Here we go again . . . (anorexia or me - one of us has to go!)

How many times can I screw this up???

I've been in Beaumont Hospital seven times (gee, have they named a wing after me yet???), have had a TPN and a NG feeding tube and left the River Centre Clinic in June after six weeks of treatment for anorexia nervosa.

How many times can I screw this up???

My doctor wants me to go into the hospital. AGAIN. I was just there in February. That was supposed to turn things around.

It didn't.

Then I went to the River Centre Clinic for treatment. That was supposed to be the start of my "journey of recovery."

It wasn't.

How many chances do I have left, anyway???

I told him I would think about it. That I felt just fine. That I wasn't sick enough to need the hospital. That I didn't want to go. I have too much to do. I hate giving up my freedom.

Then my real fear — it won't do any good, anyway.

I know what I have to do. I have to eat. And I have to eat a lot to gain at least ten pounds. I had to eat 2,900 calories while at the RCC to gain about one pound per week.

So why am I so afraid of food?

I have to eat real foods with fats and carbohydrates and calories. I have to drink at least two Ensures daily because I've never been able to sustain eating that many calories. (I am still feel full from today's intake - about 500 calories.)

I'm doing it all over again. Counting calories. Cutting back. Rejoicing with each pound lost.  Planning to lose more.

The only thing different is that I am angry at myself for doing this. Angry that this has controlled me yet again. Angry that I feel trapped by anorexia.

Is the key inside me?

Will I be the person who saves my own life?

And what are my reasons for living?

That is what it comes down to. I need to find reasons to live. This can't go on indefinitely. Eventually something in my body or mind will break, destroyed by anorexia.

I have asked myself many times lately ...

What needs does anorexia serve?

Why is it so hard to let go of this illness?

How do I find my way out?

There will be no brave knight on a fast horse, scooping me up and taking me away to The Land of No Anorexia. There isn't a fairy princess who can wave a magic wand and instantly cure me. There are no spells or potions or secrets that will take it away.

I will have to eat. Eat when it hurts. Eat when it is uncomfortable. Eat many times a day. Eat until I'm sick of food.

I will feel bloated. And fat. My face will probably break out. I will have night sweats from refeeding. I will hate my body as the pounds come back on. And I probably won't always be a very nice person during the process. I will complain to my husband and fight with myself in my head a million times a day.

I will want to stop after the one millionth diet ad that comes across my Facebook page or in my e-mail. I will feel like a freak because everyone else seems to be working on eating healthy and losing weight.

It will be last year all over again.

I cried each day.

Many times I wanted to die.

Sometimes I thought about killing myself.

Then I drank another Ensure.

I knew it was the only way out . . .

I can do it at home or jump-start it at the hospital. No one else is going to be able to do it for me. I will have to make a decision.

Save myself or else live with anorexia until ...

I will lose everything before anorexia actually kills me. That's what will happen. This will drag on for twenty or more years. I will be 65 and getting ready to go to yet another treatment center. Alone.

Is this what I really want for my life?

NO! I want the life I have dreamed of for so long — a loving relationship with my husband, good friends and a meaningful career and life. I don't want anorexia to be my defining trait.

I do not want this on my gravestone or in my obituary:

She died of complications from anorexia.

But hey, she was thin.

The end.

Eating with my eyes

I have been eating with my eyes.

I am a stalker. I have been lurking around several blogs written by women recovered from anorexia, in which they post pics and describe the foods they are now enjoying. I feast my eyes on the pictures, drinking in the bowls of fresh oats, almond butter and bananas mixed together; the fresh bread spread with avocado and topped with crumbles of hard-boiled egg, Romaine lettuce and tomato; the long, tall smoothie blended with yogurt and cream and fresh fruit, the young woman leaning forward to take a sip; the cookies-and-cream drumstick, the ice cream slightly dripping as if it had just been delightedly slurped.

I am obsessed.

I remember when I was first diagnosed with anorexia nervosa. It was by a dietician whom my family doctor referred me to around February 2008. Of course, at the time I didn't feel anything was wrong with me. So when she said I was anorexic, I reacted first with surprise and then a little anger.

It wasn't like I didn't know anything about anorexia or other eating disorders. And I didn't have a eating disorder, in spite of the fact that I weighed about 95 pounds at the time, was very restrictive and rigid in my eating, and had an intense fear of gaining weight (and in fact, wanted to lose more.)

