Reflections on life and anorexia while driving through the Minnesota prairie

Right now we are driving through southwest Minnesota, about twenty miles from South Dakota. The sky is a huge bowl cupping the earth; the land is flat and as endless as the Atlantic Ocean. Dotting the landscape are huge white windmills. These windmills give the landscape an alien feel, as if the structures were towers from another land or planet. The sun shines brightly over the land, a few trees here and there dotting the landscape. The road looks as it would drive straight off the earth.

Now fog has descended and the sun is watery, diffused; a small yellow circle surrounded by streams of white. The fog does not diminish the sun's power, however, and my eyes burn each time I stare up at the sky. The miles home seem endless. Not just the literal miles, but also the miles home to myself. I take several steps forward in recovery from anorexia, only to balk and pull back, feeling as if I don't deserve recovery or happiness or life. The desire to go back, to become so thin that the bones are sharp again, aches within in me. It is an ache that I am afraid I will not be able to resist. An ache that is inhuman. The ache of Ana.

Why? I can't ever seem to answer that question. What is the allure, the seductiveness of being emaciated? It truly is an addiction that continues to grip my soul. I think: I can go back. I can go back even further. I was almost there once; so close to the eighties. What can I do? Allow myself to fall back into the addiction of anorexia or continue to fight? But I am so tired, and the recovery doesn't seem to hold the same allure, the same seduction, as anorexia.

So should I just accept that this is part of my personality? Should I just let go and live my life with anorexia, accepting that this mental illness is part of me and I can't excise it out, can't cut it out with a knife, can't write it out of me? That nothing will really heal me? Perhaps I am not meant to be healed. Perhaps I am meant to continue on the path of anorexia. Perhaps I am meant to be like the medieval nuns and become a holy anorexic, fasting and praying to become closer to God. Perhaps food really is the enemy, the enemy that keeps me separate from true spiritual growth and truth?

We continue traveling down I-90. The land is still flat and covered with diffused light, although it is fading as the fog breaks up and the enormous sky returns; white clouds feathering the sky, broken up once in a while by the crisscross of electrical wires.

Narrowing my blue eyes, I can almost see the land as it once was. Flat, covered with grass and just a tree here and there to break up the aching loneliness of the land. There were bison and Native tribes who moved with the seasons; people were connected to the earth and sky and the changing of the seasons. They would be preparing for winter right now. How did they prepare for the brutal winters that sweep across this land, nothing to break the icy wind and snows?

They turned to each other and worked together to survive each winter. They were connected to one another as much as they were connected to the land, and the ideas of individualism and self-sufficiency were laughable in the face of reality; the reality of either work together to survive or die.

We have lost many connections in our colonization of the land. Connection to people. Connection to the land and the sky and the vast clouds and the ever-changing sun.

Instead, we tell ourselves we can each make it on our own. That individualism and self-sufficiency are virtues, part of the Grand Narrative of America that has destroyed souls and left many people feeling lonely and depressed in their separate apartments and homes and mansions and other boxes we build to keep out the cold and rain and snow, not realizing we also keep out people and laughter and togetherness because we hide in these boxes.

I also was in a box at my thinnest. The box of Ana, anorexia; whatever word you want to use. I was very comfortable in my box, and I resent being made to open the lid and crawl out. I want to go back into my box, separate myself from others and from myself. This box is small and cramped, cold and empty, but it defines me. I feel myself drawn to this box, because nothing outside the box feels as good or important or safe as what is within. The outside world created by man is not one I want to be part of; I do not feel drawn to it. So how do I live and yet not become trapped by a world that I mostly reject?

For anorexia is a world I understand and trust. The rest of the world I do not.

