This World I Live In...

"Come closer now
So you can lie
Right by my side..." ~ This Velvet Glove

It's 1:45 a.m. and I'm still awake. I'm thinking about many things. Some things I must be a bit cryptic about for privacy reasons, others maybe not.

First, my pending divorce. I recently wrote a very emotional and honest post, "I need an answer..." I want to be clear about something, though - David was never the right man for me. That may sound harsh, it may sound crass. But the truth must be told.

However, that doesn't mean that David is a bad person. He isn't. He was never abusive or cruel, and he stayed married to me for almost four years after we separated. Why did he do this? So I would have health insurance and be able to continue treatment for anorexia. Even though David couldn't deal with my anorexia, he clearly didn't want me to die from it.

Yes, divorce is heartbreaking. It can tear a person apart. When David first left me, I thought I would die. I wanted to die. I had never felt pain like I did when I realized he wasn't coming home, and I never want feel such pain again.

But I didn't die. Sometimes I wonder why, since I have a strong self-destructive streak at times. There was something within me that didn't want to die. And recently it occurred to me - I don't want to die. Ever. Whatever pain and hurt this world bring, it also brings beauty and joy and friendship and closeness. There is the silver moon at night, and the bright red sun in the early morning, and the sound of the birds in the quiet of the day. There is the sparkle of the snow and the glint of the rain and the light in someone's eyes as that person looks at you...

And yet, there is fear. I fear many things for this world, and as the standoff continues between the Russians and Ukrainians, I fear for war. For I have seen firsthand the destruction of war when I attended many military funerals; young men cut down, young men who had been full of hope and life. Young men who had families and dreams and wives and girlfriends. 

The world must try to avoid war. That may be a futile hope of mine, but it is one of my core values.

And so I pray for this world I live in. I pray for peace and hope. I pray for the people of Ukraine. I pray that this world will be around long enough for me to truly live.

As for the rest? I can only say I am ready to live again, and I want it all. And I will be fine.

I need an answer...

You say I'm beautiful.
You told me you loved me.
You promised to be with me forever.
Our vows said, "Love is patient, love is blind..."

And yet, your love was NOT patient.
I was dying
Crashing into walls...
Praying that I would die.

So afraid
Of everything, really
Falling down the stairs,
And yet
You did not care
You did not care enough

Where did those promises go?


Yes, I know
You couldn't stand watching me
Spiral downward
Into an oblivion of anorexia and self-hatred.

But where the hell did forever go?

Was forever only when I was perfect,
On that pedestal of untouchable beauty?

And then, when I spiraled downward,
I was left to grasp the rope of recovery
With my fragile hands.

I need an answer.
Was it really me?
Was I really the total and complete cause for the breakdown of our marriage?

For years, I tried to drown my pain
With alcohol, pills, and starvation.
But nothing stopped it.

And I was dying,
Yearning for you to reach out
And say,
It will be okay.

I need an answer.

But I know no answer is forthcoming.
I can't even get that from you.
And I'm left with the feelings
Floating around in my brain....

It's me.
Me
Me
Me

And that thought will echo
Forever.

Thoughts on my Marriage and its end...

That moment just before you are fully awake, when the world is still dark and it could be any time, any time at all...

For the first time in ages, I woke up thinking about David and my failed marriage. I mean, really thinking about it. The weekend mornings of coffee in bed, the turn of his head just before he would lean over and kiss me, the sound of his voice when he would say, I love you...

And I try to fathom what went wrong. It would be too simple to blame anorexia, only anorexia; to say that my eating disorder ripped us apart and now that I'm at a "normal" weight, it is again safe to contemplate a new life and a new love.

I'm not saying anorexia did not play a huge role in the destruction of my marriage. I do not know what it feels like to watch someone you love slowly die; to watch the weight fall off of her and see her rejoice at the destruction of her body and soul. I don't know what it's like to drive for hours one-way to see, yet again, your wife in the hospital, perhaps with a feeding tube stuck down her nose, feeding her the nutrients needed to keep her alive, but knowing she doesn't really want to be kept alive. Instead, death is her choice, but a slow death you must witness.

No, I really don't know that side of anorexia, of eating disorders. I only know of its destructive powers within, how it takes control of your mind and soul, how it makes you do things that are completely illogical.

So I really thought about David and my marriage this morning, asking myself - Would we still be together if anorexia had not entered our lives.

No.

As much as I insist it was anorexia that killed our marriage, anorexia was only a symptom of deeper problems. I developed anorexia because there were problems inherent, both in our marriage and within me.

What do I mean by that?

I think back to the pivotal year; the year 2007.  I was the military reporter for a small-town paper. It was a year of deaths, and I must have covered six or seven funerals that year. Each one a young man who had joined the military for a myriad of reasons - an innate sense of patriotism, a need to get away from small-town America (and the area was small-town America, complete with no opportunities), the urge to see the world, a need to earn money before moving onto something else...

Each funeral was closed-casket.

I can never forget that, for I could only imagine what was hidden inside those closed caskets; what it meant to lock the bodies away. I could only imagine...