But I wasn't engaging in any of the bizarre anorexic food behaviors or rituals at that time. I didn't cut my food up into miniscule pieces. I wasn't afraid to eat in front of my friends or co-workers (I didn't really care if they thought two thin slices of deli turkey meat did not make a complete lunch.) I wasn't collecting recipes, reading food magazines or cooking large, elaborate meals for anyone.

So therefore, Ms. Dietician, your diagnosis is wrong wrong wrong. I am not anorexic, I do not need to see an eating disorders specialist nor go to Renfrew, Remuda, or Rogers Memorial Hospital. I do not have a problem. I am just thin and what's wrong with being thin? Even if I am depressed and anxious, even if I am yanking up my size zero jeans and fighting with my husband about food and eating and hearing from everyone that I need to gain weight and my niece's nickname for me has become "Skelator"?

I'm just fine. Other than being severely underweight, of course. There was the daily counting of calories and weighing myself. And the fact that I was becoming quite popular at the office for the weekly donuts/scones/ {insert forbidden food here} that I brought in. But I wasn't doing anything else except restricting, therefore I could not have anorexia.

My treatment with that dietician ended after she declared I wasn't making any progress, i.e. I had not gained any weight after four months of treatment. Soon after this, my psychiatrist terminated with me (I had been seeing him from depression and anxiety) because he agreed I had anorexia and he wasn't equipped to deal with it.

So I went to Rogers Memorial, only to check out AMA 24 hours later. The psychiatrist there declared I would be dead within a year if I didn't gain both insight and weight. My discharge papers were a dismal declaration of how ill I was. Prognosis: poor.

As most of you know, I did eventually agree to see an eating disorders specialist who convinced me to go into Beaumont Hospital for two weeks of refeeding. But even though I was connected to a TPN line running nutrients into my body, I remained unconvinced I had anorexia.

You see, the eating disorders patients there all did strange things like cut their food into tiny pieces and hoarded sugar and salt packets and get angry because we weren't allowed to have no-calorie sweeteners for our coffee like the other patients. One woman carried around a notebook filled with recipes and pictures of food,  another continuously chewed on ice and a third would not eat her food without loading it with salt and pepper and mustard and whatever other condiment she could get her hands on (since I didn't care what my food tasted like — the blander, the better — I was happy to give her my packet of condiments each day.)

I had read about these and other behaviors and decided there was no way I could be anorexic because I didn't do such things. I became a bit annoyed by these behaviors and seriously wanted to tell one girl to please please please stop pressing your grilled cheese sandwich between five million napkins before I lose the last shreds of sanity I have left!

But this was years ago, and I notice I have my own little food rituals. I can't eat foods that touch each other and I have to eat one food at a time. (I notice normal people eat a few bites of this and a few bites of that.) I can't tolerate foods with sauces or gravies, unless they come in a box and I know the exact calorie count. I can't pick up a sandwich and bite into it; I must either cut it up or deconstruct it. I need to eat slowly, and I actually do cut my food into tiny pieces, thus taking more than an hour to eat a meal most people can finish in twenty minutes.

Have I had these rituals for years and just didn't notice? Or did I develop these food rituals as an attempt to gain some control? Or are these behaviors the manifestation of anorexia as I have continued to recover from it.

The few times I haven't been able to adhere to these rituals? behaviors? has caused a weird sort of anxiety and strangeness, as if I didn't do it right. I usually need to take an anti-anxiety medication before I can eat out with friends. Restaurants feel like torture unless there is some type of salad I can order. I was positively thrilled when Bob Evans, my husband's favorite restaurant, came out with its light menu and listed the calories, fat grams, etc. on that menu.

Denial hangs around a long, long time. I weigh 97 pounds and have been actively restricting food since January. I feel exhausted, and yet often can't get to bed until 4 or 5 a.m. I have trouble concentrating on anything; class work, magazine articles, watching a television show, holding a conversation. I have gone through the assessment process at Renfrew and plan to be admitted in May for the 30-day day treatment program.

But despite all this, I said to my husband last night, I don't think I have anorexia. I think I am just thin and everybody is making too big a deal out of it.

