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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

Thesis Diary - 24 January 2012

Excerpt from "We Shall Be Heard: Releasing the Silence of Anorexia Nervosa and Achieving Healing Through Creative Nonfiction and Memoir Writing"


Fear Anxiety Depression Self-Hatred . . .
Each rock was a strange mixture of velvety softness combined with rough bumps and indentations. I wrote each word — feelings and actions that have weighed me down for years — on several rocks in stark black ink.
One rock was reserved for the terrifying and addictive disease which has been trying to take over me body and soul for years.
Anorexia
I started to feel both fear and relief as I traced that word in blood-red ink on each side of the rock. I fear letting go of anorexia because it has become so intermingled with my identity. But I know I need to let go of this disease in order to live.
The word looked so powerful. My mind flew back to when anorexia first crept into my life, chipping away bits and pieces of me until I sometimes felt there was nothing left.
Each one of us wrote down the things that have weighed us down throughout the years. We then could choose to hold onto these rocks that symbolically represented the traits that have held us down for years.
Or we could chose to toss these rocks into the river running past the River Centre Clinic. The choice was ours . . .
I went first. I was determined to throw everything that had weighed me down for years. I have struggled through almost six weeks at the clinic. The road to recovery has been rocky and I often have been my own worst enemy as I have fought to get better.
But through all the struggle and pain, through the tears I cried and the loneliness I often felt as I longed to be with my husband and friends back home, through the ambivalence I sometimes felt about letting go of anorexia, there remained a mustard seed of hope that I could be free, I would be free.
I stepped down the grassy, sloping path to the river, dodging overgrown bushes and hanging tree branches, balancing my rocks in my hand. I stepped close to the edge, the river's dark waters churning just a few feet away from me. I threw the first rock, angry as I remembered life before my eating disorder developed. I threw more rocks as far as I could, willing each one to sink deep into the water.
The rock with one word — anorexia – remained in my hand. It felt soft and cold in my hand. The word seemed to mock me, saying that I would never get better, I would never be free. I hurled it as hard as could, feeling a strong sense of release as it landed into the water. I felt as if I had been buried under a ton of rocks and I had finally climbed my way out. At that moment it finally hit me — I want to recover. I want anorexia out of my life forever. I want to be free.
Each one of us took our turn. Some women were able to release all of their rocks, while others chose to hold onto one or more until they felt ready to release their burdens.
I started to cry as I walked back up to the clinic. I'm still not sure why. I was feeling a mixture of release and relief, mingled with fear about the work I still need to do in order to get better.
Later that night, I thought about all those rocks we threw into the dark waters. I could still see the words we had written on the rocks. I imagined the water rushing over the rocks until the words disappeared through the ages, the ink worn off and everything which had weighed us down mingled together into nothingness, becoming meaningless as we move forward into recovery and life.

To Anonymous (Eating disorders are real illnesses)

To @Anonymous,
I accept your apology because apparently something is going on with you. But you need to know just one thing. I also have a life threatening illness — it's called anorexia nervosa. My doctor has spent years trying to get me to take this illness seriously and to realize it can kill me. You see, for years I didn't really think it was a big deal. I was just thin, so what? I truly believed nothing was wrong with me.

Now I am finally listening to him, and I hope it is not too late. The sore spot you hit is the fact I was told Friday that my body is not handling this very well and that I am at risk for a stroke at 45, in addition to ongoing liver and kidney problems. It also tends to make me cranky to blackout and hit my head against the wall and the nightstand, and then deal with a headache and overall soreness for days.

What I think you — and you are not alone — don't realize is that this is not always a choice. Yes, I do believe we choose recovery. But sometimes — at least for me — my mind knows that recovery is a logical and rational choice, but for some reason it won't allow me to do what I know I need to. That is to eat and eat and eat ... The fear and anxiety of food takes over the fear and anxiety of possible permanent damage. It is like a war within my brain and believe me, I wish it would stop.

I write this blog for several reasons. One reason is to bring some sort of understanding to the outside world of what it is like to have anorexia. It is not fun. It is not glamorous in spite of what the media would have you believe. And it is not a choice, although pro-anorexia sites say otherwise. Why would I chose to live this way? Why would anyone chose to live this way? It is destroying my life and apparently my body. I have so many dreams. I want to finish my master's degree and use my talents to help people in someway. I want to live a full life with my husband, and travel to places like Ireland and Alaska. I want to read and write and know joy again.

I want to be normal. I once was normal, you know. That's what started this whole thing, when I started remembering life before anorexia and my writing was a mixture of nostalgia and sadness.

Again I will stress that those of us with eating disorders also have life threatening diseases. Eating disorders are misunderstood by the vast majority of the population. But eating disorders are illnesses and can be fatal. Many, many people have died of anorexia, bulimia, and binge eating disorder. Many are dying of these diseases right now. And yet the world blames us. The world would not if we had cancer or ALS or MS or another disease.

