Ana says my best friend is dying.

Ya know, there are times I think I am doing so well. Look at me! I haven't counted calories since June 30th. I ate a ponza rotta over the weekend (pizza, folded over and deep fried) without becoming hysterical. And I haven't cried about missing the last 16 workouts I scheduled in my head. Woop woop, success!

But then, my scale. My damn Achilles heel. That 14 inch piece of plastic and springs that I love in a really fucked up way.

She's dying.

At first, I thought it was just a battery dilemma. I thought I could resuscitate her by popping in two fresh AA batteries. When it didn't work, my denial told me that the batteries weren't qualified to power such a personified machine. But even the freshest Energizers couldn't completely revive the one I affectionately call "Scaley."

Sure, I can get a reading, if I want to step on and off of her 4-5 times, waiting approximately 25 seconds between each attempt. But this has significantly hindered my ability to know my weight at all times. I can't hop on when I am half asleep, having woken up because I love drinking all the tea at night. I don't have the time to check my weight real quick before I run out the door to work, for the third time that morning, or when I'm home on my lunch break, trying to take care of the puppy and household cleaning duties.

I can't weigh myself - shower - weigh myself- get dressed - weigh myself - do my hair - eat breakfast - weigh myself. Now, if I want to know my weight, I need to dedicate a solid 2 1/2 minutes to accommodate my dear friend's ailing health.

Thankfully, even I realize that spending 25 minutes per day standing on a scale is a little ridiculous, so I have reduced my weigh-ins from about 10 per day to maybe 3. I know, so normal, right?

The turmoil extends beyond not just being able to know my weight to the tenth of a pound all day, every day. A part of me seriously fears that maybe I'm not getting the accurate numbers anymore. I have depended on this scale for over 6 years. And because it's me, that is probably over 20,000 registered weights. I am not ready to part with the consistency of using the same scale. I am not ready to give up what has validated my success and condemned my failures.

I don't think I could ever love or trust a new scale, but I don't think I could ever live without one.

This puts me at a crossroads, one that I feel like many people could relate to. It's not going to be a scale for everyone. But maybe it's an abusive partner. Or a bottle of Jack. Do they take that brave step away, into a scary life of self-reflection and freedom? Or do they turn around only to find themselves looking for the next jackass or next bender - different, but somehow exactly the same - because it's the only way they know?

What am I if I don't have the tangible proof of my gravitational pull on earth?
How will I be judged if not by that number?
Am I ready to find out?

I may be anti Anti Ana...

Well, some things never change. After spending weeks thinking about how I could breathe new life into my blog, I kill it. I change the name, making it impossible for old followers to find me, and then stop posting altogether. Good job, Mary. Way to reach the people!

And now, here I am, 2 months later, wondering if the reason I haven't been inspired to write was because the idea of counteracting individual pro-ana myths didn't spur enough passion in me. Yes, I want to be on the front lines, in the trenches of this war against eating disorders. Yes, I feel compelled to share my story and experience. Yes, I know my purpose in life is to provide hope and eliminate loneliness for those suffering. 

But how?

Maybe the answer isn't going to come from bright lights and interrogation of pro-ana sites. I could dissect the horrible, ridiculous, sickening lies that bounce around that shadowy corner of the internet by relaying all the honest realities that I learned from my team of medical professionals. But does anyone really care? I mean, seriously. There are cazillions of articles on the internet meant to educate readers about the proper way to calculate macronutrients. The benefits of healthy fats. Moderation. Sweet jesus, the moderation.

This leaves me in a pickle. I don't know what to write about partly because I have lost most of my readers. So whatever I do next either has to be entirely therapeutic for me, knowing that the best I will get is a few people who will accidentally click on my link thinking that it is something super cool about the volcano in Ecuador, Antisana.

Or I need to put in shit tons (yes, "shit tons" is an actual measurement) of effort reviving Zoloft and Coffee The Anti Ana.

You will not get an answer in this post. Yes, I'm talking to you, you adventurous volcano climber, you. This is going to take some thought. I am going to have to analyze how I want to spend those 13 minutes of freedom I get per week. How to maximize them for my enjoyment and, potentially, other people's advocacy.

But in the chaos that is my life and the quarter century crisis that is going on far too long, if you ask me, soul searching galore is happening in my head on an hourly basis. Somehow, I always end up back here.

Stay tuned, folks.