Written 31 October 2010 while driving through the Minnesota prairie about twenty miles north of South Dakota. These words were written stream-of-consciousness and reflect my thoughts at the time. When I wrote that I "trust" anorexia, I meant that I have become used to it through the years and can predict how it will make me feel and act. Please don't misconstrue this as me saying anorexia is a good thing or something someone should put her/his trust in. Anorexia is a dangerous and often life-threatening illness and I would not want anyone to think that I believe otherwise.

Dreamworld

If only I could live within all the beauty of this world and beyond . . .

If only I could be free. I dream of freedom. It remains elusive, and I am beginning to think I am impeding  my own recovery from anorexia. I am beginning to realize that I only I hold the key to being well. My doctor asked me the other day — why do I persist in trying to prove to myself that I am unable to recover, when I was able to do it before. But, I said, that was just weight restoration. No, he replied. You were beginning to be restored to life.

As my mind flies back to the months before my relapse, it really does seem like a dreamworld. Now I've re-entered the world of Ana. Every morsel is suspect; every bite is taken with fear.

Still, I dream. Why can't I stop? Why can't I just accept I have anorexia and let it take its course? After all, Ana keeps throwing her tricks at me and I fall for every one of them; I try everything I can think of to destroy my body. In the process, I sometimes feel I am destroying my soul. Even today, I tried (but failed) to purge a normal meal. Both my doctor and a good friend have told me God must have been watching over me during my first failed attempt to purge. If so, how long can I expect God to be patient with me?

Oh yes, I've written my obituary in my head many times and my greatest fear is that it will read that I died of "complications due to anorexia nervosa." That will be my defining moment, what everyone will remember about me. That I was thin, and that it eventually killed me. And nothing else will matter — not being a loving (albeit difficult) wife, daughter and sister; an award-winning journalist; a graduate student who has been called "brilliant" by two different professors; and, most importantly, someone who cannot live nor breathe without writing.

Still, I dream. The pictures of above are beautiful representations of my dreams of recovery. I want to dive into the colors, be immersed in the rich reds and deep blues. I want to swim amongst the stars, stare in wonder at the constellation of Cassiopeia. I want to dance with the fireflies.

Today, I moved amongst the butterflies at a local exhibit. The soft creatures fluttered around, gliding in and out and stopping to rest on a succulent flower or juicy bit of apple. The room was warm and humid, filled with people. The butterflies sometimes appeared a bit dazed by all noise and confusion.

Then I came upon a broken butterfly. Its brown and blue wings were ripped in pieces. This butterfly seemed tired, and fluttered by itself and would often hide behind a potted plant. My heart reached out toward this broken butterfly; its body was broken and my body is broken. The butterfly rested on my finger after some gently coaxing, and I whispered assurances that it was still beautiful in spite of the tattered wings.

For a few moments we were friends, and the butterfly's wings fluttered opened, showing the still-brilliant blue of a dusky sky.

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

Bargaining with recovery

I have to decide whether I want recovery or death from anorexia. As I wrote earlier, I have been bargaining with recovery. I want to be healthy and live a full life, one filled with love and learning and joy and laughter, and one without fear.

But I also want to be thin; to be the thinnest one around, the one who is pointed to and whispered about, the one people wonder, "How did she get so thin?" I asked my husband the other day if I looked "anorexic" and he answered (honestly) that I do. I was secretly pleased. I also was angry. For me, it's about being thin and then again, it's not about being thin. Being thin is the outward manifestation of my inner pain.

It's like the morning ritual of the scale — the number is never right. If it's lower than the day before, I'm pleased for just a moment (then - what about tomorrow? why isn't it lower by two pounds? three pounds? am I not a good enough anorexic? anybody else would have lost more, damn it!). If the number is higher, the war within starts (should I be glad? upset? I know I need to gain weight. But what if ... what if I ate too much, the wrong thing? what am I supposed to feel?) And if the number is static, I just shake my head, thinking the number will be better tomorrow.