I felt surrounded by death. I felt as if the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan would never end. I felt as if I had no words, either for the grieving families or for myself. Simply, I had no answers.

At the same time, I was sick. Very sick, and part of that sickness included dropping weight. At first, I hated it. I liked my figure (and how long has it been since I've been able to say that?) I couldn't figure out why I was dropping weight, why my migraines were so bad, why the depression had gotten worse?

At the same time, I sensed a distance within my marriage.

It was subtle, at first. A pulling-away, perhaps? A protective shell? The way a person reacts when there is a storm nearby...you search out safety, you look for a shelter for the crash you know is coming, you become wary...

Is that how it felt, David?

In the meantime, I was working ten, twelve hours a day; covering funerals and an attempted murder/suicide and a World War II veteran who hung himself the week after we talked...

2007 was a year of death, a year of ER visits and searches for answers and pain. So much pain.

This was all before anorexia took over my mind. I still remember September 2007. I looked in the mirror at my wasted body. My doctor had finally found the answer, hyperparathyroidism. I looked and turned to David and said, "I hope no one expects me to diet to maintain this ridiculous weight."

But of course, the seed was already planted...

So why do I now feel that anorexia was not the sole destroyer of my marriage? There must be something within me, something that struggles to deal with the realities of the world that causes me to turn to such self-destructive measures.

I am finally being completely honest, and I believe the honesty is what I need to embrace or I will never be ready for another relationship. I am not blaming myself; we all have flaws and internal struggles. But I can't ignore my role in the destruction of my marriage, I can't give anorexia that much power. I must face the truth.

In which she breaks her silence...

I am healthy no longer anorexic.

I have family who loves me.

I have a job that I adore, and that makes me feel worthwhile.

I am finally rebuilding my life after things started to implode in 2010...

And I hate my body

I HATE my body

There's no getting around that fact.

And I'm angry about it.

It seems as if many ED recovery blogs show recovery as all lightness and fluff. You push past the fear, you post smiley "Operation Beautiful" affirmations on your bathroom mirror, you do a lot of yoga, and ... and you are recovered. Slim, beautiful, worthy of admiration because you came through the fire and look amazing for it.

What about the rest of us?

What about those of us who careened past recovery weight and are now tipping precariously into the overweight, or even God-forbid, obesity range?

We hear it all the time - love your body. YOUR body. And typically the person spouting that is still acceptably slim, slim enough for society to accept her, while not so slim to be considered anorexic anymore.

What about the rest of us?

Those of us who are fighting the Buddha belly and the thunder thighs; those of us who are not slim by society's standards, those of us who really are overweight and yet we are constantly bombarded with the message that we are to LOVE YOUR BODY.

I don't want to love this body. This body is overweight and tired and has high blood pressure. 

This body is too-round and too-curvy and too, dare I say it? Too large.

Does loving my body mean not taking care of it? Have I loved my body so much that I've put it in danger? Did I listen to those affirmations too much, forgetting that loving my body might mean keeping it a healthy weight? Not around 155-160 pounds for a small-framed woman of 5'3"?

My ED doctor says I'm not overweight. My GP tells me not to stress about my weight.

But how long should I love this body, before love kills me as anorexia tried to?

And why is it that it seems as if the strongest advocates for "loving your body" are those who are slim, those whose bodies don't offend society?

Inspiration Needed (Dear Anonymous)

An anonymous reader left the following message on a recent blog post:

‪

She wrote the following:

"Hi! My name is Morag. I am a fifteen year old girl trying to recover from anorexia.I just discovered your blog.I am scared of dying. I am scared of ruining my relationships. But I'm scared of eating more. I keep saying "this is it, this is the breaking point where I get better" only to go back to panicking about calories the next day. If you have any inspiration for me, please PLEASE share. Thanks..."

I left her the following message after her comment:

Dear Anonymous,

I'm afraid everything I say will sound trite: you're young, you have your whole life ahead of you, you can defeat this because you most likely have not had anorexia for a long time (meaning it has not become chronic, as it is in my case since I'm entering my six year of treatment.)

All of these things might be true, but I'm betting that the eating disorder voice can trash each one and turn it around to make you feel hopeless.

Do you have a therapist? A dietitian? A eating disorders psychiatrist? It's hard to know what to say when I have so little to go on, and also do not know your living situation, i.e. does it contribute to your eating disorder or is your family supportive? Have you looked into ED recovery groups? I know that these groups are limited and it depends upon where you live.

Just know that you can recover, many people do. It takes hard work and understanding that it won't happen overnight. Realize you will sometimes slide back; this happens in recovery.

Finally, you have to WANT to recover. I know that might sound strange and not very helpful, but it's the truth. You have to want to recover, and you have to be willing to give up the anorexia identity and discover who you are and the things you can do.

Please feel free to e-mail me at angelaelackey@gmail.com if you have any questions, etc. I might be off the grid for about a week or so, so don't worry if I don't answer right away; I will answer.

I will keep you in my prayers.

