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I Am the Master of My Fate

Things rarely go as planned for me. I’m in my third year of a two-year program at my college. I’m not even at the college I intended to go to. I’ve lost an astounding amount of friends in the past year, and Jon, my best friend from summer camp, lives an ocean away, and I haven’t seen him since high school, despite our haphazard efforts at arranging a reunion. Meanwhile, my body has ballooned instead of shrinking like I always wanted. I don’t grab a couple of drinks at Hamburger Mary’s with a couple of gal-pals like I always thought I would before I turned twenty-one.

These could all be construed as negatives, but it’s really just a matter of perception. Spending more time at Daytona State instead of a traditional college has given me more time to make sure my major is right for me. The main reason I am so far behind my peers in my education is because I was hospitalized almost every semester for mental health reasons. A community college like DSC gives me the flexibility to retake classes, withdraw late from courses I won’t be able to finish, and establish a rapport with my instructors so I can let them know what’s going on with me.

As for losing friends, well, I’ve drifted apart from the clubs I was once involved with at school, partly because of other commitments like work and synagogue (It seems like EVERY event is on a Friday night!), and partly because I’ve grown and changed a lot, and I just don’t vibe with some of the people who used to be my friends. It’s important for me to explore various types of friendships with a multitude of people so that I can determine what does and doesn’t work. Am I a little lonely at school? Yeah, sure. But this pushes me to get outside of my comfort zone, talk to the people in my classes, and it challenges me to be my authentic self, regardless of whether or not people like that.

Jon and I will always be best friends. He stood by me through anorexia hell, multiple rounds of treatment, and even the time I got unhealthily obsessed with a crush for a solid six months and drove him nuts asking questions  about the mystery of the male mind. We email each other all the time, just to share anecdotes about our lives and our plans for the future. Jon is one of those special friends who will always be in my life. He’ll be in my wedding, either as the groom or as my maid of honor. He’ll look so pretty in a dress!

My body? Forget weighing 98 pounds. I’d rather be able to keep up with my kindergarteners, walk across campus, and eat some freaking fries when I want to!

And as far as not going out for drinks with friends on the weekends? That’s my choice. I can decide to start drinking whenever I want to. I don’t know what would happen if I did, and that’s why I choose not to drink.

I went back to school towards the end of March, and I’m taking a very easy class called Managing Your Success. The intention of the class is to teach students how to thrive in college, how to manage time and money, etc. It’s really basic stuff, but sometimes it’s good to get back to basics. My professor recently included the quote, “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul,” in one of his slides. Curious, I Googled the quote, and found the poem “Invictus” by William Earnest Henley.
invictusI realized I’d heard the poem before and scoffed at it, but my take on it was different this time. One of the key lessons I learned when I was in treatment at Magnolia Creek was that no one can “make” you feel anything; rather, your reactions are a choice.

I had trouble with this concept at first. I thought it was normal and natural to feel bad about being abused, for example. I thought that “bad” things happened to me, and I had a right to feel ashamed, dirty, depressed, and helpless. In short, I was being a victim. I wanted to feel that way. I thought my abuse “didn’t count” unless I tortured myself emotionally over it.

It’s not my job to decide if the things that happen to me are “good” or “bad.” I can perceive them however I want, but I am only human, thus I have a finite perception of the events and course of my life. Labeling things that happen to me is another example of the myriad ways I try to play God in my life. I’m pretty sure God has this whole “running the universe” thing covered. I don’t think He needs my help with that. I am probably not the literal “master of my fate.” I think that probably falls under God’s jurisdiction. However, I do believe that I have a choice when it comes to how I feel and what I do. No, it’s not my fault that I have anorexia. However, every time I engage in an eating disordered behavior, I’m making a conscious choice to act on that impulse, just as when I overcome a relapse or an ED thought, I’m taking charge of my own mind. If we are responsible for our successes in recovery, we are also responsible for our failures. I certainly don’t want to admit that it’s my fault when I weave an elaborate web of lies about why there are bloodstains on my sleeves and razors hidden in the bathroom. I don’t want to take responsibility when my breath smells like vomit after meals and I’m losing weight. However, I want all the credit when I pick up another milestone chip at AA, when I listen to my hunger cues and eat a snack even though it’s against anorexia’s rules, or when I end an unhealthy relationship.

