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.

What happens when an ED recovery-minded blogger starts to slip?
Does she go out and create chaos?
Or quietly struggle, afraid to hurt others?

Does she internalizes her fears,
Or does she find a way to release them?

Does she write her way out the pain,
Trying to awaken from the nightmare?

What happens when she slips?

Does she pretend,
Or rediscover her soul?

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.

Discovery (anorexia and lost dreams)

I have thrown away my life.

Each day I struggle to get out of bed. I try to find meaning to my life. I wonder why I am here and why I should eat and recover from anorexia?

I cried this morning - as I have cried many mornings since January as I have tried to release the grip this illness has had on me. But today it hit me I am grieving. I am grieving the fact that I have never had children; I thoughtlessly threw away a gift of God's, I rejected the life I could have given to another and never gave it a second thought.

Until now. At age 45. How stupid can I be?

I remember the hopes of last fall. I knew God would answer my prayers and give us a child. I knew that at 44, a miracle could still happen. I closed my eyes to stories of failed attempts and miscarriages, and dreamed of the child my husband and I would create. I was convinced in December I was pregnant - I had several symptoms, and besides, God would listen to my prayers and grant me a Christmas miracle, wouldn't he.

Then came January. An unusual period dubbed "a possible miscarriage." Hope died. No longer did I have any reason to keep eating and continue with recovery; I was 44 and reality slapped me in the face. I might have once been fertile and been able to bear children, but that was no more as my weight once again dropped into the 90s.

Prayer. Does God even hear me?

I realized this morning I am still grieving for that lost dream. I brought it up while I was in PHP and was told to forget about it, tell myself I didn't have a miscarriage and move on. How can you move on when you continuously wonder if life slide out of you? How can you heal when you attempt to bury feelings that you can't even name?

But I tried to last winter. I tried to bury it by restricting and cutting. I tried to forget the lovely dreams of the fall, which brought my husband and I closer together as we both hoped that it wasn't too late.

But of course it was. Even if I was pregnant - and the uncertainty continues to haunt me - I was most likely too low in weight to sustain a healthy pregnancy and child.

I think God knew what he was doing. First He prevent or stopped a pregnancy, and then made sure that I spiraled downward until there was no chance I could become pregnant.

I know that might sound sacrilegious. But I can't help my thoughts. And right now I am angry with both myself and God.

Then this morning I realized why I continue to struggle to eat. Because I have lost all hope in having a child.

It is a dream denied. A dream that is dead. A dream killed by ambition and selfishness and anorexia.

Dead. Just like the dreams of recovery seem to be dead for so many with eating disorders.

I visited a friend in the hospital yesterday. She had been in a treatment center for six months and came home full of hope and passion about recovery. She has lost all the weight she gained during treatment, but the worst thing is she said she lost faith in herself.

This is how I feel. I have lost faith in myself to recover from anorexia. My blood tests continue to show damage, now to both my kidneys and possibly my colon.

I remember one author's theory of thirds regarding anorexia. She states one-third of anorexics will fully recover. One-third will partially recover. And one-third will never recover.

Today I decided the hell with it. I took my 2 p.m. Ativan with a Lortab, and then had two glasses of wine.

Anything to feel numb. Anything to not feel the pain of loss. Anything to not remember when hope was real and dreams seemed possible. Anything to not care anymore.

Because that's what I want. To not care anymore. Eat when I can. Don't when I can't. And stop trying to force recovery, that state which seems to elude all but the strongest.

I need to learn how to dream again. Otherwise, I will be lost.