However, I was hoping perhaps some of you might have inspiration, too? If so, please share in the comments.Maybe we can stop one more young person from being sucked into anorexia for life. Maybe we might save her a lot of pain and heartache. I hope so.

Thank you.

Witnessing a Love Story

I'm sitting here in Starbucks, sipping my skinny vanilla latte and anxiously counting how many calories this adds to my daily allowance. I'm cold. I'm tired. I'm depressed.

I look around at the other people here. I am curious. Of course, the first thing I focus on is their weight. The young lady to my right is slender and gorgeous, and I immediately focus on my thighs. She is eating a sandwich, while I settle for my XXX-calorie meal bar. Did I mention that I was hungry?

In line are more slim women; women wearing leggings and close-fitting tops; fearlessly order frozen drinks laden with sugar and fat. I am envious, and I do not like the feeling.

I notice another young lady, also slender and possessing smooth skin and perfect make-up. I realize that everyone is able to pull themselves together except me, and I stand out with all my fat. I think.

There are several men here, but I do not care about them or their weights. They are average; forgettable.

An older man walks in with a bouquet of red roses. He is middle-aged, perhaps in his fifties, and balding. He sits down next to a Hispanic woman. I had noticed her earlier — also middle-aged, heavy-set, much bigger than me. This made me feel safe.

I had dismissed her as yet another overweight American, one of many who eats too much and just doesn't care.

She breaks out in a smile. A stunning smile, full of joy and life. She takes the roses, and gently grins at the gentleman.

They talk. I watch. I wonder about their relationship. Are they lovers? Married? Is he going to ask her to marry him?

It is almost too intimate to watch.

Now she is showing him some pictures on her phone. Their heads bend together, brushing against each other.

Now she laughs at something he has said, bringing her hand up to her chest.

I do not know this woman. I do not know if she has ever starved herself, or purged her food, or been on one of a million diets out there. I admire that she seems okay with her curves and bulges; indeed, she seems very comfortable in her own skin.

I envy that.

But I doubt that she has starved or purged or desired to slice the flesh off of her bones. She is full of life, obviously in love with this balding man and herself. I bet she doesn't know or care how many calories are in her latte or cappuccino or macchiato. I am sure she didn't anxiously plug the numbers in her phone's calculator, hoping that she didn't go over the self-imposed limit.

There are still here. She is sipping the last of her drink, and I can almost taste the full-fat milk and chocolate. I can almost remember what it felt like to have that cold sensation on my tongue, swirling it about my mouth, no thought of calories or carbs or fat grams.

She tosses her dark curly hair, leaning forward as the man speaks. He also leans forward, and I am sure that he loves her for all of curves, that she draws him in with that smile and the life that shines within.

Walking on Water

I am
Walking on Water

Skirting the Edges
Trying to not let
The fear

Consume me.

For
1
5
10
Infinity

I have done
Whatever I could
Do
To Please you.

Nothing
Nothing
Nothing

I am Not
The Evil One
Here

I have
Been Walking
On Eggshells
For

LIFE

When I was born,
Did I ask
For this
Life
Sentence

I have
Not
Been Able to

Walk on Water

But does that
Mean
That
I
Am
Doomed?

I try
To
Fight
This pain...

But
No Matter What

I am
Not
Able
To
Walk on Water

And therefore
I
Am
Not
Worthy

------
@11:34 a.m.  - 334
@ 12:48 p.m. - 534
@1:52 p.m. - 542
@ 2:33 p.m. - 550
@ 3:53 p.m. - 558
@4:09 p.m. - 566

Each number represents failure.

As I continue
To try and fight this
The Chaos
In my Life
Threatens to take control.

Each number represents success.

As I continue
To try and suppress
My
Hunger
This is the only thing
That I can control.

Because
I will never be able to
Walk on Water.

XXXXXXXXXXX — Insert Awesome Post Title HERE

Don't dictate to me
Don't tell me what I feel/should wear/should look like/should be like...

Don't tell me ...
I should gain/lose/maintain
I should.............................

I refuse to maintain an unhealthy weight solely so YOU don't feel guilty/worried/pissed/uncomfortable

Your feelings are your concern, not mine

What you feel/do/say/think/dream is unrelated to me

Boundaries
They are a good thing

Get it?

––––––––
I am learning some truths that, perhaps, I'd rather not face.

I don't have to love anyone solely on the basis that we share genes and biological makeup.

I don't have to allow anyone to treat me viciously solely on shared ancestry.

I have discovered that hundreds of miles of distance are necessary for my health, well-being, and sanity.

My friends love me, in spite of the fact that I can be difficult, moody, and sometimes negative.
It's those shared genetics that bite me each time.

When does my obligations cease, and I am allowed to be my own person?
28?
32?
26?
48?

I refuse to wait
Another decade
Another year
Another minute....

I'm sometimes afraid that I will suddenly wake up, realizing that I have allowed my life to be dictated by genetics and shared ancestry, choking and smothering me until nothing is left.

