I am barely breathing . . .
I stare at the Christmas tree lights, the purples and blues and greens and reds all blending together through my watery tears. I asked David to leave the decorations up, in hopes of remembering happier times, when I was less afraid and more optimistic. When the future seemed more certain.
I am still afraid of food. No, scratch that. I am terrified of food.
I am alone and cold and enclosed in the box of ana, trapped by my uselessness and fears and past.
I lay back in my husband's arm's and feel as if I'm stone.
Food does not interest me. I eat a grain or two or rice and wish I could give it to someone more deserving. I taste the yogurt on my tongue, and it is bittersweet.
I am sinking fast.
Dr. Sackeyfio expressed much concern today and I felt maybe, maybe help has arrived. I told him I don't deserve to eat. He told me that as a child of God that I do and deserve to live. But anorexia doesn't agree. And she is louder right now.
He suggested the hospital, but first wants David to take over my eating. He said an infection has again invaded our house, and asked David to help nurse me back to health. He said I am not thinking clearly, that my brain is starving.
He said I am worse than I was two years ago. I found that strange, because I still weigh more than I did then. I am less than 10 pounds from two years ago. 110 has become 108 has become 106 has become 104 . . .
It's because of Ana. The creation of Ana and joining pro-ana websites, looking for tips and inspiration, looking for confirmation of my belief — that I don't deserve to eat. I despise myself for being part of something I think is evil.
So I run through the Internet, and the rope of recovery is beginning to feel like the Holy Grail. The lights are still shining, but I can't see the colors clearly. Everything is a blur. Am I looking for a rope of recovery or one for a different purpose?
I'm starting to feel the effects. Yesterday everything went black three, four times. I hoped it was the end. Jesus, please release me from Ana. But I woke up and the horror was still there.
I think of food constantly.
I dreamt that I was a prostitute. A prostitute for food. I could only eat after ... I couldn't, so no food.
I wanted to fast for Haiti, but realized it was an useless sacrifice if I am already starving.
I feel surrounded by ice, encased in the horrors of the past and the fears of the future. I can't reach the rope to climb out when I need an ax to cut myself out.
Dr. Sackeyfio said food has become the enemy again. And I need to eat to think clearly. I know this is true. But each tiny morsel of food is crowded out by the guilt.
I am no longer Angela.
But I still have this miniscule hope that I will win. I will again become a person who eats normal meals and can think of something besides this incredible emptiness inside me.
But I am barely breathing . . .