There are moments that should have shocked me into recovery. Times at the store when I start to see black, the ground rising up to meet me, my knees shaking as I sink to the ground, sitting and pretending that I am fascinated by what is on the floor. Days when I have read a page three, four times; finally realizing I didn't understand one word because my brain didn't have the fuel it needed to process the words on the page. I ask myself — since when did it start taking me two hours to read fifty pages? Moments recently when I couldn't pull myself out of bed before noon, all because I remember, hey, I'm still anorexic today and that changes everything.

Then there was Saturday. I had my usual breakfast of yogurt; my heart broken by recent events and unable to eat more. I went to take my morning shower; the hot water always feels like a refuge from my world as long as I don't look at my body closely. Looking is a no-win situation since my relapse. Sometimes my eyes are open like Eve's, and I see the protruding hip bones and prominent clavicle; other times, I see the huge thighs and enormous stomach.

Muscles weakened, dizziness hit me, heart raced. I sank to the ground, shampoo still in my hair. A rare thought — I need more food — crossed my mind, and my husband fed me pieces of a cereal bar as I sat in the bathtub with the water running over me.

Not enough. I stood up, rinsed the shampoo out and quickly rubbed in the conditioner. I continued to feel weak and again sank to the bathtub floor. As I rubbed soap over my body, I reflected that I had to take a shower sitting down at the age of forty-four. Shaking all over, I tried my best to finish my shower as the hot water began to fade and I began to grow cold. The simple joy of the shower was gone, and my hair was damp with conditioner I didn't have the energy to rinse out.

I crawled out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my head and sank to the floor. And for the next hour, I couldn't move without my husband holding my arm. I felt old, older than the oldest person. I felt ashamed. And I felt scared.

I can't continue to bargain with recovery. As I wrote after a recent post, "Recovery isn't failure," on ED Bites, I am becoming more and more tired of anorexia being part of my life. I will fail either way. I can fail at recovery and win at anorexia. I could become the thinnest, but I will lose my soul and my life in the end.

Or I can fail at anorexia and win at recovery. The possibilities both frighten and thrill me. The thought of finally being free of Ana, to be able to eat and breathe and live without fear ... My mind swirls with thoughts of two very different futures ahead of me.

I step forward.

It will take more courage to embrace recovery than anything else I have done in my life. But ... no matter how many times I panic, no matter how many times I rage that recovery is a lie (at least for me), that a return to normal life is an impossible dream painted by my doctor ... no matter what I tell myself, I still believe in dreams.

I step forward ...

(A poem)

"Labyrinth

 Or the twisted path of Anorexia"

I wake up
Lost
Remembering who I was
Knowing who I am


I throw the label
Anorexia
At myself like a dirty bomb
A well-aimed hit


The fallout destroys
Reader, writer, wife
Lover, sister, friend


Human being
No more


I trace the steps
The path through this
Labyrinth
Anorexia


Turning in circles
Dazed, confused
Wasted body
Revealed


Not human


Recovery
Recovery
Recovery
Recovery
Rec........


Meaning lost
Not by familiarity
But by contempt


I want to take
My wasted body
Apologize for 
Its pain


Outer pain
Shown through
Translucence
Fine lines
Dead eyes


Stroke the fine
Blue veins
Protect the
Fragility I have
Both desired


And hated


Soothe the inner
Hunger
Remembering food
Offered
Denied
Thrown away


To say
'I'm sorry'
I know others
Hurt you


And then
I did too.

If you are trolling for tips . . .

I am tired and I really need to go to bed, but I felt this was too important to wait. I recently discovered that at least one person was reading my blog trolling for tricks, and she is basically an anorexia wanna-be who wants to lose weight.

IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR WAYS TO DEVELOP ANOREXIA, I SUGGEST YOU MOVE ON AND FIND ONE OF THE MANY PRO-ANA SITES SUCKING UP SPACE ON THE INTERNET.

