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.

"How to Become Anorexic"

 Morbid curiosity gets the best of me sometimes. I like to delve deeper into topics that make me feel uncomfortable, as illustrated by many a blog post that I have written.

Well, remember this blog post? I decided to explore things a little further. If my humble little blog is getting thousands of hits from people who I assume are suffering, looking for the bright side of their dark situation, whatever it may be, via the soft glow of a non-judgmental computer, what is all of Google getting?

Ask, and you shall receive, no matter how dismal, dark, and depraved, when it comes to the world wide web. I took to Google Trends to plug in a couple keywords. After researching the Google stats on some highly important terms, such as my full name and a few phrases that would probably get my AdSense account revoked, I got down to business.

"Anorexia" is a highly searched word. As are phrases, such as "symptoms of anorexia." No surprise there. But the volume at which they are searched meant nothing to me unless I had something compare it to. And these were my awful findings:

"How to become anorexic" skyrockets over "How to recover from anorexia." How ridiculously heartbreaking is that?! The searches for recovery are barely a blip on the radar. 

To make it even worse, there is a lower section, that I did not take a screenshot of, that lists other relevant searches. Under "how to become anorexic," there were a dozen other top searches, such as "become anorexic fast," "how to not eat," and "anorexia tips."

Under "how to recover from anorexia," it gravely said: Not enough search volume to show results.

People aren't even googling the topic of recovery enough to put it on Google's map. Granted, this was not the most scientific study that has even been performed, but it spoke pretty loud and clear to me that more people want to become anorexic than recover from it.

Why? 

Why is society still glorifying the deadliest psychiatric disorder? 

How many people heading to the internet for tips on how to feed their anorexia never lived to ask for help? 

What needs to change before people will stop treating asking for help as weakness or shameful?

These are not rhetorical questions. 

To My Anorexic Readers

I don't know how many of you are bloggers yourselves. Aside from a few regulars, you seem to be the "lurk in the shadows" type of readers who frequent Zoloft and Coffee, but don't comment. I know this because Blogger.com has this nifty tool you may not know about that allows me to see how many people are viewing my site, what outside site they are being directed from, what country they live in, and, for those of you coming from Google, Bing, or Yahoo, what you typed into the little box to get you sent my way. And that is what I am here to talk about today.

Months ago, way back in December when I was brand new on the blogging scene and freshly out of the mental illness closet, I put up a post titled Top 10 Benefits of Being Anorexic. Of course, it was totally facetious. There is nothing good about anorexic, and the post was meant to be a total joke. I figured if I made fun of the issue before anyone else had a chance to do so, I the upper hand. I also thought, "Who the hell is going to read this anyways?"

Well, it turns out, a lot of people. Since December, I have gained a small following. I'm no Perez Hilton, but I have a blog that actually gets read every time I post. And that list that I thought would be read by a few friends who could laugh along with me is being seen by hundreds of people who search "Benefits of Being Anorexic," "Pros of Anorexia," "Advantages to Anorexia," and similar phrases. Aside from "Zoloft and Coffee," these are the top keywords used to find my blog.

This breaks my heart. I imagine young girls sitting alone in front of a computer desperately looking for something to cling to, some way to take control of their lives when another aspect of it is spinning out of control. I picture a slightly overweight girl in high school searching for a solution to end the bullying. I think of my sisters and younger cousins, at such impressionable ages, typing that into a search box and not making it to my page but instead to one of those awful pro-anorexia community sites.

I used to be one of those girls. I used to be involved in the web-based Pro-Ana community. I would spend hours trying to figure out how to make the hunger pangs disappear. How to hide my illness. How to burn more calories. How to barely survive. I would talk to other girls who were going through the same thing I was, girls who had the extreme desire to be skin and bones, rid of the sin that is fat. We fed off each other's illness. I am not proud to admit that I was an active member on these sites, but the fact of the matter is that when you are in that situation, you want nothing more than to be with someone who understands.

This is to all those girls hoping beyond hope that anorexia is a friend to lean on: I understand. I know what it is like to be that desperate, feel that alone, hate your body that much. I have sought comfort in that empty feeling, trying to make myself pure. I have craved the power and control that comes from denying basic human needs. I understand. I do.