After a traumatic event as recent as December, I resorted to purging to deal with my feelings of shame and depression. It was symbolic for me; kneeling in front of the toilet represented apologizing to God, the universe, or the person who hurt me for whatever I’d done to “deserve” what happened, while the act of vomiting represented “purging” the painful memories out of my mind. At first, I told myself I’d “just purge once.” Then it became purging once a day. Pretty soon, I was purging as often as I could and eating as little as possible in the meantime. I knew something was wrong when I found myself in the employee bathroom at work while I was supposed to be taking out the trash, heaving up whatever low-calorie morsels I’d had for dinner on my break. Mid-barf, I was being paged over the intercom because the front had gotten busy and my supervisor needed an extra cashier. I had no choice but to finish vomiting, clean myself up as quickly as I could, and drag my shaky, pale, embarrassed self to a register.

It’s not my fault that this is how my brain taught itself to deal with stress. It’s not my fault that I was the victim of a crime prior to this and it caused a great deal of stress in my life. However, it was my responsibility to be good to myself (and to fulfill a duty to my employer), to make healthy choices, and to my best to resist these self-destructive impulses. The ex-boyfriend who violated me was neither directly nor  indirectly responsible for what I did that night. Yes, his actions were inappropriate and wrong, but so were the ways I chose to react to them. He wasn’t “making” me purge. I was doing it to myself.

These days, I have faith in a God that has granted me an “unconquerable soul.” I will never say I am grateful for the abuse I went through. Many people, even a few therapists have told me that I should be grateful to be a victim of childhood sexual abuse, dating violence, and rape because it’s made me so much stronger, and I will be able to use these experiences to help other people going through the same thing. While I am grateful for the outcomes of the traumatic events I’ve experienced, I am not grateful for the road I had to take to get here. However, I am the captain of my soul, and I choose not to dwell on what brought me to this place. Rather, I will look forward and see what the future holds.

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Happy New Year! I don’t really make New Year’s resolutions for a few reasons. It’s primarily because I never stick to them, so I feel like I’m starting the year by setting myself up for failure. I’ll make 4,827 resolutions, which is at least 27 too many, and I get overwhelmed and nothing changes. Sometimes, my resolutions are things that just keep me sick, like resolving to lose weight.

However, I am making some pretty big changes in my life, changes that happen to coincide with this arbitrary measurement of time we call the New Year. This morning (the day before my 21st birthday), I was discharged from a three-night stay in a psychiatric hospital. A few weeks ago, someone I trusted hurt me in a very personal way, and I have not been okay since then. The whole ordeal of contacting the necessary authorities and professionals in the aftermath of the incident was equally stressful, and I do not function well under stress. Within a week, I found myself purging again, and I became very afraid of food. Eating has become a nearly insurmountable task, made tolerable only when I use neurotic food rituals, and I often find myself obsessing about how I’m going to avoid getting caught purging the small amounts of food I do manage to eat.

Even though I had gotten rid of all my razor blades, I was still self-harming. I dismantled household items with which to cut myself, and when that didn’t numb the emotional pain enough, I resorted to banging my head into walls.