Without getting into specifics, each time drama rears it's ugly head, I turn to eating disorder behavior to cope.
I'm not blaming.
It just is, you know?
It is

No blame is definitely not an excuse, however.
At some point, I have to keep myself safe.

––––––––
Explosive anger scares me.
It sends me hurtling back
Places I don't want to go
Places I thought I forgot

Exploding angry
Exploding worlds
Explosions and then
BAM

I can't figure out why some people behave this way.
Don't they realize how frightening they seem?

Of the four freedoms, freedom from fear is the most important one to me.

––––––––

And..................................

I will continue to blog, but perhaps I will save my most personal thoughts for my new, anonymous blog on Wordpress. I'm not ready to share this blog with anyone who knows me; perhaps I will be someday.

Writing is my release. I can't live without it.
Writing is how I process things.
It restores me to a measure of sanity.

––––––––

I ask —
Who is using whom?

The End.

An Acceptable Number?

I no longer can pretend that I am recovered from my eating disorder, if I ever was. The thoughts, the actions, the pattern of behaviors - all point to the fact that I am still struggling with anorexia.
People look at me and think, "She's at a healthy weight, so she must be better." Scratch that. People probably look at me and think, "She's fat, poor thing; she really has let herself go."
I asked Dr. S the other day if he thought I needed to lose weight. I waited to hear the hesitation in his voice, the pity that I was now at the other end of the spectrum. He answered with an emphatic, "No."
Who am I to believe? What he says or what I see with my own two eyes? The thing is, I don't know if I can trust my own eyes; they have lied to me so much during the past six years.
And what about the number on the scale? The scale does not lie, it is an impersonal  machine that really doesn't care what I or anyone else weighs. The bar slides forward and back, speaking to the fears of hundreds of women who watch, silently, praying that it would stop on an acceptable number.
What is an acceptable number? During the past six years, I've hit a low of 91 and a high of 168. My body has gained and lost the equivalent of a toddler, except the only life that was lost was mine.
I remember sitting in McDonald's a few weeks ago. It was hot, so very hot. A couple in their 60s or early 70s stopped in, ordering cold drinks. He order a chocolate shake, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. She ordered an iced coffee, and I'm sure it was either unflavored or flavored with sugar-free syrup.
The message was this: men can order whatever they like, the world of food and its flavors are completely open to them, they don't have to restrict their lives. 
Women, on the other hand, must rein in their appetites, and instead delicately sip on low-caloried beverages and pretend that they really don't want the milkshakes and other treats that are out there.
Of course, this is changing with a new generation, and men are also increasingly taught that they must deny themselves.
This is just a little vignette, something to highlight the increasing rage I feel toward the eating disorder voice that taunts me.
I also thought this: will I be her when I'm in my 70s, still restricting myself from all that the world offers? That is, of course, if I am still here.

Is complete recovery from an eating disorder even possible?

In 2007, an inexplicably irrational and frightening disease entered my life — anorexia nervosa. I was familiar with it, of course, although I did not have any close friends who struggled with anorexia or any other eating disorder, at least that I knew of.

My first contact with anorexia was with a two-sentence entry in my Abnormal Psychology textbook. It was the 1980s, and eating disorders just weren't getting a lot of attention. My next encounter with anorexia was in the early 1990s, when I was hospitalized at the University of Michigan Hospitals after a particularly bad bout with depression and anxiety. There was a young woman there, very thin and pale, who was on complete bed rest. I later found out that she had anorexia. I scoffed, eating my bacon eggs, that anyone would willingly starve herself.

Little did I know that years later, that woman would be me.

I developed anorexia after a bout with another frightening disease, hypoparathyroidism, caused me to lose a significant amount of weight. I found that I liked being that thin, and thus was kicked into anorexia and five years of utter hell.

There have been many fits and starts during my recovery, when I would go so far, only to jerk back and start clinging to anorexia like it was my best friend. I became a serial patient at my ED doctor's hospital, being admitted eight times between 2008 and 2012.

I still sometimes ask myself, will there be a ninth admission?

I started working seriously on recovery after my last hospitalization. I was discharged on 1 January 2012, and days later, I slammed my scale against the trash can and tossed it out. I have not owned a scale since.

But eating disorder thoughts still come and go, some fleetingly, others taking hold until I feel as if I am smothering.

Fat. Not so fat. Cellulite. Dimples............fatttttttttttttt.....oh so fat!!!!!!!! I wouldn't be caught.dead.in.a.bikini, said in a clinched tone. FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT, SCREAMING AT ME, GOD PLEASE STOP THESE THOUGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Of course, anorexia isn't really about weight and food and body image. And yet it is. My life is pretty stressful right now. I'm looking for full-time work after finishing graduate school. My living situation isn't idea. I feel like a failure after the twin disasters in December and June.

It is characteristic of me to turn inward, churning up self-hatred, berating myself for actually nourishing myself as a normal human being, hating myself for no longer being a size XX.

But all of this leads me to think, will I ever be completely recovered?

I mean, the truth is, I am at the high end of the acceptable weight for my age and height. I do need to lose some weight. I am risking my health, or I was, with all the sugar and simple carbs I've been ingesting.