Then I dreamt last night of those food blogs, the abundant richness taunting my sleep. I could almost smell the cinnamon sprinkled on the oats and taste the creamy saltiness of the almond butter. I opened my small container of yogurt, which was not mixed with granola or sprinkled with fruit, and wondered why I would ever question that I have anorexia.

I am now following a couple of these blogs; I need the images and descriptions in a way I can't describe. I want to eat with all my senses. This is my dream, and I believe full recovery will be achieved by first being able to eat without fear.

I have been eating with my eyes.

604 calories

(Warning - This post could be triggering to those in recovery. Please do not read this if numbers or descriptions of restricting would be harmful to you.)
604 calories.
That is what I consumed yesterday. I made sure I got up too late for breakfast. I had my morning coffee sans sugar. I called myself a pig for drinking 230 calories of heaven in the form of an ice-cold McDonald's orange pop for lunch to accompany my four nuggets (trying to ignore the Happy Meal slogan on the box, which reminded me this amount is meant for a child.) I measured exactly one-third cup of rice and one-third cup of peas for dinner.
I went to bed hungry. I felt guilty because millions of people, in particular children, go to bed hungry without choice each night. And I have a choice. Or do I? Who is in control here, anyway - me or anorexia nervosa?

98.2 pounds.
That's what I weighed yesterday morning. The ritual of the scale hasn't stopped for three years. It's always the same: get up, blurry-eyed and sleepy, then go to the bathroom before stepping naked on the innocent-looking white box which decides each day whether I will restrict or eat. I would like to drop kick my scale across the room, set it on fire, smash it with a hammer or hurl it off the tallest building I can find in this small town. (I have many fantasies of revenge for this hated symbol of my descent into anorexia; I've destroyed several over the years, only to go buy another one.)

I am a hypocrite. For weeks, I have been posting on a pro-ana blog deploring the very behaviors I am doing, trying to convince these young girls to stop and think before some of them become sucked into the hell of anorexia. I tell them they don't want to do this; that anorexia can't be ditched as easily as a bad diet. Several others also have posted on this particular site and one woman (Marge of Lake LaBerge) was particularly blunt with them, calling them (freaking) morons and telling them they will look worse than the heroin junkies hanging out in her Vancouver neighborhood.

So why can't I stop doing this to myself? I am the freaking moron. I worked so hard last year to gain weight. I had to consume about 3,000 calories of food and Ensure to reach 110 (which still is too low, but much healthier I was.) It was sheer hell; the whole refeeding process was one of feeling bloated and fat and moody and I could hardly stand myself.

I ended 2009 with the incredibly positive post, "Leaving ED- one year later." "I dream of the future, one filled with love and teaching and writing and learning." I thought I had it all wrapped up. I thought 2010 would be the year I would conquer all my eating disorders fears and behaviors, and put the whole damn thing behind me.

Things starting falling apart by January 2. Happy Freaking New Year's! My words and my hopes make me want to throw up. I try to help others and support them when they are struggling,

I called The Renfrew Centers after my one-week IP stay in February. I tried to eat more after I was discharged, but soon ditched that plan when David went to Florida for two-weeks (Ana was just ecstatic about this, rubbing her hands with glee at the thought of restricting and cutting and oh my!) and haven't stopped restricting since. I am convinced if I don't do something more, my next trip to Beaumont Hospital will be to the morgue.

I have completed my assessment and plan to be admitted to Renfrew's 30-day treatment program (so sorry, insurance doesn't cover residential) the second week of May. The program is designed to help me overcome my fear of food and weight, and then dig a little deeper through various groups and programs. The idea is to teach me healthy coping skills to replace my all-time favorite, restricting.

So if I am doing this (and borrowing thousands of dollars from my father to pay for my living arrangements), why have I been trying to basically destroy myself the month before I go? To prove how sick I am? To make sure I am at a low enough weight so any gain will feel less traumatic? To sabotage any chance at succeeding?

Or because deep down I am a hypocrite who really doesn't want to get better? Am I really pro-recovery? Or has my past associations with pro-ana sites and my current campaign to convince a few pro-ana girls triggered me? Am I falling again for the message that I need to be thin, so thin you can see my ribs and clavicle and protruding spine? So thin that it hurts to sit in most chairs?

