My Addiction

I have an addiction. 

Some are addicted to drugs.
Some to shopping.
Some to gambling.
My addiction is to numbers
That fall downward on a scale,
To bones that protrude,
To ridges,
To hollows beneath collarbones. 

I feel so much discomfort
In a body padded with fat.
I miss the ridge that forms
At my cheekbones.
I long to press my fingers
Into the spaces
Where fat now resides. 

I am a girl addicted to thinness. 

I don't write these words for sympathy,
Or for attention.
I wish to delete them,
To destroy every word

Like the torn pages of journals

I once dared to fill. 

I write these words
To bring understanding,
To help you understand 

Why some of us,

Become addicted. 
Prisoners to anorexia,
Or bulimia,
Or some combination of both.

Our neural pathways have become
Rigid and scarred
With the damage of starvation.
Food has become the enemy.
It brings immense fear.
Our heartbeats dance with sharp irregularity,
And our minds spin with self hatred

With every bite we take,

And with every glance in a passing mirror.  

You are fat.
You are ugly.
Disgusting.
Pathetic.
Selfish.
You have no self control.
You are shoveling food
Down a throat already raw

From your addiction. 

You're losing the game 

You thought you once played so well. 

So you long to purge.
And may be,
You do. 
Even after months
Of mind numbing boredom
In a hospital bed.

Somedays,
You just can't tolerate
This immense pain. 
The pounding of your chest
Brings you to your knees. 

Mom.
Dad.
I can never hide from you.

Even when I am strong,
You will still fear.

For now you will always wonder.
Suspicion is now the lense
Through which you see me.

And now the world knows my

Once tightly held secret. 
I hid under smiles 
And eyes that blinked back tears.
I would laugh,
And brush off your concern.
I'm fine.
I'm better.
Don't be so dramatic.

I miss having secrets.
It was easier to play this game
When you didn't know the rules. 
Now I can not hide so easily.

I can try.
I can roll my eyes.
I can smile reassuringly.
But now you know this game I play.
And now I feel the pain
Of disappointing you.
Of causing you to worry.
I'm so sorry that I stumble.

 

All I can do now,

I guess,

Is try to explain.
I can try to expose the cold,
Ugly shadows of this disease.

If I must suffer with this,
Let it not be in vain.
I will write so that you can understand
How I got here.

How a little girl,
At the age of twelve,
Began to hate her body. 
And counted sticks of carrots

While she calculated calories in her head.
How at thirteen she did 200 jumping jacks
After food touched her lips. 

I need you to understand 
Why her hands turned purple in winter,
And she no longer wanted to go outside. 

Anorexia changed her.
And it still plays tricks in her head.
No one chooses this addiction,
This disease.
It is not fun.
It hurts.
And sometimes it numbs,
But it always ends in pain
And terrifying loneliness.

All I ask is for you to try.
Try to understand
This strange affliction,

This misunderstood addiction. 
Please try not to hate me

When the voice inside my head
Won't let me sit beside you
At the dinner table,
Just know that the prayer I utter before meals
Is much different than yours.

Let me dampen your sweater
With salty tears.
I am so tired of walking this alone.
Please don't punish me
With angry silence.
Please just hold my hand.  

Please just try to understand. 
This inglorious addiction. 

The Pretty Ones.

feelgrafix.com

The pretty ones,

With gorgeous souls,

All these girls,

So beautiful. 

Anorexia has a type. 

She haunts the girls

With intelligence,

With compassionate hearts,

And sensitive souls. 

Anorexia lies in wait,

Then slowly she makes herself known.  

She whispers the words

That are poison to their entire being,

So that they feel like empty shells

Walking through life,

Controlled and handcuffed

To this ugly shadow

That follows their every waking moment. 

The pretty ones 

Have pain in their eyes,

If you look too close

You will see deep sadness there.

They carry these chains

Wherever they go,

Slowly they become 

Accustomed to the heaviness,

That follows behind with 

Each step they take.  

The pretty ones,

They are held captive,

Slaves to this disease. 

They believe the lies,

And so it feels natural 

To follow anorexia's commands. 

Peace is impossible. 

For every moment,

Every breath,

Feels like shame. 

Guilt plagues their every move,

They are resigned to their post in life,

Prisoner to a disease 

So few will understand. 

And so the loneliness sets in. 

She hides away,

She ignores the ringing of her phone. 

Hiding, 

Chest pounding,

When there is a knock at her door. 

She holds so much shame,

That it feels easier to hide away.  

Somedays she might briefly see 

A pretty girl in the mirror,

But anorexia will not allow 

This moment to last. 