So how does a recovered anorexic — if I am truly recovered — address possible health issues and the need to lose weight? How do I do it safely, or is it simply not possible?

Or will this simply trigger another relapse? Can I safely maintain my healthy, get to a healthy weight, without inviting anorexia back in?

Does anyone ever really recover from an eating disorder?

An Open Letter to Employers

We're smart, well-read, irreverent, funny, hard workers, and highly educated.

And we are unemployed.

Ever since the economic bubble bursted in 2008, this country has experienced a level of unemployment previously unknown. Yes, I know that there have been periods in which more people have been unemployed — the Great Depression of the 1930s and the Reagan Era of the 1980s come to mind — but I would venture to say that there has never been a time period when so many highly intelligent, well-educated people have struggled to find gainful employment.

There was a time when having an education was key to a better life. But that is no more.

Now the key to having a better life, or at least to being gainfully employed, is ... well, I'm not sure what the key is. Somebody please tell me if you know.

Myself and others did everything right. We graduated from high school. We went onto college or university. We worked hard and earned a degree, and some of us even went back and earned a master's degree. For all intents and purposes, we should be at least somewhere near the middle of the economic strata.

This from the National Center for Education Statistics: "For young adults ages 25-34 who worked full time throughout a full year, higher educational attainment was associated with higher median earnings."

This from the United States Census Bureau: "Workers 18 and over sporting bachelors degrees earn an average of $51,206, while those with a high school diploma earn $27,915. But wait, there's more. Workers with an advanced degree make an average of $74,602, and those without a high school diploma average $18,734."

Really? Really!?! Let's see. In 1991, I graduated with a bachelor's degree in Psychology. I was hired as a mental health therapist/case manager — a position that required at the minimum a bachelor's degree — at a yearly salary of $25,500.

Okay, so that was more than 20 years ago. Let's move forward. I went back to school to pursue my dream of being a writer, and graduated with my second bachelor's degree, this one in English/Imaginative Writing, in 1998. I was hired as an intern reporter/staff writer in 1999 — also a position that required at least a bachelor's degree — at $11 an hour, or $19,800 yearly.

Clearly I was not playing the game right, as I was going down the economic ladder with each subsequent degree.

I so loved being a journalist — the writing, meeting people, feeling that I was doing something that really mattered — that I ignored the fact that people out of high school were making more than me.

Then I got sick, as long-term readers of this blog know, with anorexia. I had to take a three-month sick leave due to the affects of starving myself, and I wondered if I would ever work again. I ate and ate and ate some more, and was able to return to work, only to be faced with a buyout offer upon my return.

I looked at this as an opportunity, a chance to pursue my dream of earning my master's degree and furthering my career. I took the buyout and returned to school, and was awarded my master's in English Composition and Communication.

This was in August 2012. And my income? $0

Okay, now I have to admit that I haven't spent all of my time since graduating searching for full-time work. I took the entire summer off last year and did some other things this past fall. At the end of February, I relocated in hopes of finding more opportunities.

Job hunting has turned out to be an eye-opening, soul-crushing experience. It is a game with no clear winners, because when I get a job, that means one, two, three, or more people lose out. It is a game that causes you to suppress the best parts of yourself, while bringing to light some of your worst traits. Traits such as competitiveness and jealousy and plain old back-stabbing.

Because everyone else is playing the game, and by God, you better figure out how to play it or be crushed and thrown to the side.

It seems like something mean-spirited and ugly has been set loose, like the life of each one of us has been diminished, and that we are only here to interface and produce and perform.

And I'm afraid for this society, at what it means for all of us.

Perspective

In many ways, the past six years have been very difficult. First I almost died from lithium poisoning. Then I developed horrible migraines and high blood pressure, coupled with unexplainable weight loss, only to find out - nearly a year later - that these and other symptoms were caused by hyperparathyroidism...

I remember that day. It was hot, and I was struggling to get through work. My doctor told me she suspected hyperparathyroidism, based upon my symptoms and  PTH levels. My first thought was, "What they hell is that?"

I had become thin, so thin, thinner than I had been since I was a teenager. At the time, I didn't like being that thin. I thought, "I hope David doesn't expect me to diet in order to maintain this ridiculously low weight."

Why didn't I just hold onto that thought? What would the past six years have been like, if only?

I'm tired. Depressed. Aggravated. And did I mention tired?

I've been thinking what a soul-sucking activity it is to look for a job. That the past four years have been soul-sucking. I almost died of ______. Fill in the blank. Lithium poisoning. Hyperparathyroidism.

Anorexia nervosa.

I mean, come on! Who in the hell develops anorexia in her forties? I do.

I could dissect the past six years into tiny little pieces, and still not get it.

But for all my depression and struggles, for all my fears and anxieties, I still have it pretty good.

This was on my Facebook newsfeed this morning: A Syrian Refugee Wedding. An article about a 15-year-old girl in a Syrian refugee camp getting married. To avoid prostitution and rape. To make her life better.