I spoke less, smiled less, hardly ever laughed, and carried Ora Nechema, my doll, around

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Ora Nechema is a handmade ball-jointed doll. My best friend’s mom made her for me. Since this photo was taken, she went to the doll hospital (AKA my friend’s mom’s kitchen table) for a makeover and has beautiful, curly red hair now. Ora Nechema is Hebrew for light and comfort. She typically comes everywhere with me (except work because I don’t want her to get broken), and I do get strange looks walking around a college campus with a doll in my hand, but she is very comforting, and I tell her all the nice things I need to hear but can’t yet say to myself. 

with me everywhere because she reminded me that there is something childlike and in need of protection in me, and I am worth the same care with which I handle a handmade porcelain doll. (She comes to AA with me, and she’s quite popular.)

I became more and more depressed until I decided I might as well just go ahead and kill myself. I was scared to feel this way, so I talked to my parents, and we all decided it would be best for me to be in a safe place, so they took me to the hospital.

The hospital has its ups and downs. I’ve been there enough times that I know all the nurses, and I feel safe there. I can’t hurt myself there. I’m under 24/7 supervision, and I can’t have so much as a spiral notebook, so cutting myself is out of the question. The downside is that the hospital is just a crisis stabilization and detox unit. The idea is to get you in, get you some medicine, and get you out. There’s really no therapy, and it’s quite boring in there. So, while I was prevented from killing myself, the underlying issues that led me to feel suicidal are still festering. My elaborate cocktail of anti-this and such-and-such stabilizers are actually working quite well. I was doing okay until this most recent incident happened. However, now that I’m dealing with the aftermath of being hurt, I feel out of control and in need of more long-term help. So, I am heading back to residential treatment.

My parents, my therapist, and I are looking into various treatment centers that deal with multiple psychiatric disorders, and trying to find the best fit for me. I might only go so far as Orlando, or I might end up in Boston. We’re not sure yet. But what I do know is that this is my chance at turning my life around. When I was at the Creek in 2014, I made substantial progress, but then I hit a wall and I was kind of stuck. The treatment team there was challenging me to work on deep, underlying issues, not just my unhealthy relationship with food, but what drove that relationship. I couldn’t or wouldn’t do it. I frequently snapped at my therapist there, “I came here to get rid of my eating disorder, and I did. I want to go home.” I did go home, and I did alright for a little while, but within a year, I was unstable and self-destructing.

This time will be different. I am resolving to commit myself to getting better. I’m going to follow my treatment team’s recommendations no matter what. I obviously don’t know how to take care of myself, or else my stomach wouldn’t be empty, my wrist wouldn’t be scabby, I wouldn’t feel like the world is ending if I accidentally make physical contact with a strange man, and my GPA would be higher than a two point something or other. I am turning the care and keeping of Katherine over to the treatment team until I am well enough to take that role back. Someday, I’ll get there. Someday, I will feel like a whole person. Until then, I’ll just continue to do my best.

May you find peace and happiness this year. I know that’s what I’m trying to do.

 

 