Glimpses of the truth,

Last for but a second,

Until she remembers the chains

Tied to her ankles,

Each step heavy and loud,

Her legs feel like tree stumps,

So much heaviness upon her limbs.

She sees them watching her. 

They must think she is disgusting too. 

Why must they stare,

Do they hear the sounds from 

The bathroom stall?

Do they see her splash her face 

To rid her eyes of the tears that appear

From forcing food up her throat?

If I had one wish,

I would take their pain away. 

I would carry the burden 

Of anorexia for all these girls. 

To set them free,

Would make my suffering 

Feel worthwhile. 

I pray for them to see their beauty,

I long for them to know their worth. 

Dear God,

If I can lighten their burden in any way,

Please show me how. 

My suffering can not be in vain. 

So even while the chains 

Are tied to my own limbs,

I will gladly carry more,

If even one burden

Will leave just one soul. 

The chains feel lighter now. 

I am not the girl I was

Two months ago. 

I feel braver,

More free. 

The chains remain,

But they are lighter somehow. 

Perhaps all my wishes 

On dandelions have been heard. 

Perhaps God is lifting my burden

So that I can someday 

Have the capacity to help

The pretty ones to see

Just how beautiful they are

From my eyes. 

Confessions.

I read an old journal entry, 

From the second day I slept in a hospital bed. 

I can't deny that some twisted part of me, 

That anorexic, self deprecating part of me,

Longs to be back in that moment. 

Because this moment hurts. 

This moment pains me. 

I feel that the weight of the world

Is in the pit of my stomach.

I long to crawl out of my skin. 

I ask God why I have to feel this way. 

Why do I hate my body in its nourished state. 

I don't understand why recovery has to be this hard. 

I am pleading with God to lighten this burden. 

I feel so much guilt

For calling my mom in these moments of heartache. 

She can't rescue me from this heaviness I feel. 

So why do I call?

Why do I have this need to hear her voice,

When I know she can't make everything okay. 

I gave in to anorexia these past few days. 

I purged. 

I ate. 

I purged again. 

And yet it only caused me more pain. 

The heaviness feels more unbearable now. 

Anorexia lies.

Bulimia lies. 

The heaviness can not be lifted by giving into this disease. 

God, please forgive me for losing my way. 

With all the frustration I felt over locked bathroom doors and suspicious nurses,

I need this control again. 

I'm not able to tell my psychiatrist just yet. 

I'm not ready to purge my soul

Of this guilt just yet. 

I need to turn this around before I can confess. 

A girl from the program passed away. 

She was known by many girls here. 

It makes the dangers of this disease feel so real. 

Anorexia kills. 

Bulimia kills. 

We are playing Russian roulette with our bodies. 

Dear Father,

Please grace me with some release from this prison. 

The burden feels too cruel. 

No one should have to feel so much disgust for their physical being. 

I pray that I can lighten my burdens. 

If I keep writing,

If I confess my weakness,

I can move forward,

Rather than allowing my behaviours to have power over today and tomorrow. 

I may have fallen,

But I will crawl back up this valley. 

I will taste the softness of sunlight again.

I just need to believe. 

I just need to trust. 

Neverland

This photo was taken almost a week after my admission to 4f4.  My mind is trying to reconcile how at the time, I thought I looked good, healthy even. I remember wondering if I was thin enough to even be here.  My perception was messed up. 

Today, my nourished brain is amazed that my perception has changed so much in less than a month. How is it possible to see something with completely different eyes from the ones I saw through a little less than a month ago? 

Today, looking at this photo, all I can think is, I look awful.  I can see the starvation on my sunken face, in the hollows beneath my eyes, in the white of my knuckles and the purple of my skin. Yet, at the time I thought I looked GOOD. 

How must I have looked before this pic was taken, before I was pumped full with IV fluids and electrolytes and having eaten three meals a day for a week straight. I truly did not understand that I was that sick at the time.

I knew I needed help, I knew my psychiatrist told me that I was lucky to be alive, but the severity of my body's condition never felt all that real to me.  

It's like I was talking about someone else. It wasn't me who was saved from death in the emergency room that day. It wasn't me who then arrived as an inpatient on an eating disorder unit. I was in a fog and just going through the motions, allowing porters and nurses to take me where I needed to go. 

Just how ill I was is sinking in heavily now. That photo haunts me. My head is far too big for my body, my eyes sunken, my skin so pale. Do I really want to go back to this?  

I feel sadness for my present self, the one that sits in her hospital bed and types these words from her phone, this present me that really does sometimes (often) misses sick me. I hate the fullness of my stomach, I hate the extra flesh on my legs, and I hate gaining weight. I miss the comfort of feeling each sharp edge of my ribs, wrapping my fingers one and a half times around my wrist, and staring at the loose skin where fat used to be.