Marriage at 15? Really? Is this the world we live in?

And she was considered old; the story states that many of the refugee girls are married off at the age of ten or younger.

I confess that my perspective has been somewhat narrow, and selfish. I want to work. Being unemployed sucks, especially for a Type-A personality such as myself. (The joke used to be that I didn't know how to vacation, or relax. I'm working on it.)

But I'm 47, and I'm free. I'm able to make my own choices, albeit some of them have been stupid. But they are mine.

My family did not have to marry me off at 15 or 10 or 8  in order to protect me from rape and a possible life of prostitution. I did not have to leave school at the age of 9. I am able to read and learn, and just be.

This is my vow: I dig myself out of this hole I'm in, and then do whatever is in my power to help others. It could be as simple as creating awareness, or as profound as writing pieces that shine the light on the atrocities of the world.

If I lose my ability to care, I've lost everything.

In which she chooses life

I know I haven't written in a while. It's just...some days I'm full on-board with recovery, and some days it gets tiresome.

So many things still stand in the way of full recovery. A picture in a magazine, a spoken word misinterpreted, a half-remembered longing triggered...

What is it about this illness, anorexia, that makes it so hard to let go? Why have so many people, including me, start strongly on recovery, only to succumb to its siren call yet again? What does it even mean?

What did — does? — anorexia mean to me? As time passes and memory fades, it is easier to see the positive aspects of self-starvation. And yes, there were positives, or its allure would have faded long ago.

It becomes easier to remember only the positives, and frankly, harder to remember the pain of it all. So I have to dredge up the pain in order to save myself, and dampen any incipient enthusiasm for that which could still kill me if I am not careful.

What is it about this illness — one that destroys all life and love and ambition, boiling down existence to mere fear and self-hatred — that makes one cling to it, screaming inside that it is the only thing that could possibly understand, the only thing that can save one from nothingness?

Now I have life and friendships and a bright future. Why would I even consider giving those up for the abyss? Why would I let days of loneliness and anxiety take me down that path? Why would I even invite it at all?

It would have been so easy. Sick, unable to eat. The perfect excuse. The perfect reason to go back.

But no. I still choose life, even if it is hard and frightening. Because I would rather be frightened than dead.

Lost hope

This is hard...but, I've been struggling with depression for several months now. It started slowly, insidiously; sneaking up on me. Little forays into my happiness, striking at my self-confidence and laughing at my hopes.

I am happy.
Happy.
But...you don't deserve to be happy.
Why not?
Because.

The sun is shining and I am embracing it, twirling around.
My heart soars
Life has never been better.
I can do anything.
Anything.

I have finally become free...

That is what you think.
Icy streams surrounding me
Slowly choking out the happiness
Blackness filling my days

But....I was happy.

For weeks, I've struggled with everything.
First, eating. I'll either not eat, or not eat healthily.
It is if I don't deserve full nutrition, full recovery.
I don't want to always think about food.
Guilt.
Shame.
Aggravation.
FAT.
It is weird. Sometimes I can eat without free.
But then FEAR comes roaring back.
Each.and.every.time

Then there is this thing called life.
Cleaning. Laundry. Bills. Answering e-mails. Grocery shopping. Talking to people. Calling family. Visiting. Attending church. Volunteer work.....
AHHHH!!!
I can't do this.

So I stay up until 2, 3, 4 a.m.
Too afraid to got to bed.
Mindlessly wandering the Internet.
No thoughts.
It feels like a binge.
A binge of the online world.
Designed to cross-circute my emotions.

Emotions?
Do I even have any?
Why can't I cry?

Oh, I will sometimes squeeze out a few hypocritical tears.
Look, I am crying. I feel sad. I feel...
Numbness.

So I isolate.
This passive-agressive approach to life at full-tilt.
My cell phone voicemail full.
A week's worth of mail stuffed inside the mailbox.
Does the mailman think I'm dead?
Does he even notice?

Days sat huddling in my house,
I am embarrassed to be in my nightgown at 2, 3 in the afternoon.
I wish I had a drink.
Or two.
Or three...
Then I could oh-so-fashionbly sip my glass(es) of wine while twirling said nightgown.
I wouldn't be a loser, then.
Instead, I could say that something important kept me up and by God I deserved to sleep until noon, 1, 2 p.m.!
And the wine would seductively slide down my throat.

I sometimes miss starving.
The feelings of emptiness.
Dizziness.
Heart racing.
Sick, isn't it.

Sometimes I think if one more person tells me I look good, I'm going to fucking scream.
Look good=you're fat
I mean, does anyone ever ask someone if she has gained weight?

I sit, hopeless, in front of my computer.
Too scared to move.
Frozen.
I want to throw myself on my knees and beg God to take this feeling away, take it all away and open me to new life.

A life that is tantalizingly out of reach.
My fingers hovering, trying to grasp it before it falls apart.

Love
Worthwhile work
Friends
Family
Laughter

I feel unworthy. Lonely. Full of hopelessness.
I admitted that to my psychiatrist the other day (of course after he already called me out on it.)

