Each day I struggle to get out of bed. I try to find meaning to my life. I wonder why I am here and why I should eat and recover from anorexia?
I cried this morning - as I have cried many mornings since January as I have tried to release the grip this illness has had on me. But today it hit me I am grieving. I am grieving the fact that I have never had children; I thoughtlessly threw away a gift of God's, I rejected the life I could have given to another and never gave it a second thought.
Until now. At age 45. How stupid can I be?
I remember the hopes of last fall. I knew God would answer my prayers and give us a child. I knew that at 44, a miracle could still happen. I closed my eyes to stories of failed attempts and miscarriages, and dreamed of the child my husband and I would create. I was convinced in December I was pregnant - I had several symptoms, and besides, God would listen to my prayers and grant me a Christmas miracle, wouldn't he.
Then came January. An unusual period dubbed "a possible miscarriage." Hope died. No longer did I have any reason to keep eating and continue with recovery; I was 44 and reality slapped me in the face. I might have once been fertile and been able to bear children, but that was no more as my weight once again dropped into the 90s.
Prayer. Does God even hear me?
I realized this morning I am still grieving for that lost dream. I brought it up while I was in PHP and was told to forget about it, tell myself I didn't have a miscarriage and move on. How can you move on when you continuously wonder if life slide out of you? How can you heal when you attempt to bury feelings that you can't even name?
But I tried to last winter. I tried to bury it by restricting and cutting. I tried to forget the lovely dreams of the fall, which brought my husband and I closer together as we both hoped that it wasn't too late.
But of course it was. Even if I was pregnant - and the uncertainty continues to haunt me - I was most likely too low in weight to sustain a healthy pregnancy and child.
I think God knew what he was doing. First He prevent or stopped a pregnancy, and then made sure that I spiraled downward until there was no chance I could become pregnant.
I know that might sound sacrilegious. But I can't help my thoughts. And right now I am angry with both myself and God.
Then this morning I realized why I continue to struggle to eat. Because I have lost all hope in having a child.
It is a dream denied. A dream that is dead. A dream killed by ambition and selfishness and anorexia.
Dead. Just like the dreams of recovery seem to be dead for so many with eating disorders.
I visited a friend in the hospital yesterday. She had been in a treatment center for six months and came home full of hope and passion about recovery. She has lost all the weight she gained during treatment, but the worst thing is she said she lost faith in herself.
This is how I feel. I have lost faith in myself to recover from anorexia. My blood tests continue to show damage, now to both my kidneys and possibly my colon.
I remember one author's theory of thirds regarding anorexia. She states one-third of anorexics will fully recover. One-third will partially recover. And one-third will never recover.
Today I decided the hell with it. I took my 2 p.m. Ativan with a Lortab, and then had two glasses of wine.
Anything to feel numb. Anything to not feel the pain of loss. Anything to not remember when hope was real and dreams seemed possible. Anything to not care anymore.
Because that's what I want. To not care anymore. Eat when I can. Don't when I can't. And stop trying to force recovery, that state which seems to elude all but the strongest.
I need to learn how to dream again. Otherwise, I will be lost.