I wouldn't wish anorexia on my worst enemy, and at first I was horrified that I might have been part of giving someone ideas how to starve, etc. I recently suffered a serious relapse - I could have died - and it was triggered in part by my own involvement, through an alternate profile, with pro-ana sites and activities. It is easy to get sucked into them, to buy into the Ana creed and all that crap. It was all part of my sick, starving mind that drew me in and didn't allow me to see these sites for the evil places they are.

I'm not going to lie. I still sometimes look at these sites; it's still a pull I am fighting. But this blog will never never turn pro-ana; I will destroy it first.

I will continue to write about my struggles with anorexia and I will continue to be honest in my posts. I believe that helps both myself, and others feel less alone. Anorexia and other eating disorders are complex illnesses that involve many symptoms and actions - starvation, laxative abuse, self-harm such as cutting, and other things, and there are some things I will never be comfortable with sharing with the public.

But I believe it's important to keep writing and showing people the real face of anorexia, in all its pain and craziness.

And I beg of those who might be drawn to pro-ana sites — don't go there. You will regret it.

Falling

I am falling apart again. I am no inspiration. I am just a failure who can't let go of Ana. I am trapped forever.

I am scattering to pieces . . . My heart is torn to pieces . . . There is no mercy, none at all.

Ana is just too strong to fight. Too strong. I am not courageous or strong or inspiring or any of those wonderful things people have said about me. I am a coward and a failure.

I am frightened. I am frightened of food. I am frightened of graduate school. I am frightened that my marriage is being sucked dry by Ana.

I AM AFRAID I AM GOING TO DIE OF THIS BEFORE I EVER LIVE.

(The only consolation - if I die, others will live through my organs. Oh God, please let my organs be undamaged so I can do some good>)

I can't seem to grasp recovery. I feel as if I am encased in a block of ice, icy Ana, and I can see life outside but I can't reach it. Outside is freedom and love and learning and people, and I am so cold inside. I feel as if I will never be warm. I will never be free. I will never live.

I can't take much more. I feel so alone. What will it take??? What??? WHAT???

(I am screaming inside and no one hears me. Can't somebody hear me? Please?)

I don't have any answers. Only fears and pain and an all-consuming obsession with starving and hurting myself that I can't seem to fight.

Oh God, on this Ash Wednesday, I pray to you to see me, your lowliest servant, and have mercy on me. I know I don't deserve your mercy, but if you only would forgive me and say the word, I would be healed. Jesus, you once was told that even the dogs deserve the crumbs that fall from the table. Come into my heart and heal me, even though I don't deserve your mercy. Blessed Virgin Mary, intercede for me with your son.

I am falling to pieces . . . And I feel as nothing can ever pull the shards together again.

Grace and the death of XXX

Grace. God's gift to us, giving us strength to begin in our own healing when we can't do it alone. Which we can't.

Grace. God's power that allowed me to destroy XXX, my Facebook pro-ana doppelganger last night. I removed all traces of myself from her profile in order to feel cleansed. The most important thing is that I removed my picture - 95 pounds, jutting collarbones, already becoming ensared in Ana - that I used (with my face removed, of course) to represent her.

(Side note - I really thought I was being clever and that most people did not know about XXX. I wasn't being clever, I was being destructive and not too bright.)

Grace. Yes, it is amazing. It is God's gift for us all, including me. I was once blind. Blinded by the Siren call of Ana.

I know the call will continue. I've only taken the first, few baby steps. But - I have eaten the food. I allowed the feeding tube. I destroyed XXX.

Really, I felt it was becoming a matter of life and death between her and I. Either she had to die, or I would.

This doesn't mean it's over. It means I can begin. It means Dr. Sackeyfio and I can start the work of recovery, which will be so hard and so painful. I can't do it alone.

Grace. God sending us people who love us and people who care for us, to help us in our journey, no matter what that journey may be.

My journey happens to be recovery from anorexia. It is really an inexplicable disease, defying basic human logic - the drive to survive.