So thin that I get sick again? Is that I want? To become so sick I can't go to Renfrew? Why do I try and sabotage any attempts at recovery? (I've done this for years. I continue "Bargaining with Recovery.")

Am I a hypocrite? I've always tried to be honest here. But I can't yet write about what is underneath the anorexia. Exposing the roots would be too much, too violating. What's underneath, at least as far as I have explored with my doctor, feels dirty and slimy and too ugly to ever trust telling anyone else. And I can't seem to stop restricting, especially after we talk about what's underneath; what might be the root causes of me developing anorexia.

590 calories.
That's what I consumed today. I want to go lower, but I know I need to go higher.

Who is in control here, anyway? Because right now, I feel out-of-control.

"You are so much more than your body size."

"You are so much more than your body size," my doctor said to me today.
I sat there quietly, thinking about that remark. What does he mean? Who am I? Who was I? Unwanted tears — God, I hate being weak; I used to be so strong — threatened to spill as I thought about who I might be besides my body size.

"You have so much to give to the world," he continued.
I felt confused. What do I have to give to the world? The world has demanded that I be thin and I have become very good at accomplishing that. What more does the world want from me? How thin do I need to be to be THIN ENOUGH? But I knew that's not what he was talking about.

"In spite of everything, you are still reaching out, trying to help others," he said. He mentioned my gift for writing, and how I still try to help people understand anorexia and those who suffer from it through my words.
"But what about helping Angela?" he asked
Sadness filled me, and I whispered, "I don't know."
I then confessed that I felt guilty about going to Renfrew in May; that I feel like I have failed him. Failed by not recovering.

I was supposed to be the shining example of recovery. Everyone said so when I entered Beaumont Hospital in August 2008. I had only been battling anorexia for about a year. I readily agreed to the TPN line, feeding nutrients to my heart and body. I ate everything they put in front of me, and after my first-day meltdown, I kept my mouth shut and adopted a passive-aggressive approach to treatment. I didn't know then I wasn't helping myself; I was just marking time until I could get out of the hospital and start starving again.

Several nurses and fellow eating disorders patients were very impressed by my supposed motivation, not realizing I felt as if I were dying on the inside and wanted to rip the TPN right out of my body. One nurse knew I would I would go home and continue to eat, become weight-restored and then put anorexia behind me. Ipso facto, it would be as if I never even had the illness. One patient said most anorexics don't fully recover, but that I was different because of the short duration of my illness and that I would be Dr. Sacekyfio's success story; the one who made it, the one who recovered and made all his hard work and dedication worthwhile.

No one can live up to those kind of expectations, and I started failing almost from the day I walked out of Beaumont on that sunny, warm and windy day in September 2008. I was restricting again within a week. I didn't understand why after having just spent two weeks in the hospital trying to get better, and I truly did want to get better. And yet I didn't want to get better. I wanted both — to be thin, thin as society admires; and yet recovered and back to my self. What did they want from me, anyway? I was thin, wasn't I? Thin enough? What else could I do?

I remained confused throughout that fall and winter, fighting to recover and sabotaging every effort I made. I would eat a sandwich, only to take laxatives. I would write, hoping the words would help save me. Then I would throw away my lunch.

And I would often think of what everyone said and thought that I was supposed to be the one who recovered. My mind was swirling all the time; the words recovery and anorexia and failure taunting me until one December evening, I couldn't stand it any more and cut myself in anger.

I had failed. I was under 100 pounds again. I was afraid of food, and my panic attacks were increasing every day. I couldn't even sit at the computer and write a simple news story without my heart racing and thinking I was a failure.

I did not become the shining example of recovery. Instead, I was filled with almost uncontrollable anxiety and a strange heaviness which had nothing to do with weight. I struggled each morning to get out of bed for work and I dreaded each word I had to write.

The unthinkable had happened. My refuge, the one thing I had always been able to count on, my writing, my gift, the essence of my soul ... became a hated thing. I had once thought I'd rather lose anything except being able to write, and now I was losing everything and my ability to write.

I checked into Beaumont several days after Christmas 2008, the first of five psychiatric hospitalizations between that one and February 2009, mainly triggered by anxiety and fear of food and weight. I could find no peace; no solace in writing, no connection with God. I had failed, and I knew it and I blamed myself for having anorexia and I would scream inside myself to stop, just stop, can't you quit being so freaking sick and weird for once?

