But I also want to be thin; to be the thinnest one around, the one who is pointed to and whispered about, the one people wonder, "How did she get so thin?" I asked my husband the other day if I looked "anorexic" and he answered (honestly) that I do. I was secretly pleased. I also was angry. For me, it's about being thin and then again, it's not about being thin. Being thin is the outward manifestation of my inner pain.
It's like the morning ritual of the scale — the number is never right. If it's lower than the day before, I'm pleased for just a moment (then - what about tomorrow? why isn't it lower by two pounds? three pounds? am I not a good enough anorexic? anybody else would have lost more, damn it!). If the number is higher, the war within starts (should I be glad? upset? I know I need to gain weight. But what if ... what if I ate too much, the wrong thing? what am I supposed to feel?) And if the number is static, I just shake my head, thinking the number will be better tomorrow.
There are moments that should have shocked me into recovery. Times at the store when I start to see black, the ground rising up to meet me, my knees shaking as I sink to the ground, sitting and pretending that I am fascinated by what is on the floor. Days when I have read a page three, four times; finally realizing I didn't understand one word because my brain didn't have the fuel it needed to process the words on the page. I ask myself — since when did it start taking me two hours to read fifty pages? Moments recently when I couldn't pull myself out of bed before noon, all because I remember, hey, I'm still anorexic today and that changes everything.
Then there was Saturday. I had my usual breakfast of yogurt; my heart broken by recent events and unable to eat more. I went to take my morning shower; the hot water always feels like a refuge from my world as long as I don't look at my body closely. Looking is a no-win situation since my relapse. Sometimes my eyes are open like Eve's, and I see the protruding hip bones and prominent clavicle; other times, I see the huge thighs and enormous stomach.
Muscles weakened, dizziness hit me, heart raced. I sank to the ground, shampoo still in my hair. A rare thought — I need more food — crossed my mind, and my husband fed me pieces of a cereal bar as I sat in the bathtub with the water running over me.
Not enough. I stood up, rinsed the shampoo out and quickly rubbed in the conditioner. I continued to feel weak and again sank to the bathtub floor. As I rubbed soap over my body, I reflected that I had to take a shower sitting down at the age of forty-four. Shaking all over, I tried my best to finish my shower as the hot water began to fade and I began to grow cold. The simple joy of the shower was gone, and my hair was damp with conditioner I didn't have the energy to rinse out.
I crawled out of the shower, wrapped a towel around my head and sank to the floor. And for the next hour, I couldn't move without my husband holding my arm. I felt old, older than the oldest person. I felt ashamed. And I felt scared.
I can't continue to bargain with recovery. As I wrote after a recent post, "Recovery isn't failure," on ED Bites, I am becoming more and more tired of anorexia being part of my life. I will fail either way. I can fail at recovery and win at anorexia. I could become the thinnest, but I will lose my soul and my life in the end.
Or I can fail at anorexia and win at recovery. The possibilities both frighten and thrill me. The thought of finally being free of Ana, to be able to eat and breathe and live without fear ... My mind swirls with thoughts of two very different futures ahead of me.
I step forward.
It will take more courage to embrace recovery than anything else I have done in my life. But ... no matter how many times I panic, no matter how many times I rage that recovery is a lie (at least for me), that a return to normal life is an impossible dream painted by my doctor ... no matter what I tell myself, I still believe in dreams.
I step forward ...
(A poem)
"Labyrinth
Or the twisted path of Anorexia"
I wake up
Lost
Remembering who I was
Knowing who I am
I throw the label
Anorexia
At myself like a dirty bomb
A well-aimed hit
The fallout destroys
Reader, writer, wife
Lover, sister, friend
Human being
No more
I trace the steps
The path through this
Labyrinth
Anorexia
Turning in circles
Dazed, confused
Wasted body
Revealed
Not human
Recovery
Recovery
Recovery
Recovery
Rec........
Meaning lost
Not by familiarity
But by contempt
I want to take
My wasted body
Apologize for
Its pain
Outer pain
Shown through
Translucence
Fine lines
Dead eyes
Stroke the fine
Blue veins
Protect the
Fragility I have
Both desired
And hated
Soothe the inner
Hunger
Remembering food
Offered
Denied
Thrown away
To say
'I'm sorry'
I know others
Hurt you
And then
I did too.