I know there is nothing I can say that will change your mind. I am not a therapist. I am not your friend. I am a stranger over the internet, but so are the people promoting Ana. Even though I know there is nothing I can say, I am going to try anyways.

I am not going to tell you you're beautiful. I used to read that on the internet all the time, and I had the typical, "You don't even know me response." I'm not going to spout cliches like "It gets better" and "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." In my case, shit got way worse before it got any better. (But, ahem, it did get better.)

What I can say with absolute certainty, no matter who you are or what your situation is, is that your body does not deserve that kind of treatment, and your mind does not deserve to be in the jail you are creating. Anorexia is like using extreme methods of torture on yourself that would have anyone else who tried using them on someone else locked up for life. You are depriving yourself of the happiness and health you do deserve.

In an ideal world, you would now make an appointment with your doctor, therapist, find a support group, and head to McDonald's, but I know that is not how this works. It will probably still be a struggle for you to put dressing on your salad. The words I said maybe resonated for a few seconds, but the rumbling in your stomach was louder than me. I understand. I am not asking you to change your life overnight. I am just humbly requesting that you think about what you are doing to yourself for a moment. Write about it in your journal. Meditate on it. Ponder it over next time you go for a run. I don't care; just give it a moment.

And if in that moment you decide that just maybe you want to fight back, do something with it. X out of your diet pages, and go to RecoverYourLife.com. Put away your daily calorie journal, and open up to a friend. Hell, you can even message me. I am a good listener.

Scars and Cellulite

The sun is shining. The birds are singing. And the mercury is rising. Which means clothes are being shed and skin is exposed. And black clouds are rolling over that sunshine of mine. Maybe that is a bit dark. I am truly loving this weather. In fact, I'm itching to spend the weekend outside and go camping. Or whatever it is that city girls call camping. Ok, I want to drink around a fire. But that exposed skin, it's been getting to me.

Let's tackle the easy one first, the one that is bothering probably 90% of girls in Wisconsin. I've still got my winter weight. BUT I've got the extra 10 pounds I put on because of that damn medication that makes me a lazy fuck. Slow down, Mary. Stay calm. Breathe. I went to buy shorts with Boyfriend yesterday, and while I made it out of Kohl's without tears, I did have that moment where I looked in the mirror and saw a blob. "Lard ass" and "nauseating" and "obscene" flashed clearly across my vision like spelling words on Sesame Street. And they bubbled up for the next couple of hours.

Now realistically, I know that I'm not disgusting. That is, if I can trust the numbers and Boyfriend. And the professionals who roll their eyes at me. But the fact that I am a good 3 sizes larger than I was before I went into treatment is fucking with me pretty hardcore. The fact that I can't see bones for the first time in years is sending my head spinning.

I'm not going to let anorexia get her grip on me again though. I am going to eat right and exercise and all that jazz. Living with anorexia is hell, so I am going to make a conscious effort not to fall prey like I usually do this time of year.

But there is another issue. One that I haven't really had to deal with until now. My scars. I have scars all up and down my one arm, and I am having to get used to bare them for all to see unless I want to wear long sleeves all summer. Which I don't. For months, I was able to easily hide them with no question. Now, not so much.

I can feel people's eye burning holes in my arms when they see them, and I so desperately want to explain that I am not crazy, that I was going through a rough time, that I'm past it. Look, they are all old and healed! But I know that doing that would be entirely counterproductive. So instead, I pretend that I don't notice them noticing, turn my arm inward slightly so maybe they will be less visible, and wait for Mederma to go on sale.

Maybe nobody is even looking. Maybe I am imagining that people are staring at my arm. Either way, I am not comfortable in my own skin, quite literally, these days.

Guilt - Loving Him and Hating Me

The part I hate the most about having mental illnesses is that I end up hurting those I love most. Every time I have an episode, I feel like I'm stomping all over any plans they may have had. The best I can do is put forward a meager attempt to suffocate my explosion until I'm alone. Like right now.

Boyfriend is a goddamn saint when it comes to dealing with my moods. He holds me when I'm crying because I looked in the mirror for two seconds too long. He figured out a system to get me to slow down and breathe when Wild Mary shows up. He has willingly, happily, and quietly put himself on the back burner.