I am - a wife, a graduate student, a friend, an intelligent person, a compassionate person. I am not XXX. I am Angela.

I am still afraid. The feeding tube is gone, I am eating again and I will soon go home. I am afraid I will again starve myself. I am afraid of the self-destructive tendencies that explode in my mind without warning. I am afraid because I am again at the beginning of recovery.

I asked myself last night - Is this really what I want out of life? To spend days, weeks on a psychiatric unit, a feeding tube down my throat? Do I really want to have to ask for piece a floss, permission to go to the bathroom after every meal, to sleep in an empty bed in a strange room? To not be able to move about as I want, make bracelets to pass the time, to explain to everyone here that I am here because I starved myself for a month?

I want to put my feet in the ocean, go back to Haiti, travel to Ireland, see Stonehenge, complete my master's degree and many other things before I die. Today it hit me - I could die of anorxia before I am able to do any of those things. I could die of anorexia before I have lived.

Grace. I was so lost. But the thing about grace is that God does lead you home, and sometimes even helps you see again.

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.

Tube day

I get my feeding tube today and I have to admit I am very scared. I'm scared it will hurt. I'm scared of the loss of control. And yes, I'm scared of gaining weight.

This relapse wasn't about weight loss. The drop in pounds was incidental. But any anorexic would be lying if they said they didn't care about weight gain. Because the weight lost is an outward symbol of the inner pain I feel, and part of the stripping of skin and reappearance of protruding hip bones and prominent collarbones shows that to the world.

And then of course there is this world's current obsession with being thin. When I was trolling the pro-ana sites (not allowed here, and that's part of the safety of the hospital), I saw pictures of thin, tanned women who were so beautiful it ached to look at them and think I could never, ever look like them. I know that many of the photos are lies - Photoshopped to show a flawlessness that doesn't exist in nature; I bet many of them get pimples and under-eye circles and have a little flab here and there.

But it is hard not to buy into the lie, and if you are already suffering and your mind tells you not to eat, why not try to be like one of them?

But I want to like being me - dark, wild curly hair, a smile that many say is beautiful, a slender (not skeletal) body, and a few little lines near what my husband calls my "cornflower blue eyes."

And I want to eat normally - sometimes too much, sometimes too little, sometimes a bit of junk food, most of the time just boringly healthy. I'll never be a big eater - that's not been my nature for most of my life, and I am a bit of picky eater even in the best of times. But I could, in the past, scarf down some popcorn at the movies and slurp it down with a regular icy Coke,

I don't want to sit at my plate and eat one grain of rice at a time, one pea at a time; slicing a banana into miniscule pieces so small that I can't even taste it. I don't want to shred my allowed half piece of bread into tiny pieces, balling it up until I can't taste the yeasty taste of whole grain bread with the little piece of nuts because I have crushed the life out of it.

And I don't want to mark my body with red ink, the color of Ana, writing across my hip "Ana Wins." She is not going to win, not if my doctor and others have any say about it. (It's too bad, because I actually like the color red. Maybe someday it will again just be a pretty color for me.)

Just like anorexia has been crushing the life out of me.

So today is tube day. I am scared it will hurt. I'm afraid maybe it won't help. I feel like it marks me as someone who could not get past the demon of Ana without medical help, without tube feeding.

But the choices are either reclaim my life or die Ana. And she doesn't deserve that honor.

When I do die, I hope people will remember me as someone who fought and won, someone who was kind and funny and full of life, a good writer and someone with an insatiable drive to learn new things. Not someone who cowered under Ana. Not someone who sat at her computer and counted every single calorie, and couldn't even take a sip without fear.

And I want to be remember as someone who liked a good hamburger with Swiss cheese, mayo, ketchup, Vidalia onions and a cold beer once in a while. (That's in the future, ha ha.)

The web of Ana

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."

Finding Angela

I am powerless against anorexia.