That is the sore spot you touched. People who are struggling and trying to recover from their eating disorders. Some people with eating disorders are praying that this time treatment will work and they will be free of this imprisonment of the mind. Others are praying they can recover without treatment because yet again their insurance refuses to pay. Finally, some feel as if they will never recover. All of them are hurting, and your words hurt them further. But I do understand you are hurting, too.

I will ask again — who would chose to have an eating disorder? Who would chose years of fighting and struggling with illogical illnesses that take so many lives and ruin so many others? Who would chose to enter eating disorder prison? Because that's what it feels like at times. A prison, and there is no get out of jail free card available.

Some people might wonder why I have spent so much time addressing your comments. I am hoping that God will open your heart and allow compassion and understanding for people with eating disorders enter. Perhaps I am a fool or a dreamer, but I believe maybe this is time well-spent if it changes the thinking of one person toward eating disorders and those who suffer from them. I can always hope.

In the borderland of anorexia recovery

I thought anorexia had been torn from me body and soul forever after David left.

Now he is back.

And so is anorexia.

Anorexia nervosa started creeping back a few weeks ago.

Taunting me with anxieties and fears; driving me to seek solace in dangerous places.

I look in the mirror and wonder who I am with this newly gained flesh.

I step on the scale, the relentless pursuit of thinness hovering in the back of my mind.

I know the numbers are a lie, and mean nothing without the power I give to them.

I know the path I have been on has been one of health and recovery and life.

I think of the future, and there are two alternative paths.

One is the path of anorexia and self-destruction. I fight to face the feelings stirred by recovery, but sometimes fail and use medication or alcohol to dull the inner pain. I don't want to become the victim of an accidental overdose. I want to learn how to handle anxiety so powerful it feels as if it could kill me.

The other path is one of healing and hope. It is a scary path, filled with anxieties that must be faced and food that must be eaten and weight that must gained. For I know until I reach my healthy goal weight, the anorexic thoughts will continue to nip at me and I will not be free. But I am so close to being free...

From 3-7 October 2010 journal entries.

This is the borderland of recovery. The word borderland implies a middle state of not belonging to any place or group. You are the "other." I am not yet recovered. I still sometime restrict and count calories and fight the thoughts of anorexia. I still weigh myself every day, and that number still means something to me.

Yet, I am not emaciated nor in physical danger, except for a persistent low potassium level which could impact my heart function (I also have potential heart problems from having scarlet fever. Typical for me, I try not to think about it.) But I am overall healthy and my mind is more clear than it has been for months. I know I must continue on the path of recovery. Neither my mind nor soul could handle failing this time.

Perhaps I am not failing. As I traverse the borderland of recovery, I see both many obstacles and many sources of help scattered throughout. The main obstacle is my mind and the still-obsessive drive to lose weight and become unimaginably thin again.

I am trying to discern why this thought remain pervasive. My therapist believes I am still afraid of life, and this is my way of staying safe. But the question is why am I afraid of life? I'm not sure. Sometimes life is beautiful and wonderful; the sun shines through my study window and caresses me and the brilliant leaves of orange and yellow and red fill my yard. It is a dying time, and yet reminds me that everything God creates is beautiful and life will come again.

Things are going wonderful for me in many ways. My husband and I are reconciled and are working hard to reestablish the intimacy we shared before anorexia nervosa decided to join us as a third partner in our marriage. I am working hard toward fulfilling my dream to obtain my master's degree, and I was recently admitted to the English department's writing program. This means I can pursue writing as my career, and use my skills as a writer and journalist to help people with eating disorders and mental illnesses. This means so much to me, and I am gratified in particular by one comment made by a professor reviewing my portfolio: "You have a rare gift." (She added that means she will push me hard to cultivate and hone that gift, and I might not always like what she says or wants me to do.)

I have a wonderful group of readers of this blog and recently it caught the attention of Ladies Home Journal. I am now working on a piece about my experiences with anorexia. I also will present my graduate paper on this topic at an English conference later this month, and will be interviewed by an Internet show by HealthyPlace.org next week. Finally, I am working on a presentation on eating disorders to present to students at the university, fulfilling another dream to begin to create a ministry to both present my story as a warning and help young people realize that we all different and beautiful in God's eyes and that is good.

But I'm not recovered. I am still walking through the borderland of recovery and know I can cross into either territory. At times, I feel as if I am on a very thin line and I am teetering either way. Cross one line and I am embrace life and all it has to offer. Step over the other line and I am looking at a lonely future with little hope and dreams destroyed.