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The Small Things

In a perfect world, I would always take care of myself and do what’s right for me. However, I have a self-destructive nature, and I thrive on chaos. Perhaps “thrive” is not the right word because I certainly haven’t been thriving over the past few weeks, but I have a deep-seated need to create chaos in my life so that I will always have a problem to solve. Oddly enough, I don’t usually solve these problems that I make for myself. I stress about them, complain to my friends, worry my family, and let them fester until I end up using maladaptive coping skills and then—what do you know!—I have more problems.
I’m trying to break the cycle.
Recently, Christin and I broke up, and it’s been hard for me. I’ve never had a breakup in which I wasn’t desperate to get out of what was left of a relationship I’d destroyed or that was just not healthy for me. This was different. We parted ways on good terms and are trying to stay friends. We’ve been as open as we can with each other about how we’re doing post-breakup, and we still care about each other, as friends should.
Two days after we broke up, I had a really bad day. I was sad about the breakup, mired in PMS, and did not want anything to do with any sort of positivity. I snapped at my parents, sat on my best friend Colette’s porch and cried to her and her boyfriend (who happens to be Christin’s best friend), and screamed along to my favorite Sleater-Kinney album in my backyard. While I was in the backyard, I received a text from my dad that was intended for my mom. The text said something about how my singing was going to distress our neighbors. My dad was probably right because Sleater-Kinney (like all Riot Grrrl bands) is a cacophonous mess of female shrieking and feedback-ridden guitar wails, and I am quite loud. I angrily texted my dad back informing him that the music made me feel better, and said that maybe next time I’d just do something unhealthy and impulsive to make myself feel better. My dad came into the backyard to say he was sorry, and I took great satisfaction in saying, “You’re only sorry you got caught,” a line that has frequently been directed at me.
However, my dad is a patient, kind, loving man, and he didn’t blow up at me like I was doing towards him. He continued to apologize and said that he and I need to “mend our fences,” because we’ve been distant lately, and when we do talk, I can be a bit of a bitch to him, which is (usually) not deserved, and doesn’t make either of us feel good. He said he loved me, something everyone in my family tells each other frequently, but I started to cry, and he hugged me and said it was okay. We ended up having a really good conversation about my future, school, our relationship, and our family. I love my dad, and I know he loves me. I just don’t show it all the time.
Colette says love is something you practice, not something you have. I am trying to walk in love these days. It is easy for me to tell myself that no one loves me and that I will never be loved, but that is simply not true, and quite melodramatic, I might add.
It’s not just my dad who loves me. I have my brother who took me out for ice cream and compared notes with me on both of our recent breakups. I have my mom who has given me so much good advice in the past week, and is always there for me.

And then there’s Kerry. Everyone needs a gay best friend (or GBFF), and Kerry is mine. On Sunday, I slept in, and my mom woke me up by saying, “Aren’t you going to Blue Springs with Kerry today?”
“No. Why?” I responded sleepily.
“Because Kerry’s downstairs,” my mom answered.
“Oooooh nooooo!” I groaned as I rolled out of bed in my underwear and sought my bathing suit. I suddenly remembered that as I was falling asleep the night before, I’d gotten several messages asking what time I was free to go to the springs, but I’d been too sleepy to comprehend them. I checked my phone and realized that all the calls I’d been ignoring were not in fact from work, but from Kerry and the rest of the gang wanting to know if I was coming on the day’s adventure.
I am so grateful to have friends who go to any lengths to include me in their fun. Kerry is an awesome friend who listens and makes me laugh. At the springs, I happily took in the view of the water and the girls in bikinis, and I was perfectly comfortable (albeit a bit cold) in my bathing suit. I even ate a peanut butter sandwich someone else had made. Peanut butter was once my biggest fear food, but now I just enjoy the protein and delicious flavor it has to offer. No, no one is going to give me a scholarship or a medal for eating a PBJ, but it was a huge accomplishment for me, and I have every right to celebrate it.
After we finished swimming at the springs, we went to a pizza joint, where I devoured tasty pizza and fried ravioli. I didn’t count how many slices of pizza I ate, nor do I care. It tasted good, so I ate it. Eating the pizza was part of the experience of having fun with my friends on a day off from work.

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Breaking up is not fun or easy. But Christin and I needed to do what was right for each other and for ourselves. Things are different now, and I have no choice but to accept them. Once I adjust to the changes, I think I will find that things are better. I’d rather not be in a romantic relationship at all than be in one that’s not working. But that’s not to say I don’t have relationships. I have awesome friends, my family, and my internet friends from summer camp who call me their Big Gay Mama. I’m trying to stay positive, and it’s getting easier every day. I’m making a conscious effort to reframe negative thoughts, and to stay busy. I keep telling myself I’ll be okay, and for once, I’m actually right about something.

