deniseasy-going (Reed Into It)

I just moved, so dusty secrets have been showing up everywhere reminding me of how sad I once was..of how tainted my mind once was from my eating disorder. This note was from my Freshman year of college in the first month of living away from home, and only 6 months out of my first in-patient treatment.  ( "Ana" = Anorexia, "Mia" = Bulimia )

September 29, 2008

Dear Ana, I've lost weight. Not much, but enough to make me happy. Well, a little. I thought I was 128-130 lbs. But I weighed 126 yesterday, with clothes and flip flops on, a hoodie.  I've been using you a lot lately. Why? Why do I need you so much? Why don't you like me for who I am? I know I'm not skinny. I know. I know I'm "average."  I hate that word when applied to weight, to appearance. I can't be just average. I want to be underweight. I want people to be jealous, and I want boys to think I'm hot. I want a size 0 jeans. Can I have a 1, at least? How fat am I wearing a size 5 jeans...and still have them be tight on me. I even own a size 7! How do you spell "size 7?" F-A-T  A-S-S. I don't know how I was able to let myself go like this. You know, I want you in my life. Just not always. Just not so strong. But every time you come you bring Mia with you. I HATE her. She ruins everything: my mood, my teeth, my insides. She makes me sick. But she's always around. I don't want her here. Every time I'm going through a hard time, she tries to comfort me, but I don't want her to. She just DOES. I want to have kids someday, I want to live life. But she scares me...sooo much. Mia drives me insane. ABSOLUTELY insane. She doesn't let me concentrate on school, or let me go out with my friends. Here I am in class, and instead of paying attention, I'm talking to you, Ana.  I'm going to start counseling soon...in exactly one week. I'm going to be getting weighed every meeting (once a week). That scares me...I can't lose weight while I'm there. I need you for a little while...Just one week. Damn you...listen to me! I'm in RECOVERY, and look what I'm doing. But how could I let myself stay this weight? Can I drop to at least 120 lbs? My lowest weight was 108...so how could 120 hurt? But I can't do this without you, Ana. I'm not strong enough. Please, just stick by me for one more week. I need to focus on myself. Time to press pause on the recovery remote, let's rewind. Just a little. I feat this is the last time I will be able to do this. Ana, do you know what my counselor wants me to get? A book called Overcome Binge Eating. Isn't that disgusting? EMBARRASSING?? Look what Mia did to me. I feel so retarded. I don't want to admit to needing that book...I wish it was just me and you. What does Mia have to do with anything? How could I have let her sneak into my life... I enjoy having you here with me, Ana. I love getting coffee all the time and drinking diet soda. I love getting full off of apples. I love saying to someone "I haven't eaten all day" or "all I had today was xyz..." I love the will power you give me, I love the self-confidence. I love the type of music you introduced me to. I love the word "fragile." I love looking at thinspo. I love feeling empty and pure. I love saying "I have an eating disorder" and having people wonder why someone my size would have one. I love meeting people who are in my same position. Just don't kill me, okay? Don't let me get out of control...Let me have a life... I fear that that's not possible.I know it's not...

It's depressing how dedicated I was to a thing that could have killed me, almost killed me. It painted my eyes and heart with black and made me believe I was unbeautiful, or that I would be unbeautiful until I lost 5 pounds, or 10 pounds, or 20...but the truth is, it wouldn't matter how much weight I lost, because it wasn't the weight that was the problem. It wasn't the artificial pride of having an eating disorder, or the fucked up idea that boys would think I'm "hot" if I was thinner...or that I was "average" because I weighed the exact weight that I should weigh on the average health scale comparing height, age, and weight.  I didn't know who I was back then because all I knew was an eating disorder...all I knew was that people praised me for what I looked like and not who I was. They didn't know that I loved to write or act or paint or that I could harmonize beautifully but couldn't ever be a lead singer, or that I suck at photography but would still crouch on the ground and photograph the grains of grass anyway because it makes me smile. They didn't know that I loved reading the work of Junot Diaz or listening to Lana Del Rey sing about her blue jeans and her cinnamon sweet life. They didn't know that I love taking bits and pieces of different cultures and working them into my wardrobe. They didn't know any of this, because I didn't know. All I knew about myself was a reflection in a mirror that told me I wasn't good enough. 

I drank you from a low ball stained with foggy splashes that’d dried upon the glass. The spots, discolored and an awkward type of round like dried up tear drops left to dry on a mirror table. They emulate those that spot the broken table piece I’ll use someday to cut the rope that binds us. What had been before you? I swirl you ‘round and wonder quietly, secretly, for if I spill you from the rim, that to which my lips faithfully return, trembling, I fear the worst shall come.

And so I swirled you quietly, secretly, and drank you with swollen, burning gulps dying for intoxication to numb me and the binding that keeps me with you, remaining short of breath.