I feel as if my dreams have fallen apart.
Damn it, I'll just admit it — I am envious of women whose spouses have stood by them, whose husbands cherish and love them...till death do they part.
Husbands who have KEPT their vows, who believe that the words meant something, not just to be thrown away like so much trash, like scrapping gum off of the bottom of a shoe.

What is wrong with me???
Why can't I inspire that kind of devotion?

Will love ever be a part of my life again?
Romantic love, I mean.

And...will laughter and happiness and fulfillment and all the hopes and dreams that threaten to bubble up and overwhelm me ever become part of my life?

In the meantime, my world continues to crash around me. Dishes are again piled in the sink. Laundry is half-done. The upstairs needs to be vacuumed. Three weeks worth of garbage sit in the garage. There are piles everywhere.
I mean, where does this crap come from, anyway??? Is there a clutter fairy who drops off junk at my house at an alarming rate?
Books. Books everywhere.
I mean, I love books. But I don't love tripping over them every five seconds.
Bottles of nail polish on my desk, clothes piled on the dryer, threatening to topple. The spare bedroom crammed with an overturned Christmas tree, complete with bulbs still attached.
My bicycle remains untouched, my bow and arrow no longer getting any practice time.
Months worth of vestry minutes untyped.
You get the picture.

Then, I sleep until 10:30 a.m. on Friday. The day I need to drive more than two hours to my psychiatrist's office.
Who needs nine, ten hours of sleep?
I do.
Because sleep has become my escape.
Really, I would stay in bed all day if I felt like I could.
Nothing can touch me when I'm in bed.
Sort of like nothing could touch me when I had anorexia.

I miss...
I miss me.
Me.
I feel as if I want too much.
Please God, are my wishes and dreams unattainable?

I know that only I can move forward and reclaim my life.
Then why is it so hard?

I want more...

Thank you

I am stunned, honored, and somewhat amazed to have my blog named as one of the 18 Best Eating Disorder Blogs of 2012.

This is what Healthline had to say about The Spirit Within:

Angela Gambrel knows from experience the difficulty of fighting an eating disorder. Her blog details her slow but steady recovery from anorexia and her endeavor to find happiness, acceptance, and beauty in herself and the world. Thoughtful, relatable, and moving, Angela’s bravery and dedication offers hope and encouragement for others in recovery.

This inspiring woman refuses to let her eating disorder define her, and she is working hard to use it to build a future of helping others in her situation. Kudos to Angela for her efforts and her writing!

Wow! I can't believe I've actually helped others with what started out as simply a way to reach out and connect with the eating disorder community.

Thank you to all of you read this blog, and continue to inspire me along the path of recovery!

Please click the box to check out the other named blogs, and be inspired!

Confused

***TRIGGER WARNING***

I'm so confused right now. I'm hearing about size zero or two on the ED blogsphere, and now I'm thinking I'm fat. Before I was happy with my new figure — about 125 pounds and a size seven/small. But now...is that way too fat??? 

I remember when I became sick with hypoparathyroidism in 2008. I was about 130 pounds. Then I dropped to about 105, and a lot of people told me how good I looked, how "slim." Then came anorexia. And hell. And I quickly dropped into the low nineties.

Five years later, I feel like I am finally embracing recovery. It has been hard — I have struggled with anorexia, alcoholism, and drug abuse; I almost died this past fall. Mixing tranquilizers with alcohol. Not eating. Not caring if I lived or died.

And now? I want to be more than just my damn size!!! Recovery has opened a new life for me. A life of books and friends and family. A real life. I am more engaging, more connected to people. I think less  about starving. About drinking. About my size. I am able to think better, and write better.

Or at least I did until this week.

It is funny. The less I eat, the more I think I don't deserve to eat. I spent yesterday with my family, and I was able to relax and finally eat a meal after almost a week. Then I come home, and I fight with myself internally.

I am so frightened right now. I am forty-seven, and I feel this is my last chance at recovery. My body can't handle much more.

If I fail this time, I believe it will kill me.

June Blogger Challenge: Day 18 — Laughter

For years, laughter was buried deep within me. I went through the motions, giving an appropriate smile here and there. But I didn't feel it.

You see, the icy shell of anorexia was virtually impenetrable. Love and laughter and hope could not reach me. Anxiety and depression and fear choked out laughter, and I felt as if I was losing my soul.

Because laughter is the soul of humanity. Through laughter, we connect with others. Through laughter, we become whole. Through laughter, we are freed.

But laughter requires nurturing, or else it will wilt and slowly die.

As it almost did within me.

Now I laugh easily with friends and family. We gather together, share jokes and stories, engaged and alive. Silly things, really. It is beautiful to look at others and see them laugh, truly laugh, and feel the joy that permeates throughout.

God, I have missed laughing!!!

Now I feel joy, and I laugh. I laugh, and I can breathe again.

Slipping

I'm slipping. Why does this always happen???

I have to fight. And I will.