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Gratitude

Ever since I started experiencing psychotic symptoms, I’ve had a really hard time with religion. Going to temple is just inviting the voices in, and prayer only stirs them up and gets them screaming at me. I don’t even know how to start a conversation with God. I thought God hates me, or even that God isn’t real. I’d basically given up on having any kind of spirituality in my life, which was a big deal, considering I previously wanted to become a cantor. I was recently hospitalized because I was suicidal and having flashbacks to a traumatic childhood event. While I was in the hospital, I had an illuminating conversation with the hospital chaplain. After talking to him, I felt lighter. The chaplain, Tony, told me that God must love me because God made me, and She doesn’t make garbage. God loves Her creations, and God can be whoever I want her to be, so I decided that God is a woman. If God loves me, then She has to understand how devastating it was to be hurt by men. I love women so much more deeply than I could ever love a man; I connect to them; I understand them; I laugh with them; I ache with them. I am sure that God, that my God, is a woman, and She loves me.

As a child of God, I have no right to hate Her creations. If I can love my own creations– my photos and my writing– then I have to be able to love the person that God made me. So that’s it. After a lifetime of hating myself, I’m going to do something about it. I’m going to love myself. It’s hard, and it’s weird, and I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m managing. I am learning not to tear myself down, but to build myself up– or at least keep my head above water. I am loved from all around. My parents love and support me no matter what I do. My elementary school classmates have stuck with me through my very first hospitalization to college; I don’t think they would have done that if I was the bad, worthless friend I thought myself to be. My English professor from last semester stopped me at work to tell me I’m a spectacular writer. I doubt he was doing that just to be nice. I have my friends from GSA who I always have fun with. And of course, there’s Christin, who pours so much love into our relationship that it’s almost impossible to believe I’m not everything she says I am.

I’m learning that it’s painful to love someone who doesn’t love herself, and I don’t want to put people through that pain anymore.

 

I’m finally gaining insight into all the nights I spent crying in my mom’s arms telling her I would do anything to see my collarbones again. She would tell me that I was beautiful as I was, and I’d argue with her because I hated myself so much I couldn’t understand how anyone could see any goodness at all in me. I have learned firsthand that you can’t plant self-love in someone else. That’s why it’s called SELF-love– it has to come from inside. Christin has inspired me to make a change in myself. If she can treat me as caringly and lovingly as she does, then I’m going to return the favor to myself because I am worth that much. I no longer say mean things to myself. I don’t tolerate it. I’ve gained enough confidence and self-respect not to let anyone else talk to me the way I talk to myself, and I’m not going to be a hypocrite and continue to treat myself like trash. I am a good person. I am smart. I am valuable. I am kind. And yes, I am beautiful.

Processed with VSCO with b5 presetHappiness is not getting on the scale and seeing that you’ve lost weight. Happiness was what I experienced today. I went out to brunch with Christin, and we walked on the beach where we tried to feed stale matzah to the birds. On the drive home, we held hands in the car, and I felt truly present in the moment. We had the windows down, and I wasn’t obsessing over my hair getting messed up or my makeup running. Why would I have wanted to think about that when I could have focused on the beautiful girl sitting next to me laughing at my passenger seat dancing and holding my hand? I was grateful to live in such a beautiful place, grateful that God brought so many wonderful people into my life, and grateful to be in love.

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The Island of Ana

At age fourteen, I was a mess of contradictions. I felt like no one cared about me despite the outpouring of love I received from my family and friends. I thought my parents hated me and sent me to treatment to torture me and make me fat, not because they were at a loss for how to help me and only wanted me to be happy and healthy. I thought my boyfriend only liked me for my body, which couldn’t possibly have been true because I was well on my way to emaciation, and he put more than enough thought into my wellbeing.

At the same time, I didn’t want anyone to care about me. I often confided in my journal and to my therapist that I wished people would simply give up on me and let me self-destruct. I wished my boyfriend wouldn’t beg me to eat. I wished my mom wouldn’t confiscate my razors. I wanted people to leave me alone and let me drown in self-loathing and unhealthy behaviors. I ignored the people who loved me, misinterpreting their concern as an attempt to control me, and I was repulsed by any act of care or kindness because  I felt like I wasn’t worth it.