I love him for doing it and hate myself for letting him do it.

Every time I have a night like this, awake and alone and breaking, the only thing I find solace in is the fact that I haven't kept Boyfriend awake to witness it all. Other than that, my fucked up brain tortures me by reminding me of what I am guilty of.

Boyfriend has to mentally proofread every sentence he speaks out of fear that it may be triggering.

Grocery shopping is an intense experience every week with my unpredictable fear of certain foods.

My episodes have caused Boyfriend to miss countless nights out with friends because I could not be trusted alone and wasn't capable of socializing.

He has to work twice as hard to support both of us when I am a sinking ship. Which feels like most of the time.

Whatever stigma I face, he also faces. And maybe worse. Boyfriend is a well-adjusted member of society who has chosen to be with one of its embarrassments.

Whether he admits it or not, he is plagued by the fear that he may come home to another one of my aftermaths.

It kills me that I have done this to him. Boyfriend has a look he gives me when I'm crying, a look that begs the bipolar and anorexia to just fucking disappear. A look he never puts into words because he knows he can't ask me to do the impossible. He hides the exhaustion and fear so well, but I know they are behind those pleading eyes too. And I did this to him. I am the one who overflows with painful confusion that spills onto Boyfriend. 

While he is busy giving me all the love in the world times ten, I can barely muster a gesture. The pills might make me so hazy that the words and actions swim around in my head leaving me unsure as to what I have said and done. Depression leaves me motionless next to him. Mania rushes me right past him. I am a shit girlfriend for not being able to reciprocate the love I have for Boyfriend, the love he deserves. Every. Single. Second. It's not enough to just be there for him on my rare good days.

Even though I didn't have the formal diagnosis when we first started dating, I knew I wasn't normal. I knew suicide was in the inescapable near future. But I still wormed my way into his heart and made him fall in love with me before exposing my storms and monsters. I have prayed that, for his sake, Boyfriend will come to his senses and take back his freedom. He has given me more love, attention, honesty, second chances, and hope in one year than most girls get in a lifetime. 

Bah Humbug! No, that’s too strong, ’cause it is my favorite holiday

Good Riddance, Christmas!!! Bah humbug!!! Other anti-holiday phrases! Ok, just kidding. I love the holidays, but can't there be one that celebrates the circadian rhythm? Or maybe a holiday where everyone turns off their cell phones and no one cooks? Fun!

In all seriousness, it is hard to have a mental illness and carry on with the social conventions that appear to come naturally to the rest of the world during festive times. I understand that everyone has stress involving finances, relatives, and general exhaustion this time of year. But when you throw a mental illness or two into the mix, December is not only stressful, it can be triggering.

I can't speak for every person and all illnesses, but here are a few of the hardships I experienced December 23-25.

• Lots of people were in my house two days in a row. This is a big deal. I spent a long time isolating myself, sneaking out of gatherings early, and "feeling sick." Now all of a sudden, I had people ringing my doorbell, and I had to let them in. Because I invited them. 

• Not only did these people want to come in, they expected me to be dressed and capable of pleasant conversation (neither of which are guarantees on any given day). I broke down in loud, messy tears in the middle of pre-party cleaning, hating myself for not being normal and afraid that I wouldn't be able to handle a Christmas party with family I see on a regular basis and friends I talk to daily. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to"? Bullshit. That is a bad party. A bad party that would have all the guests backing up to door and talking about the crazy lady who thought she was capable of sanity for a few hours.

• Then there is the opposite of depression to worry about when you're bipolar. "Wild Mary" kicked in on Christmas Eve, and she cooked for at least 9 hours, and cleaned for another two, starting at 6 because she woke up before 5. Dainty little appetizers, color-coded fruit kabobs, individual wonton cups for spinach dip, multi-cultural desserts, and dreidel-shaped ice. With the wildness usually comes anxiety. By the time guests arrived, I was sure they would see I'm crazy. My mania was written all over those mini quiches. 

• At my house, every other house, and most offices, food. Food as far as the eye can see. Chocolate and cheese and sausage and breads and pie and egg nog. Do I really need to explain why that may be scary to someone with anorexia? 