I agreed to take a low-dose of Seroquel in February 2009, during the last of my five hospitalizations. It calmed my anxiety, allowed me to sleep and rest and write. I also was treated for severe anemia, returning to work after almost three months sick leave.

I weight-restored during those months of sick leave. It was the worst time of my life. I hated food, I hated feeling full, and I hated every pound I gained. But I also began to feel as if I were returning to life, and that maybe recovery was possible. I felt confident enough to leave work and go to graduate school, and even though there were some rough spots, I enjoyed learning and the new challenges. I was able to stop taking Seroquel in October 2009, and my Ativan dose was down to less than two milligrams a day.

January 2010. Everything fell spectacularly apart, recovery exploding into a million shards. I couldn't get the thought out of my head that I didn't deserve to eat, that I didn't deserve food. I immediately cut my calories down to about 300 each day. I threw away food my husband made for me, and began to engage in some really strange behaviors, such as eating one or two grains of rice at a time and ripping my lunch meat into tiny shreds. I couldn't (and still can't) pick up a whole sandwich and bite into it; I had to deconstruct it into a million pieces until much of it was inedible.

Then I discovered proana sites and joined several of them under the alias Ana Magersucht. (See "Grace and the death of Ana M" for more about this.) I started — but never wrote a word — a proana blog, and posted about my drive for thinness on several proana sites. I dived in headfirst, part of me determined to enter that black hole and never come out.

"You are more ill now than you were two years ago," my doctor said one January day this year, as he tried to convince me to go back into the hospital. He was particularly concerned about the alternative, proana Facebook personality I had created and my total immersion in all things proana and my philosophy that I should remain anorexic forever. After all, losing weight and being ill was what I was best at, right?

I went back into the hospital in February, this time connected to a NG feeding tube because my ketones were high, my potassium was low and I was literally starving. I couldn't think, and didn't care. I had failed again.

I asked him how he can tell I am restricting and struggling before I even say a word. He replied my whole demeanor changes. He is right. I become a different person, one with little hope. A person who feels drained and tired and ready to give up. But, as he always reminds me, I am not a quitter. I never completely give up, or else I wouldn't continue to make my weekly, two-hour (one-way) trips to meet with him each week and I wouldn't be planning on entering Renfrew's 30-day program in May.

It's lucky for me that I have a doctor who is even more stubborn than I am. For every argument I present stating why I can't get better, he is able to come up with ten arguments to give me hope that I can get better.

"You are so much more than your body size."

Those words continued to echo through my mind as I rode home. I looked at my too-thin face, the emaciation beginning to show. I wonder who I am besides my body size. But I am ready to find out, and I am trying not to feel like a failure. I'm trying to think of recovery not as a finite destination, but as a lifelong journey that will take me first to weight restoration, then guide me to health and self-esteem, and finally to joy.

"You are so much more than your body size."

Thank you. Someday, I will believe those words and I vow to teach that same idea to others. Because in my heart, I want to believe we all are so much more than our body sizes.

Fighting anorexia

Dreams of recovery and freedom continue to haunt me. I see a life without anorexia just within grasp. My fingers brush against it and I try to grab hold tight, only to have this shadow dream life spirit itself away. It hides from me, glancing back mockingly while tears flow and I beg to be release,  God please release me from anorexia; I am so tired.

Ana ... ED ... The Evil One ... The enemy has many names. And it has many tricks, tricks thrown at me each time I try to move toward recovery. This journey started out as simple restricting. I didn't eat and I lost weight. End of story.

Then the illness grew and new manifestations entered my life. First Ana whispered that I should purge my food, and helpfully suggested laxatives. I didn't do it every day; just when I needed to assuage the guilt of indulging in too much food. What was too much food? Anything that resembled what a normal person would eat. Ana said I wasn't to be normal; I was to be light and delicate, beyond mere human needs of eating normal meals and the companionship that often comes with that.

Christmas 2008. It was a few months since I left a two-week IP stay at Beaumont Hospital. This stay was meant to nourish my depleted, 92-pound via a tube (called a TPN) running through my vein and set just above my heart. For ten days, I often thought about those nutrients feeding my heart, taking care of it when I wasn't able to. It was a comforting image.