These days, I have a little more perspective than I did when I was first diagnosed with anorexia and depression. Sometimes, I still wish people would just leave me alone and let me self-harm or starve myself. But I’ve also learned that I can’t have it both ways. If I want to have meaningful relationships in my life, I can’t immerse myself in my mental illnesses.

If I did everything alone, or went everywhere with only Ana, things would be different. I could have purged that night at Hamburger Mary’s. But my friends were there, and Oxana followed me into the bathroom. She didn’t do it because she was mad at me or trying to control me; she did it because she was concerned. My little freak-out really scared and upset Christin. She knew exactly what I was doing when I headed towards the bathroom, and she said she felt “defeated,” when she saw me leave. That’s not how I want the people I care about to feel. I don’t get to have it both ways. I can’t care about my friends and girlfriend and not expect them to care about me in return. If the roles were reversed, and Christin were the one with the eating disorder, I would want to do everything I could to help her on her journey to recovery. It only makes sense that my friends want the same for me.

Anorexia is loneliness. It is not strength or hard work. It is a potentially fatal disease that I have to fight. My ultimate anorexic fantasy was as follows: I live alone in my own apartment. I don’t have a refrigerator because I don’t ever buy anything to put in it. My cupboards are bare and empty. I have a coffeepot that I use frequently, and I feed my dog more often than I feed myself. The fantasy never involved any friends, a girlfriend, or even a roommate. Letting anyone get close to me meant that they might care, and having someone care about me meant someone coming between Ana and me. I couldn’t have that. I see now how miserable and lonely that fantasy is. I would much rather have a full life, complete with friends, family, and Christin.

Food is not just necessary. It is fun, pleasurable, and it can bring people together. Today, I have a nasty cold, and when I told Christin that I’m sick, she offered to make me some soup. She loves to cook, but I told her not to bother with all that because I didn’t feel like I was worth the trouble. I was self-conscious at the thought of my girlfriend seeing me in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and I had been too tired to even take a shower. I fell asleep, and the next thing I knew, she was at the door with a container of homemade soup. If I was still my fourteen-year-old self, I would have been terrified that someone cared about me that much, but today I was just happy to see my lovely, gourmet-cooking girlfriend. I ate the soup without a second thought, and it was delicious. Ana was nowhere in sight; she wasn’t whispering in my ear that I needed to purge as soon as Christin left, or  that I wasn’t allowed to eat dinner if I ate the soup. Sick people should have soup. It’s a fact of life. When someone I care about cooks for me, I want to be able to enjoy it wholeheartedly, and not obsess over calories and the like. That’s exactly what I did today. I can only hope it means Ana’s grip on me is loosening.

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Ana Is NOT Invited

Ana is getting more than a little clingy. Last weekend, I went to the fair with Christin and Kerry, our friend from GSA. I love fairs and carnivals. I brought my camera and got some shots I’m really proud of.

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Christin and me being silly while Kerry played with my camera. 

I rode a ride that went upside down, which was something I’d always been too scared to do in the past, and I got Christin a caramel apple even though she told me not to, and it put the biggest, most adorable smile on her face.

Still, I wasn’t as happy as I wanted to be. Eventually, we got hungry and decided to eat something. I was really, really hungry, but I didn’t want to eat. Let me rephrase that. I wanted to eat. I wanted to enjoy fried food on a stick, something I’ve always loved (I mean, who doesn’t?) and not think about calories when I could have been laughing at the powdered sugar all over Kerry and the water he spilled on his crotch when his friend leapt up from the table to buy fried butter on a stick. (No, I’m not making that up.)
But instead, even with Christin’s hoodie wrapped around me, Ana was whispering in my ear that it would be better if I didn’t eat anything, and if I did, I’d better slip away from my friends and purge. “You can just pretend that the rides made you sick,” she said. Ana isn’t exactly the brightest. She tells me lies, like that my friends will like me better if I don’t eat, that I’ll like myself more if I’m half my size.