Those were the five hardest words I've ever had to write. It was so humbling to admit it — me, so strong and ready to deny that nothing is wrong and I can handle anything — and yet so freeing in a way. Maybe I don't have to blame myself. Maybe I can now accept anorexia as the disease it is, and turn over control to those who can help me instead of fighting against their every suggestion, every word. I now know that in order to recovery, I must change.

It also has started me thinking about who I was pre-anorexia, and as my mind floated back to that time of freedom, I felt an aching sense of loss coupled with an intense longing to yet again be that person . . .

I liked books and reading and was interested in so many things — religions, history, medieval times, the life and history of Anne Bolyen, the writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder and more. I studied many things on my own, reading about everything from the flu epidemic of 1918 to the catechism of the Catholic Church to the teachings of Islam. I delved into "The Chronicles of Narnia," exploring the strange new world that Lucy and her siblings found. I was one of the first in line to buy the newest Harry Potter book, and I couldn't wait to dive into my new books for graduate school (even literary theory!) Each new book was like a treasure waiting to be opened and just the smell of the paper and the crispness of the spine was thrilling.

Curling up with a book at bedtime, becoming part of a new world of each offered, devouring the words, no ED thoughts hammering at my brain . . . It sounds so simple, I know. It also sounds like a beautiful, healthy and normal way to spend an evening.

I cared about people, and did things to show that caring. I took part in an in-school program for years, where I was paired with a young student who needed a kind, caring adult to read to him or her and just listen to the day-to-day life of childhood. I remember one young girl, Anna. Anna had long, dark curly hair and looked somewhat like the daughter I've never had. She loved to giggle and was so smart; she didn't really need help with reading, she needed an adult to listen to her sometimes confusing and convoluted life. Each week, we would sit in low chairs, two dark heads bent over as we nibbled on our lunch and explored the different worlds inside books. She loved to talk and create her own stories, and I still pray that she is as healthy and well-adjusted as she was then.

My husband and I went for long walks, watched stupid T.V. shows, talking about politics and the books we were reading and played competitive games of Scrabble. We held hands, snuggled on the couch, and we didn't argue about food. We went out to eat after church on many Sundays, and the time at the restaurant wasn't spent watching my fear as I opened the menu and looked at all the frightening food choices.

I wasn't afraid to go to parties and other events. People didn't scare me then, and my mind wasn't consumed by anorexia. I could relax and enjoy the moment, and actually was considered an interesting and engaging person.

I could write articles without feeling panicked; I could read and understand the words on the page. I could eat without fear, I could be with people and not want to run away and hide any where I could find just to be safe. I could face a variety of situations and not feel fear bubbling up.

I miss the person I was, and right now I am in a period of mourning for that Angela, going through the stages of grief and wondering who I will be when this all plays out. I wonder if anyone else out there feels the same way, because it feels lonely to miss the self you were, and wonder about the self you will be after recovery.

Can I ever become the person I was? No. Time has moved on and anorexia has impacted me. I know I will never be the exact person I was before anorexia.

I want to become a better, stronger person; one who embraces life fully and without fear. I can either continue to be bullied by my anorexia, trying to hide from it (although no matter where I go, my mind is always with me) or embrace the growth opportunities that it offers.

I can let it slowly kill me — and right now, a part of me wants to let Ana win (Jesus, just get this pain over with already! I am so tired, just take me home to peace and love and rest; "For my yoke is easy and my burden light.")

I am ready to concede to Ana. I just realize I can't do it alone. I think of it as nothing less than preparing for war, for the more I try to move toward recovery, the more fire bombs Ana throws at me. She's been a real hissy bitch lately.

But as I think about being powerless, I realize that doesn't mean I'm not without strengths. I have a mentor, my husband, my friends and colleagues and perhaps most importantly, my writing; all formidable weapons against my arch-evil foe Ana.

Now it's time to unbury the Angela underneath Ana.

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.

I am barely breathing . . .

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 . . .