I am caught in Ana's web, deluded by her lies and promises . . . Just a few more pounds, she whispers, and we're done. A few more pounds and you can rest. I just need to see your bones more clearly; do not give up, you will be beautiful and you will be free.
It is hard to think, to fight these seductive thoughts. I feel rejected all around — no room at the inn for me, the door is barred shut, recovery not available. Then Ana whispers in her oddly sweet Brunhilde Nazi bitch voice — Why bother? You will be Ana forever.
I feel the sharp images of my bones whenever I move or sit or try to rest; there's no cushion against the hardness of life. I am reminded of what I have lost.
And Ana whispers, "It is good."
I've tasted recovery once and it felt good. I could dance and sing and move again; I felt joy and sadness and crushing disappointments, and I fought through it all. Once you've tasted recovery, returning to the land of Ana wrenches your soul, stabs your heart, and mercilessly taunts you. Ana says, "You will never recover. It was a dream, a false hope and you will die of anorexia."
I know can do it again. But not alone. Please let there be room at the inn soon; allow me to come to you for help, do not turn me away in my helplessness.
Book of Judith 7:25 — "And now there is no one to help us. God has delivered us into their hands to be prostrated before them in thirst and utter helplessness."