Of Belgian waffles

Today I ate a Belgian waffle.

That might not seem like such a big deal, but I had been craving one - secretly - for a while.

Since I began eating more normally (back in February), I found that most foods don't really appeal to me. It's all food, and just fuel to get me back to health.

But that Belgian waffle kept calling my name.

My husband, David, and I would go out to Bob Evans every once in a while, and he almost always ordered a damn Belgian waffle - it was like he knew my secret craving.

I would watch him eating it, and wonder why I didn't feel free enough to eat one of my own.

But you see, I'm still very restrictive about things. As long as I know the approximate calories in my daily bread, I feel safe. As long as I stay between 110 and 112 pounds, I feel safe. Any deviation causes me a lot of anxiety.

So I'm looking at this Belgian waffle today, dabbled with syrup and smeared with margarine and all I could see is - FAT. Globs of fat from the margarine caked inside the fatty pockets of the sweet cream batter that makes up the waffle, and then more fat, via the syrup, soaking into the big FAT mess.

The first few bites were as I had imagined - sweet, crispy and oh, so satisfying.

The next few bites were okay.

The last few bites felt like huge balls of dough making their way to my hips, thighs and stomach, ready to leach on and never let go.

I left the other half of the waffle, pushing away my plate and wishing I could somehow purge myself of what I did consume.

But it was too late.

I've promised myself no more purging, no more restricting, no more anorexia. And I have mostly kept to that promise.

It makes me wonder - will anorexia nip at my brain the rest of my life? Will I ever be able to eat a Belgian waffle, hell, anything, without guilt for wanting to live?

A new identity

Some days, recovery feels like a loss of my identity.

I was so used to my too-thin body. I secretly loved the sharp, protruding bones; flat, smooth stomach and incredibly thin legs.

But anorexia almost killed me, and since March, I have worked hard every day to gain and then maintain a healthy weight. And Ensure after Ensure, meal after meal, the pounds came on. First one or two, then finally about 15. I was at a normal weight, albeit at the low end of the spectrum.

Curves came back. My stomach is no longer flat, my thighs seem huge, and every day, I struggle with this new body. It still feels foreign.

There's no going back, now that I'm in the midst of recovery. There were many days I didn't think I could recover. There are other days that I look longingly at a too-thin woman, knowing that was me just a few months prior.

I sometimes still long to be that thin, but I know it would kill me at some point. I decided I had to choose - live, or die from anorexia.

And so I relish in this second chance. This second chance with life, and my husband. This second chance to continue in my career as a writer. And most days, that's enough.

The truth about anorexia

Nobody tells the truth about anorexia. I mean, about recovering from it. They don't tell you that you have to stuff yourself each day, the equivalent of three small extra meals, to gain one freaking pound. They don't describe how painful it is to shovel that food in, how your stomach feels distended and how after dinner is your favorite time of the day because you won't have to eat again until morning. They write about rich girls with anorexia, ones who go off to treatment centers and then come out all better, wearing new clothes to fit their new bodies and seemingly having no issue with the extra 10, 20 or whatever pounds that they now carry.

They don't show how lonely it is to sit in your house, eat that breakfast, drink that Ensure, eat that lunch - it feels like you never, ever stop eating. Then you try to find something to wear, feeling uncomfortable in your alien body. Your anorexic jeans are way too tight, so you dig around trying to find something that fits - they don't tell you leggings are a great idea, and you're going to want to wear them ALL THE TIME. But sometimes, real clothes are a must. Then you must dig for some jeans that you saved that can fit your alien body, and a decent shirt that doesn't smother you.

They never tell you will begin to hate the sight of food, every bite of it, because you are so sick of eating it. They never tell you recovery will feel like forever, like the rest of your life.

All they show in the movies, magazines (oh, Mary Kate Olson, how you must have suffered!) and books is the triumphant end, the final light at the end of the tunnel, the young woman enjoying an ice cream cone or some other treat; easily, instantly cured. They don't show you the deep scars of recovery, either inside your soul or on your drained face, that won't ever leave you.

They don't tell you that the light might just be a train waiting to ram right into you, derailing you off that recovery track.

But really, what they don't know is that you will flatten yourself against the train tunnel, because you are NEVER going back again. Because you've already learned that one recovery is enough, thank you very much.

The depths

I haven't blogged in a while, and probably won't for a while after this post. I am sick, so sick I can barely move some days, and I'm going on temporary leave from work this week. I don't know what happened to make me feel so physically tired and terrible, and I dread the search for answers. I just pray my doctors can make me better again - my husband, family and friends all believe I will get better, and I have to believe in their hope.

If you don't hear from me for a while, I wish all of you the best in your recovery efforts and please remember to relish each day that you can just move and do normal things - these days are more precious than I can ever describe.

A celebration

It's working! Three meals, three Ensures - every day, no matter what - and I've gained weight. And I'm happy.

It means I'm beating that demon, that evil spirit who tried to steal my life - anorexia. I never, ever thought I'd be happy to see a higher number on the scale - but I am! It means my life is coming back to me.

I'm elated!