My protection in this in-between state is my Lord and Savior Christ Jesus, and He guides me through the harrowing journey of recovery. He tells me I am beautiful and wondrous in His eyes when I look at my body and see fat that I want to carve out. He assures me that I am His child when I doubt myself and listen to my anxieties and fears that come of this world. He reminds me that my body is His gift and I am responsible for its care and love while I am on this earth.

I often wonder how long I will be on this earth. There are times I don't feel as if I belong here; the borderland is a lonely place and I haven't yet met anyone else wandering there, fighting for strength and recovery and wondering if s/he is the only one there. If you too feel as if you are in the borderland of recovery; if it is hard and you need an encouraging word or prayer, contact me via my e-mail on my profile.

I dream of a world where we all help each other; that not one of us becomes the Good Samaritan left forgotten by the side of the road. We all have wounds inflicted by our eating disorders and I believe we can help each other heal.

Christ Jesus is my guide through the borderland and will lead me to safety. Without him, I could not make it. But He also requires me to work hard on my own recovery. He will be there to guide me but I have to do the work, whether it means picking up the fork and eating the food or hiding from my feelings through unhealthy means.

The choice is mine. Choose to move forward and cross into the land of recovery. Or not.

Treatment denied (Blogging for Sofia)

Sofia Benbahmed as a toddler.

The joy and wonder of life shine in the face of this little girl; dark, tousled curls framing her face, eyes closed and the warmth of a summer day embracing her as she clutches a daisy in each hand. There was a time when this little girl felt comfortable in her body. She didn't worry about weight and calories and body image. She was free like all little girls; running, playing and secure within herself and her world.

But at some point, something shifted within Sofia Benbahmed and she developed an eating disorder about twelve years ago. Now a young lady, she is struggling to overcome her illness and create a normal life free of fear and anxiety. She began residential treatment at Monte Nido in California in November. She spent three weeks there, healing and beginning her journey of recovery.

Sofia wrote, "During my time there I began to feel myself changing and rising to the occasion in a way I never had before. It was as though all of these years I have been  in a room with no doors or windows, and suddenly doors began to appear — and not only did they become visible, but I began to walk through them."

Then her insurance company denied further treatment.

Many of us know how it feels to be trapped by an eating disorder, looking for a way out and praying for recovery. I have struggled with anorexia nervosa for four years, and residential treatment was recommended for me about two years ago.

My insurance does not pay for this type of treatment. Furthermore, when my treatment team recommended partial hospitalization (the highest level besides hospitalization that my insurance will cover) this past spring, I was denied treatment three times even though I was at my lowest weight and was quickly becoming medically compromised while the various powers-to-be at the insurance company debated with my doctor about the necessity for this level of care.

I was finally admitted to a PHP after my doctor told the insurance company I would soon end up in the hospital. I remember my own fight with the insurance company; how it wore me down and made it harder to focus on recovery.

It is because of my own experience that I am taking the time to write about Sofia, someone I've never met. Sofia's treatment team has recommended that she return to Monte Nido and receive the full treatment necessary to recover, but her insurance continues to deny her.

Sofia Benbahmed continues to fight for recovery in spite of the fact that she is becoming sicker every day. To contribute toward the costs of her treatment, go to GiveForward.org. You can read Sofia's complete story there, and see what a brave and determined young lady she is and how she takes full responsibility for her recovery; it is not easy for her to ask for financial help to pay for the treatment she so desperately needs. You also can find more information through Miss Mary Max's blog; she is the one who spearheaded the "Blogging for  Sofia" campaign.

Everyone deserves the treatment their doctors and health professionals recommend. Insurance companies have no right to play God, deciding if this person is worthy of treatment while that person is not.

I am honored to have a small part in this effort to gain treatment for one person with an eating disorder. I just wish that appropriate treatment would be readily available for everyone who needs it.

Sofia Benbahmed today.

Not My Fault: Erasing the Stigma of Eating Disorders

I was honored to be asked by Sandy at A Glass Half Shattered to write an guest blog post. Sandy is currently in recovery from borderline personality disorder and also struggles with depression and anxiety. She is an awesome writer devoted to both her recovery and erasing the stigma of all mental illnesses.

My guest post, Not My Fault: Erasing the Stigma of Eating Disorders, explores further the differences between having an eating disorder and other illnesses and the stigma still attached to eating disorders. It is my hope I can perhaps show people that eating disorders are real illnesses and that the estimated 11 million people who struggle with these disorders deserve the same compassion and understanding given to others. The post is not meant to evoke pity, but instead create a dialogue of understanding.

I also would encourage you to explore Sandy's blog — you will come away with a better understanding of the day to day life of someone struggling with BPD and you might just relate to much of Sandy's life.

Eating my pie (chart)

What makes up a person's identity? Relationships Interests Career Friends Education Beliefs Goals . . . Eating Disorders

Yesterday we explored our identities. Each one of us drew a pie chart, proportioning out what we felt made up our identities.