A part of me wonders if in a month from today, will I shake my head at the thoughts running through my mind at this point in my recovery? Will my brain continue to heal, and along with it, will my perception shift even more than it already has? 

I am slowly beginning to feel more and more gratitude for this opportunity to become Erin again, without anorexia and her dark shadow following behind. 

What struck me about this photo is how childlike I appear. I am a doll-like version of myself in that photograph. I've always run from being an adult. I cried on my thirtieth birthday. My favourite colour is pink, I listen to Britney Spears, and I have the voice of a ten year old. I'm still scared of "growing up". So often I don't feel like I am strong enough to take care of myself. 

So in retrospect, starving myself to adolescent size, shopping in the kids section, and not being able to meet the very basic need of feeding myself...was perhaps an unconscious grasping at childhood. I was ultimately asking for someone, anyone, to save me from myself, to hold me and not let me go. 

I'm in love with the song, "Lost Boy." I play it on repeat and imagine that I am the lost boy and anorexia is Peter Pan taking me by the hand and leading me away from reality. 

"And then one night , as I closed my eyes,
I saw a shadow flying high
He came to me with the sweetest smile
Told me he wanted to talk for awhile
He said, "Peter Pan. That's what they call me.
I promise that you'll never be lonely."
And ever since that day..."

http://youtu.be/58TBZnvyGwQ

But anorexia lied. It is lonely in Neverland and there is no freedom there. True freedom is liberation from the chains of anorexia. It is being able to go out for dinner with friends and not having to panic over what I will eat or keep down. True freedom is loving my body when it is healthy and not having to fit into a size 00. True freedom is finding joy and happiness in reality.   

It's time to leave Neverland and rediscover the world outside, without her dark shadow trailing behind. 

Weight gain.

lifewithaneatingdisorder.tumblr.com

Triggered. 

The doctor is pleased with my progress. 

He smiles and I almost expect a high five. 

The nurses are being far too nice. 

I've restored weight. 

They almost trust me now. 

It feels too fast. 

I feel completely out of control. 

I'm consuming a ridiculous amount of calories, 

And my body is now soaking it all up,

In the form of fat cells on my legs, my stomach, my thighs. 

I don't feel like these limbs belong to me. 

I feel the heaviness,

Like sinking... slowly...torturously...

Into some deep, ugly pit. 

I'm reaching out for someone to save me,

But no one is willing. 

They tell me that I'm meant to be sinking.

That this is a good thing. 

It makes no sense to me. 

This place make no sense. 

So I cry and I panic. 

I feel I am again outside myself as I watch a girl mechanically bring food to her mouth. 

I can not be present. 

I am someone else,

Some random girl on a psych ward,

Obeying orders and eating all the food off her tray. 

My mind keeps fighting to silence the voice,

But anorexia is with me now, 

Sighing in disgust at my full stomach. 

Anorexia has been harassing me since I met with the Doctor.

I feel trapped between two realities that are both painfully unbearable. 

I'm just so tired and exhausted. 

I wish I could burn calories with the overthinking. 

If I wasn't in a hospital,

Listening to the monotonous sound of a tubefeed in the bed beside me,

If I was not an inpatient on 4f4,

I would be empty right now. 

The good kind of empty. 

There is absolutely no way that I would have eaten that supper. 

There is no way I would have allowed this food to remain in my stomach. 

I am terrified of being discharged too soon,

And at the same time I am terrified of this place. 

I feel safe here, and yet so frighteningly alone. 

I feel like no matter the path I take,

I have no control. 

Anorexia versus this unbearable reality. 

Nothing makes sense today. 

I burst into tears when nurses reassure me

With a pat on the back,

And I ask for an extra yellow pill to sedate me. 

I hate the accolades we get for gaining weight. 

Yay. You can't see my bones now. 

Yay. I'm beating anorexia. 

Or am I? 

Why then do I miss the emaciated girl I was when I first arrived here? 

I'm feeling triggered by the memory of me, the fragile girl that arrived here one month ago. 

How bizarre to miss the girl who sobbed and called her mother every two minutes wanting to die? 

This is a different kind of pain. 

It is the pain of a mind that is healing slowly, but still wants to be lost to anorexia. 

I've had to fight all day to defy her.

It feels like I'm losing everything. 

Control. 

Thinness. 

My constant companion. 

My security blanket has been torn from my hands. 

If you've never had an encounter with anorexia,

You may judge progress by the number on the scale.  