Angry (Again), Or Insert An Original Title HERE

You know, I really like Victoria's Secret bras, particularly the Wear Everywhere demis and push-ups ... so comfortable and affordable, now that I know the right size (turns out I am a C cup; bigger than I thought. Given the family I come from, all I can think is, Where did these breasts come from???)


But I digress...

What I don't like are the ads for these and other bras. I mean, come on, is it really necessary to sell bras using pouty, over-sexualized prepubescent females? Am I really going to run to my nearest VS store to buy the bras that I now need because it looks sexy on a woman? I mean, maybe if I was into women...and a pedophile, given the looks of some of these models. And VS isn't even the worse from what I've seen.

There was a time that my self-worth was tied up into how sexy men found me. If they didn't find me sexy and attractive, then ergo, I was not worthy; I was washed-up, I let myself go, I was ugly.

The ultimate sin in our society—to be ugly. Not to be stupid. Or unkind. Or stingy. Or....

And of course, who defines ugly? One person's ugly could be another person's beautiful. Why did society settle on a tall, prepubescent, blonde, white-with-blue-eyes-big-tits (but not too big) and totally flat stomach as the idea? I'm betting 99.9 percent of us do not fit this idea. Short.older.brunette.brown eyes.small boobs.a round stomach...(Although I do have blue eyes. But that doesn't negate my point.)

I could go on, but why bother?

I could say what started me on this rant was the fact I had to go out and buy bras, and by God, I don't look like the pouty model(s) staring blank-eye at me while trying to convince me to buy a bra that will make-me-two-cups-bigger! Or maybe it was the totally ridiculous perfume ads from the seventies, like the one for Love's Baby Soft that shows a Jon-Benet look-alike puckered up for the camera while clutching a teddy bear. Or perhaps it was the fact that I've finally started cleaning out my closet and was suddenly disgusted by my size-three anorexic clothes, because at one time it almost cost me my life to be that size and smaller, and what was the point of it all, anyway?

But the real truth is that I'm angry at being violated in December; angry that I can't say anything else, angry because one event has caused me to almost fall apart, to stay hidden in my house like I should be ashamed, dreading the moment when I must reveal to all the world (my world, at least) everything AND angry that I've allowed this to fester inside, while everything falls apart and my house hasn't been clean for months and ...

And the other day, my first thought was after I finish my thesis, I can go back to starving myself.

So this is for YOU—I will never go back to anorexia. Never. The.end.

(Are you happy, Dr. S? You asked me to do some personal writing, and this is what you get—a feminist rant. And I am done...for now.)

I'm angry...

I'm angry...
Angry about all the years I have wasted being a slave to my eating disorder, to the scale
Counting calories obsessively and watching the scale, the number never right.
I'm angry because I know several people who have died from their eating disorders, and I continue to read and hear about how these illnesses ravage lives, people, sucking away joy until all that is left is a shell that is empty/void/hollow.
I am angry because little girls in this world go on diets at the age of eight or six or ten, when they should be playing with their baby dolls, feeding and nurturing and dreaming of being a mother/nurse/doctor/president/CEO.
I'm angry because I live in a world were the size of one's body measures the size of one's soul, and women (and increasingly, men) feel the need to diminish themselves, refusing to take up more than an inch or two of space, apologetic that we dare breathe and move and hunger when we are told that we must rein in these human traits and become a race of aliens.
I'm angry because so many good, intelligent, kind people feel the need to either starve themselves or purge themselves of all of life's goodness.
I'm angry because much of society still believes that eating disorders are caused by vanity and the desire to get thin, and I wonder about this because if it were about looks, I would have stopped before I became enmeshed in anorexia, becoming a skeletal shell of my former self, dying and wishing to die each day as I slowly faded into the carpet in my home.
I'm angry because many people still feel it is okay to tease/bully/make fun of people who are overweight, judging their characters by the size of their bodies, feeding on prejudice until it is overflowing.
I'm angry because insurance companies believe that a life is only worth one/three/seven days, and send people home once someone with anorexia is near his or her ideal body weight or someone with bulimia has stopped purging on a regular basis, not realizing that weight and food and size are only the symptoms of a larger problem and until that problem(s) is addressed, the relapse rate will continue, and why do these businessmen/women hold the power to decide who lives and who dies...and it is the rich who typically live on the backs of the poor, those who can't afford treatment for their eating disorders and therefore must live in the hell created by...what???
I'm angry that research has failed to uncover the causes of anorexia/bulimia/binge eating/EDNOS.
I'm angry that so many clinicians fail to see the symptoms of eating disorders, and instead label sufferers as having borderline personality/bipolar illness/some off-the-wall, unheard of exotic illness, not bothering to uncover the truth behind the suffering.
I'm angry that a well-know eating disorders center (you know who you are!) spent God knows how much money studying the effects of women's attitudes about makeup and how those attitudes influence and contribute to the development of eating disorders....really, this is too much.
And I'm angry that as I write this, someone else has died of an eating disorder and no one seems to care...

Read more about the Renfrew Center's survey on women and their thoughts about makeup and body image at Carrie Arnold's blog, ED Bites.