Anorexia nervosa took up three-quarters of my identity pie chart. How did that happen? When did anorexia slide in, taking over until it began to eat the other portions of my being?

And how can I stop anorexia from consuming what's left of me?

The other quarter of the chart has personality/outlook and spouse as the next biggest portions. That also saddens me. Depression and anxiety are scrawled in as the dominant features of my personality right now. When did I lose my ability to smile and laugh? When was the last time I laughed, really laughed with joy???

Then there is David. How could I allow anorexia to so consume me he only rated a small piece of my identity? I love him so much and think of him constantly while I'm here. I miss waking up next to his warm, smiling face in the morning. The safety of lying next to him at night, arms around each other and knowing nothing could hurt us, is gone. I go to be each night in a twin-size bed, wrapping the covers tightly around me in a pathetic attempt to feel held.

How could I let things get this bad again?

I have fought to keep the other parts of my identity. Squeezed into the chart are interests and my (sometime) strong belief in God and my Lord Jesus Christ and the importance of serving others. Friends and education are still there and both still mean much to me.

But anorexia nervosa is the demon swallowing all of it. Like a hungry monster, it is moving across the landscape of my identity and tearing chunks out of it here and there. Anorexia became larger as I became smaller. But why? Will there ever be an answer?

Now I am fighting back. Each bite of food I take is another step toward making anorexia's hold on my identity smaller and smaller.

Not that I like it. I hate every mouthful and the urge to just dump the food in the trash is strong. I fight urges to just jump up and scream, "I hate all of this" and then hurl across the kitchen my still-full plate with the hated food. I crave laxatives to cleanse my body of all this food inside me like a junkie craves meth or crack. I still want to feel the emptiness of restricting, the cleanliness of a pure body.

I become more depressed the longer I am here. My therapist here says that is normal and it will get worse before it gets better because my eating disorder is fighting back. (It feels strange to write about a different therapist — I am so used to working with Dr. Sackeyfio and will I ever meet with him again? My fear of abandonment runs deep.)

I keep waiting for the thrill of recovery, the sense of a new life to kick in. I keep waiting to feel and sound like the others here. But so far it's not happening.

But what would I be going back to if I left now? The ghost of myself, memories of a different life fading with each day of restricting and becoming smaller. And eventually, nothing.

Identity. When will I know who I am? I once was so certain — or was I? Am I too old to figure all this out again? It feels like being a teenager in some ways, with mood shifts and questions and answers elusive as wisps of dandelion fluff floating through the summer sky.

Identity. I want, no I need, a different pie chart. I am choking on this one, choking on anorexia and its relentless hunger for me.

Identity. And I am ... ???

Shunned from an online recovery community

The technique is effective and stunning. It is akin to shunning, which has been used by various religious sects and cults throughout the centuries to keep people in line — a member does something wrong and she is immediately cut off from the community. No contact. Access denied. The person is not worthy to be part of the community until she repents of her sin and delivers a mea culpa, promising to sin no more.

Last night, I went to my page at MentorCONNECT and saw a large, white square stating that I was banned from the community for two weeks. I started to cry, thinking what have I done?

I soon received my answer via e-mail. Apparently I had written a blog post which was considered "triggering" to some other members who reported it. This was not the first time I had written a blog post which was reported as triggering. (I will talk specifically about triggering a little later.)

I joined this community with the highest of hopes. The basic idea behind MC is to connect someone with an eating disorder with someone who is recovered with an eating disorder, the idea being "relationships replace eating disorders." The community also contains a variety of pro-recovery groups, such as recovery music,  how to deal with having an eating disorder while in college and others.

I started this blog, Leaving ED, initially to write through my feelings as I struggled with recovery from anorexia. I was surprised when people started reading my blog and following it via Facebook and Google. I felt gratified people felt my words worthy of reading, and the support given by my readers through the past years have often sustained me through some very dark times. I thank you and hope you continue reading, just as I have read many of your blogs and have been moved and enlightened by your struggles, hopes and honesty as you move through this journey of life.

MC also has a place to post blogs. I liked that idea; I enjoy writing and feel I have many things to say and sometimes do it well. I read through a few blog posts to get a feel for what other people were posting, and while I admit I did forget one rule with one of my MC blog posts (I mentioned weight, which is strictly verboten), I tried very hard to not write things that could be considered triggering.

I first got an idea that my writing style and MC's incredibly unrealistic view of what should and shouldn't be written about (any mention of restricting or other eating disorder behaviors also is strictly forbidden) with "Acceptance???". I posted this in November 2009.

I wrote about my struggles to accept my body's additional weight and not feeling as if I conform to society's standards about what is beautiful, and it was a depressing post. But I do not feel it was anti-recovery. I was in recovery; I was moving forward and was finishing up my first semester of graduate school. But anyone with anorexia struggles with the weight gain, no matter how much she knows it is needed, and sometime accepting your new (and larger) body can be hard.)