We are weighed everyday here. 

We stand with our backs to the numbers, 

The nurses know we can't cope with daily reminders. 

The scale is synonymous with mental torture. 

Yet, someday, at some point, like today,

A doctor or a nurse will congratulate us for our "restoration". 

We won't be prepared for this. 

I'm not sure we ever will be.

Anorexia is cruel and abusive. 

My stomach is distended with food and fluid. 

My body is covered in a layer of fat i haven't seen for a very long time. 

And there truly is nothing you can say to ease my pain or calm my panicked mind. 

How desperately I long to leave this place. 

More accurately, I long to leave this body. 

It does not feel like it belongs to me. 

I eat because I am expected to.

I do not purge because I don't want to face the consequences of not following the rules. 

I've always been a model student.

But to anorexia,

I am a failure. 

Secrets.

I've lived my life telling little white lies,

The smaller pieces of the shameful one that has become my cross to bear. 

Every relationship I've had,

Has been coloured by the secrets that I keep. 

In blood soaked pointe shoes,

I move across the stage.

All you notice from your seats are the graceful movements I've performed a million times. 

That's all you are meant to see.  

You become entranced by the dancer on stage,

And l become entranced by the dance. 

I make a wish on every falling star. 

I scribble a prayer on random notebook pages, 

on scraps of paper,

and mess up the pretty pages of journals. 

Between the drawings of hearts and faces, flowers and butterflies,

Are my heartfelt pleas. 

They are the same desperate words I've written too many times,

again and again,

over and over,

year after year. 

Dear God,

I long for a warm chest, 

Where I can whisper all my secrets 

And rest my weary head. 

Please give me strength,

Release me of this shame. 

I'm so so tired Lord. 

Men fall for her, 

They fall for the carefree girl,

The pretty one with the big brown eyes. 

She laughs and smiles,

And you see kindness there. 

I sometimes wish you could see inside. 

I would take off some layers for you. 

And may be, just may be,

you would stick around. 

But I'm pretty sure you would run. 

And I wouldn't blame you.

I would run from me too. 

If you get too close,

You will notice the blood on my toes. 

The lights will come on as you rise from your seat. 

The crowd will applaud and rush to get back to their cars and the warmth of their homes. 

These hours of watching me dance,

Eventually come to an end.

You grow weary of seeing me after the curtains have closed, 

When my makeup is off and my costume lies in a heap on the floor.

It's never the same as it was. 

If you come too close,

You begin to see my scars,

And the pain in my eyes. 

I look into yours, 

And I wonder if you'll stay. 

Will you run when the tears inevitably stream down my face?

Or will you hold me close?

Will you wrap me in your arms,

and fight for me,

Even after the curtains close 

and I am laid bare. 

I didn't want to tell you lies. 

But I couldn't let you in too close. 

I kept secrets to protect you from me. 

Now that you know,

Will you run, or will you stay. 

I hope you stay. 

(http://www.buro247.hr/local/images/burohr/nybalet7_jpg_1355241176.jpg)

Through the Looking Glass

She presses her cold, white palms against the glass. 
She is always outside looking in. 

She strains to hear their voices

Watching their mouths move as they whisper

Words that break her heart.  

 
(_{Source: www.desktopnexus.com)}

She is so frustrating,

So stubborn.
She used to smile all the time.
She changed.
Now she cries all the time.
She won't eat.
She's too tired to do anything anyway.

She is a hollow version of who she once was,
The carefree girl that anorexia stole away.
A tear slides slowly down the glass.
Her vision blurry,

She can't stand to listen anymore,
To watch them go on without her. 

Bonding over something 

She is no longer a part of. 
She carefully tiptoes away,
To a place where she won't be seen,
Or even missed.

She feels her heart sink.
So sad and alone.
She hears them laughing now,
They are happy when she isn't there 

To ruin the atmosphere,
With her sickness.

Anorexia has left her on the outside of the glass. 
No longer a participant in their world.
Trapped inside this sick game
That she never asked to play.
No one warned her that counting calories
Would lead to this,
Anorexia played her with her lies. 

They let her inside somedays.
And when she is brave,
She can plaster on a smile,
Laugh and dance with the rest of them

On the other side. 

They let her inside sometimes.
Until they remember. 
Until they push food in front of her,
And she glances quickly away,

Frightened that her fragile composure 

Will fall apart in front of them once again. 

I am this little girl,
Every memory marred by anorexia.

I am every girl who knows how it feels,

To be left behind,

An afterthought. 

