The passing of time certainly helped, but I also credit marriage for helping bring that all about. It brought structure to my very unstructured life, and it alleviated the stresses and insecurities I felt about myself and my future.

And certainly, therapy helped, too, something that was urged by my wife. Ironically, the two psychologists I visited were not very good - one had a bad habit of answering personal telephone calls in the middle of our sessions. But they did make some keen observations about me that I found to be useful.

Ultimately, it allowed me to look in the mirror and be objective about myself, and I learned to manage my stress in ways that I never thought I could.

Me, with NBC anchor Brian Williams (right)

Apparently, I'm not alone in feeling this way. Ask Rob Schoenbach, whose wife, Gail, has had bulimia for 30 years and whose family started a foundation to fight the illness. Over the past eight years, Gail has been to inpatient and outpatient therapy and nutrition counseling. Her husband is trying to raise money for the foundation, and in a letter to potential donors, he makes a rather relevant observation:

"Like any other 'addiction,' Gail is not cured but has made incredible strides toward the management of her disease and has now learned how to tap into the numerous resources available to make her (and our families') life better," he wrote.

I guess the bottom line is, I, like Gail, am a survivor. But being one requires more than taking medicine. It requires discipline, willpower, and a little humility.

Eating disorders also never really leave you. To this day, I still obsess a bit over fatty foods and other things I put into my body. I still get a bit panicky when I get acid reflux.

But at least I can manage it. And most important, I'm here to write about it.

This Coping column was originally published in The Record of Bergen County, N.J. on Sept. 29, 2003.

If you haven't done it yet, this is the week to recognize eating disorders

National Eating Disorders Awareness Week began Sunday, and runs through March 1. And those who are trying to spread awareness of the illness will be everywhere.

The National Eating Disorders Association, for one, is looking for volunteers to be part of the NBC Today Show crowd to launch "NEDAwareness Week" before millions of TV viewers throughout the country.

This week, you're asked to be there between 5:15 and 8:30 a.m. every morning, at 1 Rockefeller Plaza (on 48th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues, outside Dean & Deluca) in New York City.

Helpers will be there to meet you and provide materials you'll need for the event: NEDAWareness Poster Signs, a NEDA banner and ribbons to wear on your lapel to promote this year's NEDAW "Embrace Your Genes" campaign.

Contact NEDA via email if you are able to help with this initiative at emccormick@myneda.org.

MaryKate Olsen under the microscope in Heath Ledger death; or is she?

Mary-Kate Olsen has had a charmed life. But she's never had it easy.

The "Full-House"-turned-movie star has recovered from anorexia for 4 years now. Still, she's lived the Britney Spears life of having to dodge paprazzi and live a life behind closed doors.

Now the question is how she handles the increased attention she's receiving because of the role she played in the aftermath of the discovery of Heath Ledger's body.

She's never had it easy, actually, because she's been stained by the media since going public with her struggles with eating disorders in 2004. Instead of focusing on her recovery, the media has sought to portray her as a "dirty girl" - like Britney - who plays it on the wild side.

Because she's living this kind of "charmed" life, eating disorders can't possibly be the explanation for everything, the media believes - hence the rumors of potential drug abuse and other mischief that she's allegedly engaged in.

The New York Post was at it again today (Jan. 25), posting this headline on its front page: "Heat is on Mary-Kate." The story says the police will be questioning Olsen in the death investigation, and makes some innuendo that she is somehow culpable.

But the following MTV story shows that this is not the case, and she won't even be questioned. Yet, it still doesn't matter. Mary-Kate will always pay the price for going public about her mental illness, and the media will always find some other explanation for her behavior.

Mary-Kate Olsen Will Not Be Questioned About Heath Ledger's Death: PoliceViews 4,541
By Gil Kaufman

Despite reports that police were interested in questioning her about the death of Heath Ledger, a New York City Police Department spokesperson confirmed to MTV News on Friday (January 25) that officials have no plans to speak to actress Mary-Kate Olsen about the circumstances surrounding the actor's demise.

"We have no interest in questioning her," NYPD Sergeant Kevin Hayes said when asked about the Olsen reports. "We are awaiting the medical examiner's results."

Speculation had surfaced that police might be interested in speaking to Olsen, who received four frantic phone calls from Ledger's masseuse when the actor's body was found in his Soho apartment on Tuesday, but Hayes said that police have no plans to interview anyone about the death at the present time. An initial autopsy was inconclusive, so Hayes said police are awaiting the results of toxicology tests, which could take from 10 days to two weeks.

Police have said they believe that Ledger, 28, was already dead by the time his masseuse, Diana Wolozin, phoned Olsen, 21, who is reported to have been dating the actor for several months prior to his death.

People magazine reported on Friday that funeral services for Ledger would remain private and that he would be buried in his hometown of Perth, Australia, though no official plans have been announced by his family. "At this time, we will not be releasing any information," a representative for Ledger said. "There are no plans for a public service." Members of Ledger's family were reportedly set to arrive in Manhattan Friday for his funeral.

For people with eating disorders, now is the time to "get high" on their bodies

As Sara Evans (left) might sing it, people with eating disorders shouldn't feel like they're "nailed to the ground."

Not when the National Eating Disorders Association is around to raise them to new heights - and spread awareness of their plight.

That's why the NEDA's 2007 Every BODY is Beautiful Auction has opened for bidding, with the goal of raising $30,000 to support the organization.

The auction items include:

- a California Dreamin' Weekend in Malibu
- two tickets to a Sara Evans Concert, as well as "meet & greet" passes (Evans is the honorary chair of the auction).
- a David Ortiz hand-signed official Boston Red Sox jersey
- a Hope Star necklace

Registering for the auction is easy. Check out the NEDA's auction website at www.nationaleatingdisorders.cmarket.com and click on “Register” in the upper right corner.

In less than a minute, you'll be ready to "fly."

"Born To Fly" by Sara Evans (Sara Evans/Marcus Hummon/Darrell Scott)

I've been tellin' my dreams to the scarecrow
About the places that I'd like to see
I say 'friend, do you think I'll ever get there?'
Aww, but he just stands there smilin' back at me

So I confess my sins to the preacher
About the love I'd been prayin' to find
Is there a brown-eyed boy in my future, yeah
He says 'girl, you got nothin' but time.'

(But) (Oh) (So) how do you wait for heaven
And who has that much time
And how do you keep your feet on the ground
When you know
That you were born, (you were born, yeah), you were born to fly

My daddy he is grounded like the oak tree
My momma she is as steady as the sun
Oh, you know I love my folks, but I keep starin' down the road,
Just lookin' for my one chance to run

Hey, 'cause I will soar away like the blackbird
I will blow in the wind like a seed
I will plant my heart in the garden of my dreams
And I will grow up where I want, wild and free