Ana also showed up uninvited at the GSA movie night/pajama party at my house last Friday. There was pizza and a plethora of desserts, but she kept dragging me away from Christin to remind me that I “couldn’t” eat anything. “I’m having fun with my friends,” I told her. “Who cares if I eat a slice of pizza? That’s half the fun.” Still, she wouldn’t leave me alone.

I’m sick of Ana crashing my parties. On Friday, the GSA is going to Applebee’s to sing karaoke, and even though the event is four days away, I’m already worried about what I’m going to eat. Nevermind the fact that I’m learning a new song and I’m going to rock it at karaoke, the fact that a bunch of my good friends (including Christin) will be there, and the fact that Applebee’s has this amazing chocolate cake I love.  Ana has already tried to convince me that I can’t have the cake. At the fair and the pajama party, I let her win, but she’s actually given me an advantage this time. Since I started worrying so far in advance, I’ve had time to check out the Applebee’s menu and devise a plan of attack. I already know what I’m going to order, and it’s something I want, not what Ana wants me to eat. I WILL get that chocolate cake, and I’ll share it with my friends. Time in college and time spent with the GSA is about making memories and strengthening friendships, not isolating myself in eating disorder hell.

I’m posting this article to keep myself accountable. I’m making a promise to myself that I’m going to order the pasta dish and cake I want, not diet water and air, or whatever it is Ana will try to get me to eat. I have escaped Ana’s clutches in the past, and I will do it again and again and again.

 

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The Love Triangle

Ever since I read Life Without Ed, I’ve thought of my eating disorder as a relationship with a really unpleasant bitch named Ana. She’s terrible. She’s always putting me down, calling me fat, and trying to control me. She hates my friends, but tags along to every lunch outing to make sure I don’t actually have fun. Every time I say I’ve had enough and that we’re done, she cries and says she’ll change, that this time it will be different, that she loves me. And I fall for it every single time.

Meanwhile, I’m dating a wonderful girl named Christin. She makes me incredibly happy, and I love spending time with her. She accepts me for who I am and lifts me up. She thinks I’m beautiful the way I am, and I’m slowly learning to believe her. She supports me through the ups and downs that accompany my mental illnesses, and she wants me to be happy and healthy.

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Christin and me at the park yesterday.

If I had to choose between Ana and Christin, it would be a no-brainer. Do I want to be with the girl who thinks nothing I do is ever good enough, the girl who will never like me unless I change everything about myself? Or do I want to be with the girl who likes me just the way I am, who appreciates the things that make me who I am, who sees good things even in the parts of myself that I don’t like? The answer is obvious.

Still, for some reason, I end up clinging to Ana as if I can have meaningful, fulfilling relationships with her and Christin. The reality is that I cannot. Last night I went to the local drag venue/burger joint with Christin and some other friends. It was my idea to go, and I was looking forward to it until I started thinking about what I was going to eat while I was out. Ana wasn’t invited, but she heard that we were going out, got jealous, and I reluctantly agreed to let her come. She told me that she’d love me more if I didn’t eat dinner, that it would make me prettier and more desirable. I ended up ordering something really small, much to Ana’s dismay, and I ate about half of it.

Immediately after I ate, I fled to the bathroom in the middle of the show to contemplate

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Anastasia, my rescuer, pictured with one of “Mary’s men.”

purging. I ignored the fact that I was in one of my favorite places, surrounded by good friends; the fact that a place like Hamburger Mary’s celebrates acceptance and loving who you are, and Ana was screaming at me to do the exact opposite of  that.
Before I could do anything detrimental, one of my friends came to check on me, and I returned to our table.

It doesn’t make sense to cling to “people” like Ana. She’s cold, cruel, hateful, and mean. I don’t want people like her in my life. I’m breaking up with her once and for all. This is the end.