Drunk, I lift the stained glass to cheers, a forceful gesture, made with a bicep sore and decorated with fingerprints, a gesture of freedom and love. But as I do I feel a drip, slipping down my arm like acid, burning a whiskey trail that dies at the concave of my armpit.  A hard swallow of saliva tinted with Maker’s Mark attempts to drown the familiar black butterflies as they shudder to the rhythm of the pounding in my chest.

And then you turn quietly, secretly, so nobody but me can see the wicked in your eyes. And here, the cycle begins. -Denise Reed

“I walked through hell and burned my soul…ashes falling from my hands…part of me lost forever. Grieving, I found the others, burnt and charred like me. Holding on to each other, I knew – even hell had a silver lining.” (Terri St. Cloud)

GREAT NEWS GUYS! I will be speaking in front of 200-300 people at the 25th anniversary celebration for all the school based youth services programs throughout the STATE next Wednesday sharing my story, talking about my 7 year struggle with an eating disorder and how the youth services program in MY school helped get me on the road to recovery. :) I am SO excited! I have been wanting to speak publicly for a while and just haven't found the opportunity, until now. Thank you so much to Lauren and the  Pathways staff for offering me this opportunity. 

On another note, this will be my first time preparing a speech. If anyone has any advice, please message me! :) Thank you!

And if you think you or someone you know may be suffering from an eating disorder, please get help. My door is ALWAYS open, whether you want advice or just need someone to listen. xo

She just…invited herself in. Could you believe that?

Well, yeah. I let her in…AFTER she invited herself. Was I supposed to say no? No—I know, I know. But you know the kind of person I am. I can’t just say “no.” Especially since I’d sort of wanted her to come. And she sort of knew that. I might’ve even asked her once... Like, “hey, wanna come over?” What an idiot. But I figured she’d forgotten.  I figured she didn't care enough about me to remember me even asking. She already had her group, you know? Her loyal group. So why would she trust me?

So, I figured she’d forgotten and I went about my business as if I’d never asked. But, shit. I’d left the door OPEN for her. She knew it was open. So…she eventually came around and took advantage of me.

…

Whatever.

...

…

I liked it.

…

No—NO!—not now. You know I don’t now. I don’t even talk to her anymore. I mean, she tries but I usually ignore her. She thinks I’m not listening…but I do. I do listen. I just, listen and ignore it, though. Like, I hear what she says but I don’t take it in. I mean, when she tries to come around. Does that make any sense?

…

I've seen her hanging with her new friends. Yeah, she’s always hanging with a new crowd…and they all LOVE her. Like, worship. It makes me SO sick. I wish I could just go up to them and tell them the truth—that she’s a lying sack of shit that’ll just stab you in the back. That she’ll make you feel good like you’re cheating the system but it’s all for herself and her sick little plan. God, she’s such a sneaky fucking bitch.

…

Well, they wouldn't believe it, anyway. I mean, if they’re hanging out, then she’s already corrupted them. They’ll do anything she says now. No, I’m being serious. Anything. You know, the same shit I used to do. Ha, what a fucking joke, man.

…

You know a girl died from her? Well, a lot of girls did. But this poor girl…They hadn't even hung out for more than FOUR months and she killed her. Actually, no, wait. It was her sister…but whatever, same difference. They’re like, the same person. But yea! Just like that. Four months. Isn't that crazy? Like, that could've been me. Dude, it almost was. I mean, SHE didn't try to kill me herself. But she tried to convince me to do it…like, she really tried…and, you know, she was SO cool and she promised me that if I did it then everything would be better and amazing and, that I’d be perfect…

She always told me that.

“You’ll be perfect!”

“You could be perfect!”

“And then you’ll be perfect!”

I was never just, “Perfect.”

I haven't written in a while, and have been doing extraordinarily well. However, I missed a couple days of my meds and can't seem to concentrate. There's a burning memory from when I was sick in my head and I needed to write about it. Writing is therapeutic for me, as throwing up used to be. Instead of purging my meals, I now purge my feelings onto my desktop. Enjoy [without being too frightened by my past (emphasis on "past")].

"Too skinny," I used to interpret as a compliment. It used to be something I idolized. Something I longed for, starved for. I'd spend hours gazing at the "too skinny" features: the bony legs, bony shoulders, bony hips, bony cheeks, bony butts, bony thighs. Ripping images of models from magazines and pasting them to the backs of the hatred-filled pages of my notebook-diary, I had given myself up to a world of artificial happiness. To sacrifice my life, my friends, my family, and my health seemed as logical as is putting on a seat belt on a highway in a snowstorm. 

I came across such an image today, and thought, "why the fuck would I want to look like that?"

For I am my own being, not a manufactured mannequin. 

I was given a figure to embrace it, not destroy it.

I am a woman.