But I struggled after leaving Beaumont that first time. I didn't know it then, but I would return to IP six more times between September 2008 and February 2010. I hadn't gained any weight during the months after my discharge; I was still hovering under the 100-pound mark. I was struggling and beginning to think anorexia would be with me longer than I had originally expected. ED had become a persona, and I created this blog to vent some of my feelings.

One night, I was looking at the Christmas tree with its lights of blues and greens and purples and reds. The angel ornaments hung serenely, gold and silver intermixing and glinting upon the lights. Suddenly I became very angry, so angry at myself. I decided I hated myself for having anorexia. I felt I was spoiling yet another Christmas for myself and my husband, David. I got off the couch, went to the bathroom and took a small razor, slashing it against my skin several times until I finally felt the anger leave me.

It wasn't a suicide attempt. It wasn't even an attempt to hurt myself. To this day, all I know is I felt angry at myself, I despised myself and I needed to release that anger. Why cutting? I do not know.

It never has become a regular practice, and I didn't really cut myself except once or twice throughout the years after that first incident. Then my husband left for a two-week trip to Florida in February. The trip was less than a week after I got out of my seventh stay in IP, this time for refeeding via a NG tube.

Dr. Sacekyfio told us the trip was a bad idea, but we did not to listen. Ana was overcome and dancing with glee; the freedom to restrict and indulge in all sorts of harmful behaviors was an opportunity too rich to pass up. I told him to go, that he needed a break. I felt like such a virtuous wife; so selfless and giving, when in reality I wanted him to go because I couldn't wait to stop eating again.

But that's not all I did. Ana thought of all kinds of new ideas, and no, I am not going to list them here because of the fear it could be too triggering and dangerous for some people. The only thing I will write about — and that's because cutting is so common among anorexics; another manifestation of our hatred of our bodies? — is that one night, I found myself carving, "Hate me," in my upper right arm.

As I watched the blood seep to the surface, I couldn't believe I did that. I felt faint. It seemed like it was someone else's my arm; that couldn't be my arm, I couldn't have done that. I still can't believe I did that, although the marks are still there and I am still too embarrassed to wear short-sleeve shirts.

I thought to myself, I started out restricting food and now it comes down to this? What was happening to me?

When I started treatment with Dr. Sackeyfio in August 2008, I promised him two things — I would never lie to him and I would always be upfront about what I did. I would always be honest; otherwise, I thought I would be wasting his time and mine and what would be the point in going to a therapist only to lie to him?

I have sometimes regretted that promise, but I'm proud to say I have kept it. Sometimes I have spent a 45-minute session dancing around what I know I have to say, then blurting it out with two minutes to finish up. Sometimes I have had to write down what I needed to admit I had done to myself, or about what was too painful to talk about. There have been times I have had to shut my eyes and block out everything as I talk, particularly recently as we delve into the likely causes of my anorexia.

Each trick Ana has thrown at me has been exposed and tonight I had to rip the lid off another one. 

I was at a small party to welcome home my nephew, and I just wanted to be a normal person, just like anyone else who went to a party and grazed a bit and maybe became somewhat stuffed. I also ate because I was hungry; I still eat so little, I've been restricting for days and I'm not sure why.

But for the first time since I've developed anorexia, I tried to make myself throw up my food. This wasn't just a fleeting thought or a quick, halfway attempt. This was 25-minutes bent over the toilet sticking my fingers down my throat as far down as I could. I was desperate; I felt so full, I was so angry with myself for drinking four glasses of wine and eating chips and salsa and homemade brownies made by my sister-in-law.

I couldn't get the food up. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make myself throw up. I got up, disgusted with myself and immediately called my doctor and left him a message about what I tried to do. I didn't wait until our appointment on Wednesday. I'm sure he was thrilled to get a drunken message from me on a Sunday night, but I knew I would dance around it and I knew I had to expose this latest trick as soon as possible.

To quote my husband, "This is bad." (I told him during what I tried to do during the drive home; no bathroom stops for me and he made sure every laxative I had thrown away this morning - in an attempt to renew my promise to God; another story - was mixed in with the garbage so I couldn't get to the pills.) My husband sounded frightened of this latest manifestation of my illness. He reminded me that throwing up had been taboo; I hated to throw up and this attempt spoke of increasing desperation.

