These letters marked an important point in my treatment that second time around, as it finally pushed me to realize how much I lost to my eating disorder and how much I would continue to lose if I didn't fight for recovery. At the time, I was still terrified and not sure I wanted to recover. I was sad, confused, and felt utterly powerless. Even after 2 months of intense and incredibly helpful treatment.
We read these letters aloud to small groups, and the comments said by my friends touched my heart. They told me my story was important. They told me they saw how strong I was. They told me how much I had to live for, and how much I had to fight for. My eyes were finally beginning to open to a new idea and new possibilities. I still had a long way to go after writing these letters, but I believe I am strongly on my way to the finish line now. I've been in recovery for about 2 years now, and I am strong. I won't say I'm happy all the time, or that I don't still struggle with anxiety, self-criticism, sadness, loneliness, or body image. I absolutely still do. But I know how to define myself now. It isn't by the number on the scale or the size of my thighs. It's by how happy I am, how much love I give and receive how much I am learning and growing each day. I measure myself with smiles and love and strength and hope. Not numbers. Not anymore.
Anyway. I think these letters are extremely important and relevant. Not because they themselves offer hope or insight or encouragement for recovery. Rather, they are important because I think they truly do explain, the best words can, the mind and soul of a person desperately struggling in the chaotic black hole of an eating disorder. I was a small and scared soul, trapped in a bone cage, my heart miraculously still beating, my mind slowing, my soul dying. And I think these letters truly do show how sad I was. How lonely I was. They show that an eating disorder doesn't bring you what you want/what you think it will. They breed isolation loneliness, fear, sadness, and, ultimately, death.
Along that line, it is extremely important for those who know someone struggling with an eating disorder who want to help to offer it slowly, gently. Reach out your hand. Push the small things first. Don't try to open up or talk about everything at once. Understand how sad and lonely and isolated your loved one feels. Understand they don't believe in much of anything anymore. Understand they may not want to live, though they don't necessarily want to die (I'll elaborate more on this point later this week). Be gentle. Offer smiles, simple words, light touches. And be willing to listen when your loved one is finally ready to talk.
The motto this year is that everyone knows someone with an eating disorder. That couldn't be more true. Eating disorders aren't always obvious, in fact, they often aren't. I'm not sure if most of my peers at school could recognize that second time how much I was hurting inside. I definitely don't think a casual person on the street would have believed that. This is often the case. But everyone knows someone. Everyone knows someone who needs love and support and kindness and gentle pushes forward. Eating disorders are terrifying, but together, with raised awareness and support systems, we can all overcome this disease.
Now, for the letters....
Dear Ana,
You have given me so many things. You stuck by me for 3 years, always there for me. To offer something to fall back on. To offer a place to hide. To offer confidence and strength and power.
On the outside, you made me look so strong, so steady. I was perfect; there was nothing I could do wrong. Except to you, I could—and did doeverything wrong. No one knew that little secret, though. The outside looked so solid, while on the inside, I was falling completely apart.
You made me feel confident in front of other people. I was good, strong, had willpower. I didn’t have to eat to stand tall in front of the world. I could face the day just with the energy of your power and words and lies. And if things got a little rough, I could just go exercise in my room and come out more confident than before. Where’s the truth in that, though? That confidence wasn’t real; it lasted only temporarily. Then you’d send me back to do more. On the inside, I never felt confident. But to you, only the outside mattered. Who cared how I really felt?
Most of all, you gave me a place that was safe. You gave me a perfectly simple method to numb my anxiety, my grief, my loss: just deprive your brain of the life it needs. It was so easy. I didn’t feel grief or loss when I listened to you. Who needs those messy emotions anyway? You were the one steady thing I had in my life, to offer balance and focus. I never felt alone with you. But that meant I never had to connect with myself. At the time, that felt so good. I didn’t have to hurt. Except I did. All the time.
You became my box into which I stuffed all my emotions. That felt so freeing at times. I had no emotions overwhelming me, so I could focus on other things. Except, not really. All I could focus on was you. Which was good—steadying, balancing, easy, preferable—until I lost so much.
I still know everything you’ve given me. Some days, I want those things so much that it’s hard to give you up. But, slowly, I’m starting to question the truth of what you offer. And I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth it. If everything you give is worth the enormous losses that subsequently transpire.
I’m not going to lie, some days it still feels worth it. But then there are the days I can recognize the power and choices and freedom out there. And finally recognize my values. And balance my fears with my desires. It’s not every day, it’s barely even most days, but I’m getting there.
Because the one thing I want is the chance to be myself. And that’s the one thing you’ve NEVER been able to give me.
Dear Ana,
I would like you to know how tired I am of having your voice constantly in my head. I can’t remember when you became my number one value, but I want you to know I’m starting to recognize everything else I value. Everything I value above and before you. That you slowly but surely took away from me, in a way that I didn’t notice until it was already lost.
You took away my opportunity to make friends, because you were always there preventing me from doing so. You took away my family, disconnecting me from everything that once mattered so much to me. I could never focus on what once mattered, because you were there, demanding my attention like a clingy four-year-old.
You took away my opportunity to have fun. I loved running. I loved hiking. I loved feeling the power of my body in motion. But you made it such a chore. You made life feel like such a chore. Why couldn’t I run just to laugh with a friend? Why did I have to stay home doing ten more crunches instead of going to that party? Why was it so useless just to have fun? When did I stop having the right to choose how I lived every day? You took that away from me. And let me tell you, it’s not a fun way to live.
Most of all, you took away my right to just be myself. I couldn’t be crazy and run for fun—I had to always have a purpose. I couldn’t focus on the schoolwork my mind once treasured so much—why aren’t you exercising instead, you’d ask. I couldn’t be the confident, powerful, strong, and shining young woman I had—have—every right to be. You took my power. You took my light. You took my heart. You took my soul. Nothing was good enough for you.
I couldn’t even honor the life and light of Nick with you. It wasn’t good enough. I didn’t deserve to be sad. What’s the use being said when you could do something and chase the pain away?
But I want you to know how much I was always in pain. You took away everything I valued. I lost everything, including myself. I don’t think you can ever know how much that hurt, because you don’t feel. You don’t care about me. So why, why did I become so close friends with someone who would only be happy once I was dead. Only then would there be nothing left to improve.
Sometimes, Ana, I really loved you. Because I followed you into your delusional sunset, where everything seemed perfect and easy. But the hurt and loss never fully went away.
I needed you. I really did. Sometimes, I still think I do. But I want you to know some days I don’t think I do anymore. Have you any idea what power there is in that? I bet you’re scared. You’re not giving up without a fight.
But guess what? Neither am I.
I’m scared, but I’m fighting. I don’t always believe it, but I deserve more. Soon, I hope, that truth can replace your lies. Because the truth is so much more beautiful. I want you to know that. Even on the days I don’t. It’s out there, and it’s fighting you.
You’re not invincible, but you’re strong. But I can be too. And when I learn to live in that strength, I hope my values, my power, MYSELF can overcome you.
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