I posted it on MC looking for words of support, just as I had written words of encouragement when I read about someone struggling restricting or bingeing or purging behaviors (I later found out that these posts also were swiftly removed and the writers either suspended, banned temporarily or forever.)

The next day I went to my MC page, looking for those words of hope. The white box, prominently featured in the middle of a colorless background, told me I had been suspended. Shunned. Cut off from the community.

I was stunned. The explanation was in my e-mail — my post had triggered some people and I could return in a week IF I could show I wouldn't do it again. I couldn't force myself to eat dinner that night, and I struggled with eating for several days afterward. I felt awful.

MC continued to send its daily and weekly mentoring moments via e-mail. These daily e-mails reminded me that I had failed, that I might have had actually hurt someone through my words, and were very triggering. Each one made me think I wasn't good enough, that I had failed at recovery and being part of a pro-recovery community. Each day, I felt worst and I wondered why I didn't just tell them to stop sending me the e-mails. My doctor advised me to leave MC because being suspended was hurting me so much. (He also felt the site and my increasing use of the Internet were taking the place of real-life human interactions.)

I didn't listen.

I returned to MC with much trepidation; I was afraid to post anything. I began to ask myself how helpful is an online recovery community if I was filled with fear every time I wrote anything, even if it was just I was having a bad day? I also received an e-mail from a former member who left after she tried to convince the administrators that a group for women 40 and older might be helpful (ironically, MC started such a group after this woman left.) She explained in-depth how uncomfortable she felt there and why she needed to leave for her continued recovery.

MC suggested running each blog post past one of their administrators before placing it on the site. I did that a few times, but I began to feel my writing was not completely honest. I was censoring myself because I was so afraid of again being suspended.

But I was suspended again after I wrote about being afraid of food in January 2010. It is almost impossible for me to describe how hurtful that was; the feeling of rejection was just one factor contributing to a downward spiral that I am still struggling with today.

Still, I wanted to be part of an online recovery community and I decided to try MC one last time. I began to relax a little when a few other members commented positively on my (censored) blog posts.

Then there was yesterday. A member posted on my MC page that my blog posts "inspired" her and gave her hope for recovery. Her comment inspired me to post "You are so much more than your body size." I was very moved by this statement by my doctor (it made me want to cry and it made me think) and wanted to share it. After posting this blog post, one woman on MC wrote she could relate to my struggles and had had this same conversation with her husband the night before.

That was the last comment I was allowed to read. I went back to the page about an hour later. The white box stated I was banned for two weeks. Shunned. The support community was not available to me. Because I had made a mistake. Because I am human.

I had had enough. Part of recovery includes eliminating toxic influences from your life and I didn't want spend the next two weeks crying and berating myself for being so stupid as to write a blog post that talked about the realities of recovery from eating disorders. I deleted my page (you are allowed to do that via the white box) and e-mailed MC, giving the group notice that I would not be returning.

I refuse to compromise my writing. Anorexia is a complex disease and recovery does not occur in a linear fashion, but instead moves in twists and turns and can manifest itself. Restricting and purging and cutting and many other behaviors do happen while recovering. We in the eating disorders community need to open the doors wide and be honest about the realities of recovery. We are either part of the problem or part of the solution, and I believe total honesty is part of the solution.

I also see my doctor's point about MC and other online recovery communities replacing real-life human connections. This experience has taught me that what I really need and crave are those connections, the everyday face-to-face experiences of talking with people, giving them hugs, the give-and-take of conversations which can include anything from talking about your struggles to the latest book you have read.

Besides, I already have an online recovery community right here. On Leaving ED, I can be as honest as I want and know that most people will not judge nor shun me. The support I receive here is phenomenal; I can't thank all of you enough who have read and posted supportive comments through the years. Your support has sustained me, your struggles have moved me, and your courage has inspired me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anorexia, assisted-suicide and injustice

The Netherlands, late 1990s: A 48-year-old woman with a history of anorexia nervosa and depression approaches her doctor and tells him she wishes to die. Her anorexia is in remission; however, she continues to struggle with depression after both her mother and husband die. She says she fears her anorexia will return and asks for help under that country's assisted suicide laws. She is evaluated and months later a psychiatrist helps her kill herself.

In spite of the fact that neither anorexia nor depression are considered incurable illnesses.

In spite of the fact that most likely her depression was situational; i.e. she was grieving the recent loss of two loved ones.

In spite of the fact that mental health professionals consistently state that depression is one of the most treatable of all mental illnesses, and that there is a wide variety of treatment options ranging from medication to cognitive behavioral therapy to ECT available.

In spite of the fact specialists treating eating disorders — including my own doctor — stress that full recovery is possible.

The Dutch woman was four years older than me.