But this also is recovery. I step forward, filled with hope. I step backward, frightened and filled with anxiety. And I continue to dream and hope and work toward recovery, making sure the steps forward are more than those taken backward. Ana ... ED ... The Evil One ... can throw every trick possible at me. I remind myself I have weapons to fight, too. I have my friends, my doctor, my husband and my family.

Above all, I have my God.

This is the start of Holy Week, when we remember the Passion of Christ and the ultimate sacrifice He made for us out of the love the Lord holds for us. For me. As I move forward to Good Friday and reflect on those horrific hours of His dying and death, His descent into hell and freeing of souls; I pray that He can free me from anorexia. I remember that Easter morning is coming, and He will rise, reminding us of God's power and love.

And when he had entered, He said to them, "Why do you make a tumult and weep? "The child is not dead but sleeping. . . .Taking her by the hand he said to her, "Tal'itha cu'mi"; which means, "Little girl, I say to you, arise. Mark 39, 40-41

I am not dead, and I too shall arise to life.

                                     "Breaking With Midnight" Photo courtesy of Nasa.gov

Ana thoughts and recovery hopes

Ana thoughts and recovery hopes continue to mix in my mind. I'm starting to realize that eating alone is not healing my anorexia.

Random journal entries (since I've come to Beaumont Hospital):

February 6, 2010

6:10 a.m.
I can't think and all the noises make me want to fly into a panic and I just want out of here. I have no hope of escaping Ana. She said I would die, die bitch and it's the truth. I deserve to die of this. . . . I have no future. I'm 44; what's the point? More years of this? I want to die, because I can't ever find peace and Ana is the perfect destroyer.
(And I scratched "Ana Wins" into my hip bone; no knife available, only my Sharpie and fingernails.)

5:30 p.m.
And I watch the food go away with no regrets. I'm still listening to you, Ana. You still have the power. I still want to lose weight and I know I don't deserve to eat. . . . I am feeling light, even lighter than before. It is so easy to eat nothing here. . . . Had I known I would or could slip into a coma (because of starvation), I would never have come in. I would have let it happen.
In you, Ana, I have found the ultimate weapon. You are so perfect and so easy to use. . . . Who am I without you, Ana?

February 8, 2010
10:25 p.m.
I hate myself. I hate myself for having anorexia and not being able to stop it.
Will Ana go to heaven? No, of course not. She will go to hell, her bones burning in the white hot heat. She will scream for mercy, but none will be forthcoming. She will deserve to burn, for she is evil.
I  just want to die of anorexia.
I am so tired. Tired of being Ana. It really is not fun. And I didn't even get below 100 this time.
I am lost in a swirl of hopelessness. I will never not be Ana. And she will always be me.
So tired. I just want peace. I want it to end.
But Dr. Sackeyfio says there is hope. Do I believe him? Am I a fool? To think of being free, free of anorexia, having a real life.
No, impossible.
Oh, and Ana doesn't have a heart.

(End of journal entries)

And now? I am just eating to get home. I still have the feeding tube in; however, it was disconnected today because my doctor wants to see if  I could completely finish two meals. (The tube itself is still in in case it has to be reconnected.)

I am afraid once I am home, it will begin again. I am still not hungry. The feeding tube and food has made me think clearer, feel more awake.

But it was not the panacea I had hoped it would be. I wanted to be free of the Ana thoughts. Instead, the thoughts hammer at my brain almost continously.

Ana is not ready to die. And I am not ready to live.

How Ana moved in

Ana moved in like a search and destroy mission. She saw the vulnerable spots — my fear of regaining weight after I lost 20 pounds due to illness, my insecurities in my writing, my belief that I wasn't good enough for my husband — and slowly moved in for the kill.

Ana started by being helpful. It was during the holiday season of 2007. An unrelated illness left me at about 105 pounds — scared of being that thin, but secretly enjoying the lower weight and smaller clothes size. She pointed out that nuts, such as cashews and peanuts — favorites of mine — were loaded with fat.

But, I argued, aren't nuts good for you? Only if you want to be fat, she admonished me. So I believed her. I tossed the rest of the Christmas nuts in the trash, not even thinking my husband might want them. (Ana can make me very selfish.)

Ana next pointed out how many calories were in my favorite Christmas foods. Foods like warm mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie. I felt very uneasy after a dinner with those foods, plus a nibble or two of nuts.