• I am not the most superficial girl, but I do like pretty nails. Any coat of color will do really. But Lithium tremors came full force the day before Christmas Eve. I wanted some festive, fun nails. Lithium just wanted to splash red all over my fingers. I felt like I was preparing for a low budget Christmas-themed horror film. 

• Finally, there is alcohol to worry about. I don't go to bars or clubs for the sole purpose of not drinking, but it creeps its way in during the holidays, oozing down the windows and crawling under the door. Oh, right. I wasn't actually in a Christmas horror movie. Fine, I bought it. But not with the intent to drink. It fucks with the lithium. Like, for real. Christmas Eve, I had to make a choice: drink with my friends and suffer the consequences, or abstain like a good girl and feel bitter that I don't get to relax after all my hard work. I drank. I didn't sleep all night. I was dizzy for hours. Bad choice, and I didn't even get close to drunk.

I love my family and friends. I love the holidays. I had a wonderful time when I wasn't teetering on the edge and was glad I did it. I proved to everyone that I can hold it together and create a wonderful evening and cook lunch on no sleep the next day. But next year, I'm handing over the reins or serving hot dogs. You guys pick.

I have the energy to fight back now.

I am always afraid that people will think I "chose" to become anorexic so that I would be thin and beautiful. Maybe they will think I starved myself for the attention and darkly glamorous life. I even thought maybe people would accuse me of lying because someone my size could never be anorexic. I could lie and say that I've never heard these things in the 5 years since being diagnosed. One bitch did. She mocked me when I was at my lowest and called me fat when it was in remission. Even though no one with a moral compass or smidge of sensitivity ever said anything negative, that one still keeps me from wanting to talk about it. 

Well, this goes out to that one bitch. 

It is because of people like her that there is a stigma. 

If anorexia was a choice I made to become beautiful, I clearly did something wrong. Anorexia didn't turn me into a waif-like movie star with a narrow waist, big boobs, and luxurious hair. I was a skeleton with bones. And bad hair. And brittle nails. And dull skin. No amount of hot oil treatments, manicures, or makeup could fix the way I looked. But that wasn't the point. The point was that there will still an ounce of fat on the outer part of my left thigh, and I had to get rid of it. That ounce of fat stood between me and my desire to be completely clean, totally empty of anything that was bad in me, mentally or physically.

If I did it for the attention, why did I isolate myself when it was at its worst? That is how I lost all attention. After canceling on friends for months, they stopped calling. I didn't have the energy to make new friends. Or the time. I had a lot of calorie counting, exercising, and pretending to be functional at school to do. I didn't want attention because doing things with people who weren't crazy meant that they would try to get me to eat or ask me why I've lost weight or gossip about me after I left. It was easier to stay holed up in my apartment staring at my books.

And as for anorexia being glamorous? A bony butt that hurts if you have to sit for more than 15 minutes isn't glamorous. Going to sleep every night mentally planning how to not go over your 300 calorie limit for the next day isn't glamorous. Exercising at 2 in the morning because you woke up from a nightmare that you ate a piece of what used to be your favorite cake isn't glamorous. None of it is.

The last accusation: that I couldn't be anorexic because I wasn't skinny enough. That is kinda the nature of the illness in action right there. Anorexia makes you think you're fat when you're not, and deliberately calling someone who has this illness "fat" is like handing someone who is suicidal a loaded gun. I was almost 40 pounds underweight, and I still thought I was fat. I was terrified of other people thinking so too. Obviously, anorexia had a pretty firm hold on my body and mind. But even if I wasn't grossly thin, even I was a "healthy" weight, who is an outsider, with no professional right to diagnose or personal right to comment, to judge what mental illness I may or may not have? 

No one can truly understand what this illness is like unless they have gone through it, but as a society, we should have enough sensitivity to the issue to allow those who suffer from it to feel comfortable sharing their experience, asking for help, and healing without judgment.

I don't Measure Up

Ironically, I thought anorexia was like a friend that helped me keep my sanity. I wanted to starve myself to the point where my brain couldn't infiltrate my daily life with its madness. I thought it was working to keep the racing thoughts and depressing mantras at bay. I thought I was in control.