This case chills me to the bone. It speaks of the stigma of mental illness and the lack of understanding of eating disorders. It tells me that it is easier to kill people than to make an effort to treat them.

It makes me believe that perhaps I am expendable.

This case is an extreme example of injustice toward someone with anorexia. But what about the many other cases of injustice and stigma directed toward those with eating disorders?

Recently, I found out that I did not get a position because of my illness. I was told through a third-party there was concern because of my recent relapse and hospitalization, and questions about my stability in relation to that. It was hinted that some people didn't like the fact that I am "too open" about my illness.

As the facts unfold, I am convinced that I was not denied the position due to a lack of qualifications. I was denied the position because I have anorexia nervosa.

I will continue to believe my doctor that I can achieve full recovery from anorexia and create a life that includes my wonderful, loving husband, supportive friends, complete involvement in life and the fulfillment of my long-time dream of obtaining my master's degree in English.

I will not deny being afraid. I often fear I will not achieve full recovery from anorexia, that I will die of this illness. I still struggle every day to eat and create a life of healing and health for myself. I wake up some mornings wishing it would all go away, and that the pre-anorexic Angela would come back from wherever she might be hiding.

But I will not live my life filled with fear, and I will not hide behind anonymity. I will not become a 48-year-old woman who asks for help in killing myself because of my anorexia and depression, perhaps thinking it would be easier for others.

I have anorexia, and I will continue to look for the best possible ways to achieve full recovery. But I also am much more than my illness.  I will not believe I am — or anyone — is expendable.

(Footnote: "Physician-Assisted Suicide in Psychiatry: Developments in the Netherlands" includes the case study about the 48-year-old woman with anorexia and depression. The case itself received little attention in the Dutch press and the psychiatrist was not prosecuted for his role in the woman's death.)

Paralyzed

I am paralyzed by fear. Fear of failure? Fear of success? Or am I just dead inside?

Graduate school started out rough for me, but I soon learned to love the learning and interplay of ideas and discussions that take place both within and outside the classroom. I am specializing in Children's Literature, and I particularly enjoyed studying what children read and analyzing the meaning behind the texts.

Last semester, we started with Robert Fagles' translation of "The Odyssey." (Although not specifically for children, literature for children often draws inspiration and meaning from this epic poem." I was entranced by the language, the description of dawn with its "rose-red fingers" and the journey Odysseus undertook - battling evil gods and goddesses and his own nature along the way - to return to the love of his life, Penelope. I was shocked by the violent ending in which the suitors are slaughtered, and yet moved by the loving reunion between Odysseus and Penelope.

I couldn't wait to read the other books, to go to class, to take part in the discussions and to write my term paper on female heros. I fell in love with Sara and "A Little Princess," her stoicism and kindness shining through. I was amazed by realistic portrayal by a male author of the female protagonist, Lyra Belacqua in "The Golden Compass," and was both enchanted and drawn into the world created by Philip Pullman so much I immediately went out and bought the sequels, even though neither book was required reading for class.

This semester started out well. I wrote a creative non-fiction piece about life with anorexia — the onset of this illness at age 41, my struggles to recovery and my decline into relapse — that was well-received and has the possibility of being developed into a larger piece for publication. In my other class, I enjoyed learning about the early texts used to teach children, from the Catechism to hornbooks to Puritan pieces that assumed the basic evil of nature even while teaching them the alphabet.

Now it all feels like ashes and dust. My moods swing so violently from anger at anorexia to hopefulness that recovery is possible. I feel like I am on the world's fastest roller coaster, careening from this turn and that turn; here there is a fun house mirror that shows me as fat and ugly, there is another that reflects a drawn, skeletal woman who looks as she will drop at any moment.

I sit down with one of my books or at the computer, and I become completely paralyzed because this roller coaster in my head won't stop and I am getting dizzy. I hated roller coasters pre-anorexia; the rides always made me nauseated at best and sick at worst, and now I'm on a roller coaster I can't find the exit to.

I am beginning to feel desperate as I enter my fourth year battling anorexia. I know many people have battled their eating disorders for decades, and some friends with EDs say that I should be able to overcome this because of the short length of time I've had it. But I am 44 and my body and soul can't take much more.

I constantly feel as if the pre-anorexic Angela has been snatched away forever. She will never return; there will be no "happily ever after." I want off this roller coaster; I am too dizzy and sick. And I'm increasingly beginning to feel the only way off this horror ride is if anorexia kills me and that this will be the year it does. Then so be it . . .

NEDAW - Awareness or hype?

National Eating Disorders Awareness Week has ended and while I appreciate the effort of the many people with eating disorders and professionals who have worked hard to spread knowledge and awareness, this year's NEDAW has been a severe disappointment to me for several reasons.