But Ana had a great suggestion. Get the foods out of your body. But how? (She knew I can't stand to throw up.) She had the answer — laxatives. So I grabbed a box, swallowed about six and by the next morning, Christmas dinner was no longer a problem.

I was under one hundred pounds by January 2008. Ana had control.

Every bit of food was suspect. Did I really need that yogurt? Couldn't I do without that piece of cheese? How could I even consider adding cream and sugar to my coffee? Didn't I know black was the only way I was allowed to drink it? Two slices of bread weren't necessary for a sandwich; in fact, forget the damn sandwich and just eat the meat. Okay, eat two slices if you're that much of a pig. But don't forget to tell David — NO BUTTER in the rice. How could he even think you would want it any way but PLAIN PLAIN PLAIN???

Then came the scale. I must weigh myself EVERY DAY. Get on the damn scale, and get on it with as few clothes on as possible. Ana didn't care if I felt like crap or was too cold to stand there and scrutinize the numbers as the little needle swung back and forth or I was running late for work.

How the day went depended upon the scale. It was a good day if the number was less than the day before. It was a bad day if the number was higher than the day before. And a bad day meant less food and more self-hatred.

I flew to Haiti in June 2008, part of a medical mission trip in spite of the fact my doctor said this wasn't such a hot idea. I deliberately lied and said I was a vegetarian. It wasn't out of any strong feelings about eating meat and the sanctity of animal life. It was so I could get less food at the guest house.

Ana went with me, of course. Since I joined the group late, I sat separate from the rest on the flights to and from Haiti. I secretly was glad of this, since I planned on ditching as much food as I could get away with.

On the flight out of Detroit to Miami, I was seated next to an Haitian gentleman who worked in the States and was on his way home for a visit. I think he thought he hit pay dirt sitting next to me, as I began to give him most of the contents of my inflight snack pack, including two round balls of chocolate filled with hazelnuts.

I was determined to show I was just as strong as anyone, to offset all the comments I had heard for months about my weight. I was going to carry my own luggage and help load the 50-pound bags of supplies. I couldn't lift one, and a kind doctor just glanced at me and, reaching out his hand, took the handle and lifted it.

I wish Ana would have stayed behind in the States, because she made the trip almost unbearable. My anxiety about food drove me not only to give away most of my food (I never threw food away while I was in Haiti. I told Ana that was an evil thing to do in a land of the starving) but caused me to step up my intake of Xanax and painkillers.

Lucky for me, conservation of food was a big part of the mission. Our daily sandwiches contained only a scrapping of peanut butter and my translator was more than happy to take half of mine. I was mostly able to avoid the two cookies that went with lunch, and avoided extra calories by only drinking half of my Coke at lunch. Dinner was without guilt — whatever I left on my plate was just saved for the next meal.

I returned from Haiti, with vague remembrances of little girls stroking my arms and saying in soft Creole voices, "Too thin, too thin."

As the months and days went by, I started keeping track of every bite of food and its calorie count. I once went into hysterics because I accidently put flavored cream instead of plain in my coffee and I couldn't find the calorie count anywhere.

(No matter what Ana said, I could rarely drink my coffee black. So I just cut back on coffee. Ana also said no real pop, but diet pop gives me migraines. I occasionally broke and had a real pop. I paid for those indulgences.)

From August 13, 2008: Breakfast — Coffee, banana, yogurt. Snack — 100-calorie Coke. Lunch — Kashi cereal bar, one slice of pita bread. Dinner — rice.

I met with my therapist for the first time on August 14, 2008. Dr. Sackeyfio took one look at me and said, "You're dying." Of course, Ana whispered, "No." I told her to shut up, that I believed him. But I really believe I was just so tired of it all.

Perhaps Ana knew she met her match; the restricting and self-hatred stepped up.

From August 15, 2008: "I am denying hunger. I don't want this to be forever. It has to stop, I want to be normal again. ...I feel so ugly right now, but more sadly, I feel lost and scared."

I entered Beaumont Hospital on August 22, 2008 for a planned, two-week inpatient stay. I was (temporarily) freed from the tyranny of the scale.

From August 22, 2008: Weight — Not allowed to know.

The battle against Ana had begun.