Survivor's guilt (living with anorexia)

She was thirty-three years old and died of anorexia. My therapist told me this almost as an aside, near the end of Friday's therapy session. Our talk had centered on who I am besides anorexia, and how I continue to hold onto strong anorexic thoughts and tendencies in spite of working so hard to regain weight and health.

I said I had been struggling for the past week, bombarded with urges to restrict and feelings that I did not deserve to eat. I have been restricting; missing Ensures and eating lighter meals when I can get away with it. I also have been using other means to stave off the ever-increasing anxiety; extra tranquilizers sometime combined with pain killers make me feel calmer; a glass of wine added also helps.

Anything not to feel. Anything to forget how strong I was, how well I have done, only to have it start falling apart for no apparent reason. I am not an inspiration. I am a failure, heading for a relapse if I don't find a way to stop it.

Dr. S. said it was because part of me still wanted to hide; hide from life and a relationship with my husband and obtaining my master's degree. Hide from all the responsibilities that come with being healthy and recovered.

He is right. There are times I want to dive right back into anorexia.

I said I miss my uber-thinness, the feeling of my bones and concave stomach. I sometimes crave to be that small again; it is unlike any other feeling in the world, the world of anorexia. It is so damn seductive, so alluring sometimes I can't think over the still-loud, screaming voices that try to urge me on to the impossibility of being thin, so thin I am just a whisper . . .

I also know what I stand to lose if I chose this path. My husband. Writing. Any hope of getting my master's degree or having a successful and fulfilling career. Friendship.

Me.

(But I would be with God.)

Strangely, I never have really believed that I could die of this illness. There are a few times awareness has tried to trickle in, but then my heart beats and my mind thinks, and the thought of anorexia killing me seems so remote.

I cried yesterday when I realized how close I was to my goal weight. I felt both happy and bitter, the two feelings intermingling until I just felt overwhelmed and exploded into tears and self-recriminations. I looked down and hated my body and what it has become; rounder, feminine and softer.

But I want to get better.  I ate the foods and drank the Ensure Plus necessary to gain weight starting in September, and I was so determined to do it after my husband left, to prove I could recover and we could still have a life together. I moved forward in faith each day, and felt the promises of tomorrow whisper, you can do this.

But then there is guilt.

Why do I deserve to live when so many others have died from anorexia?

The guilt eats at me, tells me I haven't suffered enough and I don't deserve to eat nor recover. Why is anorexia like this? Why is it the only disease that tries to entice you back to it? Why does it make you feel guilty for becoming better?

Today I decided to eat less. And I have. Is that supposed to be the great accomplishment of my day?

I can still move forward. I must move forward. But right now I am frozen.

Frozen by guilt. 

Frozen by fear.

Frozen by anxiety.

Frozen by anorexia. 

Frozen by the thought relief could come soon.

(But what type of relief? Which will I chose? I have thought about the woman who died of anorexia all day. What were her hopes and dreams? Was she surrounded by loved ones at the moment of her death? Did she once dream of recovery? When did it become too late? What does all this mean to me?)

The part of me that wanted to die, that developed anorexia in the first place, thinks why not?

Survivor's guilt (living with anorexia)


Guilt fills me


The thought of
a
young woman
Killed


By anorexia.


I ask myself
Why do
I
continue to live?


While others die?


Feeling cheated
of the
Death
meant for


Me.