First the media coverage has been limited at best and often erroneous at worst. For example, one recent article at the college newspaper where I am a grad student, Central Michigan University, (and I hold them to same professional journalistic standards that I expected from myself when I was a full-time journalist — if you can't take the heat, get the hell out of the kitchen) featured an article about a friend of mine who has been in residential treatment for six months. Not only did this article repeatedly mention her weight (she weighed this at this time, she weighs this now, she needs to weigh this to be healthy, and so on, ad nauseum), basically reducing her illness to nothing but bunch of numbers (and I suspect the author did it solely for the shock value), the article then proceeded to quote a CMU associate university professor to whit: “I think that a lot of kids are overweight and, when they get to high school and college, they realize that it’s not attractive."

To say I was incensed would be an understatement, and I proceeded to write them a very heated comment about how the media needs to be a bit more sensitive in reporting on eating disorders, and if the writer isn't capable of doing that, perhaps she should stop writing until she is able to gain a bit more sense. 

Another example is "Victoria Beckham uses anorexic pin-up in show", an article supposedly taking Beckham to task for using a model with anorexia - Eugenia, who is very public about her pro-ana views - in her show during London's recent Fashion Week. The article included a prominent picture of Eugenia, nude and ... well, looking anorexic and labeled as "the Russian doll." The article also included this quote by Eugenia: “Call it whatever you want, pro-ana, calorie restriction, bulimia, vanity, anorexia – it is the desire for perfection.” (Let's overlook the fact that Beckham herself appears anorexic, no matter how many times she denies she doesn't have an eating disorder. She also defended her use of size zero models, and I'm not surprised.) What do you think women got out of this article? That anorexia nervosa is a dangerous illness or that women are basically clothes hangers and inanimate objects, i.e. a "doll?"

The second issue I have with both NEDAW and coverage of eating disorders in general is the almost total lack of any information about adult-onset anorexia (or other eating disorders.) I developed anorexia at the age of 41, and yet many, if not most of these activities have been aimed at those who developed eating disorders at a young age. There are different issues surrounding both the manifestations and recovery issues of eating disorders in different age groups.

It feels very weird to go for four decades without an eating disorder and then suddenly develop anorexia and be plunged into a world of IP, feeding tubes, therapy and the like; it feels like a thief snatched away the real me and left this person who is consumed 24/7 by anorexia. The feeling is often one of unreality - where did the real Angela go? And will she ever come back? I would like to see SOME information about adult-onset eating disorders, if only to make me feel less alone and strange. (I'm currently working on a journal article about my own experiences with adult-onset anorexia and plan to expand it into a book, so I guess I won't have much competition, anyway!) 

And this brings me to my final point - the whole "Love Your Body" campaign. Pre-anorexia, I didn't have any significant body issues and I did not develop anorexia based on any desire to be thin - I already was too thin! My body image issues cropped up after I developed anorexia. I do struggle with gaining weight and feeling fat, but I feel these issues have not been a significant component either in my struggles to recover nor during my recent relapse. I know I am too thin and the weight I am right now is not healthy. So what does that knowledge do for me? Not much.

Recent work with my doctor suggests that for me, anorexia is most likely trauma-based and fueled by almost relentless self-hatred and self-destructive tendencies. There are many articles and essays out there addressing the connection between the development of eating disorders and trauma. Eating-Disorder.com covers it comprehensively in its article, "Eating Disorders and Trauma", stating that more than 50 percent of patients with eating disorders have experienced serious trauma, such as childhood physical, emotional and/or sexual abuse. I fail to see how NEDAW addressed this significant issue. 

In conclusion, NEDAW basically felt like a feel-good week aimed at a 'let's all be positive' mentality — forgetting the pain of eating disorders and God help those who were struggling with a relapse during this cheerleading period. The week has closed, but those with eating disorders will continue to struggle as the hype dies down. Instead of an overhyped NEDAW, why not awareness — period?

(Thanks to Carrie Arnold at ED Bites for originally inspiring me to write this post. Her post can be found at "On NEDAW")

Powerless

I am powerless against anorexia.

It is very scary to admit that I am powerless. It makes me vulnerable. It makes me cry. But it also is the first step toward true recovery.

Ana is a formidable foe. So many times she has taken over me, entering my heart and soul like a poltergeist from hell.

There was Christmas 2007. A dinner with friends turned into an exercise in self-flagellation. The four of us sat down, the side table filled with roast chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, salad and bread. The pumpkin pie was baking in the oven, the rich smell that achingly reminds me of fall drifting through our small home.

It still felt like home then.

I tried to relax. I paced around, nibbled a few cashews, smiled brightly and tried to get Ana to shut up. We sat at the table, the blessing was said (inviting God to our circle - oh, why didn't He protect me?) and the food was passed around. My hands shook slightly as I scooped out the potatoes, Ana insisting that one spoonful was enough, two spoonfuls STOP STOP STOP, YOU PIG! I carefully cut off a small slice of chicken, avoiding the skin (it was so crispy; it glistened in the soft light) and added a small serving of green beans to my plate.