Holy shit, was I wrong.

This "friend" wasn't helping me at all. Instead of giving me back the control I needed, the anorexia was taking over my brain to kill my body while constantly lying to me. Even though I would watch the numbers on my scale drop and had to wear clothes from the children's department, I somehow believed I was getting fatter. I was constantly cold, passed out on a regular basis, started losing hair, and developed a heart condition, but refused to accept that this was anorexia's fault. 

No amount of therapy appointments or visits to the doctor or regaining consciousness on the floor could convince me that the anorexia I needed  to calm my mind was killing me. But a two minute friendly battle during a girl's night could.

The details leading up to the life-changing moment are fuzzy. I think we were arguing about who would look better in a certain dress or skirt. She told me she would totally wear it, if she didn't have such thunder thighs. I told her she was crazy and that I would kill for legs like hers. Mine were too squishy. Her mouth dropped. She grabbed a tape measure, and proved to me once and for all that my legs were thinner than hers. By a lot. 

For her, that was the end. She won the argument, and we went back to whatever trivial thing we had been doing that got us on the topic of dresses in the first place.

It was far from over. I put on a good show for the rest of the evening, acting like I wasn't completely distracted and scared out of my fucking mind. When I was alone again, all hell broke loose. I grabbed the measuring tape and went wild. 

The microwave is smaller than the stove, right? Yes. 

Is my cat bigger than the pillow? No, I didn't think so. 

My toothbrush is skinnier than my hairbrush. Yup, I knew that.

Is my arm bigger than the table leg? What the fuck.

Full on panic. Why was I able to see everything else for what it really was, but I couldn't do the same for my own body?! I spent hours measuring and recording results and remeasuring and crying in a ball on the floor and redoing the experiments with another tape measure. I couldn't make sense of what was happening without admitting that I was crazy. I was determined to prove that I wasn't wrong, that the anorexia hadn't betrayed me. But she had.

I realized, with anger, fear, resentment, and defeat, I couldn't trust my brain anymore. If I was going to get better, if I was going to stay alive and actually start living, I needed to learn to trust other people to tell me what was best. More importantly, I needed them to tell me what was real.

Even after this epiphany, I didn't go down easily. I dropped out of treatment, I relapsed, I skipped meals and lied to loved ones. But eventually,  I learned I had to stand up for myself against anorexia. And I needed help  from sources stronger than me to do that.

I still have days that I cry because I think I'm fat. I won't wear certain types of clothes because I don't think they flatter my "strange" shape. Some of that is just being a self-conscious girl. A little part of it is the anorexia that still lives in the back of my mind, buried under coping mechanisms, years of healing, acceptance, and desire to move forward.

Ramblings of an Insomniac

Sleep isn't part of daily life for me. I suppose I should be used to it. I've lived without other necessities.

Like food. But I got gratification from not eating. I was in control. I could decide what and when and where. Or not at all. If I changed my mind, I could burn it off by going for a run in my neighborhood or doing jumping jacks in the restaurant bathroom. 

Years ago, not sleeping used to be just as awesome. I could go to school full-time and ace all my classes and work full-time and keep a clean house and exercise every day and still have time for fun. Because I didn't need food or sleep, I felt impervious to disaster. I defied biology or chemistry or whatever science this falls under that I clearly didn't study because I thought this all was okay.

Now, my inability to sleep doesn't feel so great. It's not my unbounded motivation keeping me awake at night or my superhuman ability to wake up after 3 hours of sleep to alphabetize my books. It's an illness. It's a mental illness that takes over my life, forces me to obsess over it alone in the middle of the night because it won't let me get a moment of rest.

Normal people have no problem falling asleep after being awake for 20 hours. Normal people don't start work when they wake up 3 hours before their alarm is set to go off. Normal people don't celebrate being able to fall asleep without taking Benadryl.

Before I was prescribed the Lithium, I was able to function around the clock. I had insane amounts of energy, so if I wasn't sleeping, I was occupying myself some other way. The Lithium has slowed me down. I want to sleep. I don't feel like working 3 in the morning, and cable sucks at that hour.