I remember the toilet bowls
I purged in on every vacation.
I remember ordering room service
When the coast was clear.
I remember feeling the panic rise in my chest,

As I once again pretended to be okay,
Eating nachos on the beach,
Sipping my sugary margarita.

I was never okay though.
I was always thinking,
Obsessing over the food in my stomach.
Cringing at my thighs against the sand.
I remember quickly sneaking away,
Trying for nonchalance toward the bathrooms,
Where I could purge the guilt,
The anxiety,
And the shame.

I can't make eye contact.
I smile and pretend.
I secretly long to be free.
I secretly wish someone
Would see my pain,

The depth of it,
Under my carefully constructed
Suit of armour.

I am this sad little girl crying out..
Please take this anxiety away.
I want to be free like you.
I want the glass to shatter
Into a million sharp edged pieces,
So that I may never cross to that place again. 

Saturday.

It just sits there.

The fucking chocolate cake.  

The little bowls of chopped up fruit. 

The chocolate ensure,

That I sip with a spoon,

Pretending to be a lady at tea. 

But I can't fool anorexia.  

My stomach hides beneath a baggy shirt,

That I would never dare wear beyond these walls. 

I don't dress up for a Saturday,

On 4F4. 

I hate locked bathrooms.

I hate Saturdays that drag. 

I hate nurses who roll their eyes,

Because there is no place 

They would rather not be,

Than here.

I've been on both sides. 

I've sat behind the stale and gloomy nursing station. 

I've been the nurse,

Tapping my pen,

Checking the hands of the clock,

As they tick slowly by. 

Writing occasional notes in ugly green charts. 

Pouring magic pills for patients,

Whose inner voices are getting too loud,

And pacing circles driving us all mad. 

As boring to the nurse,

As to the patient,

Are these Saturdays.  

My stomach aches.

My head hurts.

My brain spins.

I'm a patient on an eating disorder unit.

I now reside on 4F4.

I have doubts about why I chose

This voluntary prison sentence

To the comfort of my safe little cocoon.

The sun shines brightly through a window

That doesn't open.

I long to drink in a breath of fresh summer air. 

I long to be in a sundress,

Hair messy and sunkissed. 

Barefoot on the grass, or the sand,

Just anywhere outside,

Anywhere with singing birds 

And rustling leaves. 

How did I get here?

The question I ask each day that passes

In this place. 

Three huge meals a day. 

One huge snack before bed.

Needles in my arm.

The girl who won't stop talking

At my table in the dining room.

I'm too polite to tell her to shut up. 

The highlight of my day

A yoga class, so yin,

It's barely considered movement.

We can't risk burning calories here.

These aggravations keep spinning through my mind...

Anorexia is irritated,

She's a whiny whisper in my ear. 

I take deep breaths,

I colour for hours,

Staying precisely inside the lines,

My only sense of control right now. 

I clip the split ends off strands of hair 

in my roommate's chair by the window,

While she is out with her mother. 

The sun feels almost warm from here. 

I chose this.

I chose to grieve anorexia.

I chose to defy her directives, 

And argue her accusations that I am a waste of space,

A waste of messy writing in an ugly green chart. 

Anorexia tells me to pack up and go. 

I could be purging this discomfort at this very moment.

I could hold Skyla in my arms,

I could fall asleep beside someone 

In a bed that doesn't have wheels

Or fluorescent lights above to blind me. 

I could do all this today.

But what about tomorrow bitch?

What about tomorrow?

I would starve again.

I would stare in the mirror,

And I would vow to make to make my hollows deeper, 
And my bones sharper.

I would lose that person asleep beside me. 

I would quickly lose me. 

I am not ready to wear sundresses
Or run around barefoot and free.
I'm still grieving anorexia,
Still missing her cold hand in mine. 

I would fall hard

If I chose to abandon

My present post as patient. 

And I would soon feel my body

Collapse on the dirt floor 

At the bottom of that rabbit hole.

Part of me wishes I was brave enough,
Desperate enough,

To choose the disorder.
To accept a fate,
Of a life cut short.
But I am stubborn as hell.
I'm too stubborn to let anorexia win. 

I hope I deserve a life worth living,
I hope I deserve to feel how it feels
To house my soul
In a body that cherishes
Just how beautiful, 
A soul can be. 

I pray each day

To a God above,

Who promises to love me,

Locked bathrooms and all. 

To deliver me from 

All prisons and cocoons,

According to his will,

When he knows I am ready

To be joyfully free. 

I will not let my mother 

Grieve her daughter

Or watch more tears fall on her face. 

Instead I will hold my head in my hands,

Endure this Saturday.

My heart may ache,

I may cry and sob,

But to grieve anorexia

Is to believe in another day.