Small. Ana has made my world small.

David was so proud of this dinner he cooked, and so happy to have people over. I was finally becoming well after several years of illness; the migraines had retreated and I could think again, be around people. I could read and laugh and be filled with the simple joy of having friends over.

But Ana had already moved in and it was too late.

My anxiety cranked up when it came time for pumpkin pie and I declined, saying I didn't really care for it. Since when didn't I care for pumpkin pie? Since Ana said I didn't, that's when. That's the first night I used laxatives to purge food out of my system, but it wouldn't be the last.

I am powerless against anorexia.

Ana has ruined so many moments. She pretty much destroyed 2008. No food could be enjoyed, it was all the enemy. But perhaps the worst thing she did was destroy my mission trip to Haiti.

I had always dreamed of going on a mission trip. I wanted to help others; I felt it in my heart. I was thrilled when I given the opportunity to go to Haiti on a medical mission, and was also able to send back articles.

But I was so weak on that trip, physically and mentally. It was so hard to see the poverty all around me, and yet hear how grateful the Haitians were to God for life and love and family. The darkness of Ana was deep in my soul, and I could only bear it by abusing tranquilizers and painkillers, numbing myself to the real life in all its variety, pain and joy that surrounded me.

I wanted to be free. I wanted to hold each child, play games with them and run with them. I watched the other missionaries scoop up the children, swing them around and nuzzle their necks, and I felt such an ache in me nothing, no drug or prayer, could dull it.

I tried. I loved the people, they were so warm and welcoming. I would sit with children, my lips touching the tops of their heads, and silently pray for their safety and well being. I went up to the nursery, to hold the babies in my arms and smell their little baby smells.

But I couldn't hold them for long periods because I was physically weak. I couldn't rock a baby to sleep nor play a game of tag with a group of toddlers. Maybe it was okay, because sometimes they came to me and stroked my arms, braided my hair and whispered in a mixture of Creole and English.

The team went up to the mountains for a one-day clinic at a home for people with developmental disabilities. I feel in love with this one girl; her bright eyes and bright smile, her personality shining through in spite of the fact she couldn't speak. I think she liked me, too, as I placed my arm around her and gave her shoulders a squeeze. I hope she remembers the love I felt and not the skeletal arm that was holding her.

I am powerless against anorexia.

My 43rd birthday was spent with my husband, my parents and Ana. My parents wanted to take me out to eat; already, they were beginning to suspect something, although I tried hard to hide it. We went to a nice restaurant, and my father encouraged me to order whatever I wanted. I order shrimp, stripped dry of any flavor and plain rice with no butter added. I'm sure the chef was insulted, and I am sorry for that.

Anorexia has ruined holidays and birthdays and everyday dinners. It has kept me from being a real wife to my husband and a real friend to those I love. I go to bed with Ana and I wake up with Ana, and sometimes she haunts my dreams.

I am powerless against anorexia for so many reasons. The seductive voice of Ana is so strong now, I can barely hear myself think. I wake up in fear and then must keep myself busy for hours and hours to try and outrun the thoughts. Ana has really stepped up her presence in the past month, perhaps jealous of this summer and fall when she was just so much radio static.

Ana has me trolling and joining and posting on pro-ana sites under a pseudonym — I take full responsibility for my actions; Ana is just my way of naming the enemy within.

This is what I wrote (since deleted): "I love the feeling of my hips bones as I lay in bed at night.

I love the look of my collar bones gracing my chest.

I love feeling empty and watch other people eat, knowing I don't need to.

The empty feeling is just so seductive.

And when each pound drops ... I feel more in control."

LIES

The emptiness and sadness contained within those sites is almost unbearable. These women insist they want to be thin, that this is their choice and they have the right to make that choice. But then they expose the underbelly of their feelings. One wrote that she was "ana because it is a slow form of suicide." I can relate to that.

She went on to say how very worthless she was and that everyone would be better without her. This does not sound like a choice to me. It sounds like someone being hounded by Ana (or whatever eating disorder she suffers from.)

This is not a choice. It is evil.

My first act toward recovery will have to be destroying my Ana doppelganger. It will hurt like hell; she's all over the Internet now, Tweeting and making friends on Facebook and even starting a blog (still empty of posts.)

The pro-ana blog is what really made me realize how very powerless I am against Ana. Because I will never write another word before I write anything else that encourages anorexia or any other eating disorder as a lifestyle 'choice.'

The last thing I would have chosen to be in my life is this demon from hell.

I may be powerless against anorexia. But that doesn't mean I don't have weapons, too. It just will take all my strength to fight such an evil opponent.

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo . . ."

Amen.