Ok, I know I sound like I'm complaining. I will be the first to admit it. But the inability to sleep is to my bipolar what a buffet was to my anorexia. Fucking terrifying and anxiety-producing. It's at night, when I am alone and pleading with the Sandman to let me have a break from it all, that the worst of all my racing thoughts creep up front and center. The moment I take off my glasses to attempt sleep, I can feel whether it will be a night of calm contemplation or unrelenting hysteria.

Best Therapist I Ever Had

Therapy has always scared me. It's hard for me to get to that point where I can openly talk about the things I would rather hide forever with someone I barely know. (Talking is way different than writing). Naturally, I tend to lie to the therapist. I'd have tears running from my bloodshot eyes, but I'd still smile and say I'm fine. I'd drag my 90 pound self to the office, pass out on the couch, and claim to be eating.

But there was one therapist, one out of about a half a dozen, that I actually connected with. Michelle. After maybe 2 sessions, I was flung open. I shared everything from my mom's suicide to my cat's favorite toy. Michelle knew the ins and outs of my anorexia, its possible causes, triggers, and goals. She cried with me, encouraged me to write, and made me believe that maybe I could get better for real this time.

I was explaining to Michelle what I now recognize as a possible manic episode. Every time I left the house, every time I was around people, every time I wasn't making an incredible effort to shut down my brain all the whirling ideas, plans, musings, dreams, monologues, and fears rushing through my head at once would frustrate me to the point of tears. I wanted to slow down. I wanted one thought at a time.

Michelle looked at me very seriously. She put down her pen and pad and told me that she thinks she knows what is happening. My heart was racing. She begins to explain: I had spent a long time numbing myself by not eating. Now that I was up to almost 800 calories per day, the parts of me that had been in hibernation were being reawakened.

"Mary, I think you might be psychic."

Michelle believed that I was able to feel the emotions of people around me, which is why crowded areas freaked me out. It also explained why I had so many conflicting thoughts at the same time. It could even explain I started starving myself to become numb in the first place.

She handed me several books on honing my psychic ability and keeping it under control on a regular basis. We hugged, awkwardly, as my arms were filled with strange books, and a moment later, I was alone in the hallway.

"What the fuck?" I didn't believe it. But when you throw a bunch of books at someone who is manic, she will read them. And find more. And research the hell out of it, whether it is important or not. Or at least, that's what I did. Michelle gave me an outlet to pour my extra energy into.

I'm not a skeptic. Boyfriend will vouch that I believe in some weird shit. But I did not believe I was psychic. What I did believe was that Michelle was kind of crazy. And that made sense. Of course I would connect with the only crazy therapist I've had.

I continued to see Michelle twice a week for another couple of months. Most of the sessions were spent practicing breathing techniques and meditation exercises that were meant to keep my psychic ability in check. I think she saw me as some sort of project or discovery. Her techniques did work to keep my mind calm at times, but I eventually quit therapy again and quit eating again. At that time, that was the only thing that really worked to calm my crazy.

Most would not call that a successful story, but how many people can say they have been called a psychic by a mental health professional?

Top 10 Benefits of Being Anorexic

TOP 10 BENEFITS OF BEING ANOREXIC

• My crazy obsession with food has made me a pretty good cook.
• I always have gum.
• My cold hands are perfect to lay across Boyfriend's forehead when he has a fever.
• If I was held prisoner and denied food until I gave up whatever secrets my captor wanted out of me, I would outlast everyone.
• I can spend my last couple of dollars on art supplies instead of food when I'm broke.
• No one needs to look up how many calories are in any food with me around. I have them all memorized. 
• There is no way to style my thin hair, so I get to sleep in an extra 10 minutes.
• If Starvation Protester ever becomes a professional job, I will be rich.
• Passing out in public always livens up everyone's day.
• Catching every cold floating around in the winter gives me an excuse to not go sledding when I am already freezing.

***Obviously, I'm kidding. Anorexia is an absolutely awful condition to live with. End of story. But making light of it takes away some of its power, right?***

If you are looking for someone to talk to who understands, I'm here. I am not a therapist, but I am someone who has been on both sides of this illness. Email me: zoloftandcoffee@gmail.com