Thanksgiving: an anorexic's favorite holiday

Maybe today would be an appropriate time to give thanks to those who have helped so much.

So, first off...

Thank you for putting things in perspective for me when he had twisted my thinking so much. And thanks for being tough on me and allowing me to see the insensibility of my actions.

Thank you for trying to ignore the problem when it seemed as though I needed you the most. You knew coddling my "disease" would have only made things worse.

Thanks for letting me cry and forcing me to look deep inside Megan and know the difference between her thinking and his. And for defending me against those who don't and shouldn't understand. Thanks for letting me feel halfway normal and for knowing how to handle people like me.

Thank you for introducing me to food again, in a friendly way of course. And for reteaching me how to treat myself. Thanks for allowing me to see myself as more than a number on a scale.

Thank you for being as crazy as I am at times and understanding that life never turns out the way we wish it would. Thank you for laughing and making me feel comfortable with my flaws and reassuring me that I can overcome them even if I don't believe that I can. And for always having advice even if I only wanted to listen to him.

Thank you for loving me. And for not giving up on me. And for getting angry with me when I wasn't being rational. Thanks for countering him and telling me I'm beautiful and perfect. Thanks for reminding me that I'm more than just a body, fat or skinny; that there are so many other things to love about me.

Thanks for taking his abuse so gracefully. And for continuing to do what is necessary, for not listening to him anymore. And thank you so much for forgiving me. Thank you for being strong when I was not.

And finally, thank you for turning me into this so I can find the strength to fight it and become a better person in the end.

I'm only crying because I got three hours of sleep

"A wise man once said that you can have anything in life, if you sacrifice everything else for it."
-a quote of a quote from Grey's Anatomy



Tonight I went with my mother to a Pizza Hut right around the corner from my house for dinner. Ed, disgusted at me already, told me that the only way he would allow me to eat such trash was to go for the lesser evil-"The Natural" made with all-natural ingredients and a multi-grain crust.

That would be perfect! See, and you're indulging. And you say I never let you indulge, Ed said and we took off to our dinner destination with high hopes.

Unfortunately (for Ed mostly) it turned out they didn't offer "The Natural" anymore. Instead, I was forced to order a normal...white crust...hand-tossed pizza. Ed was mortified.

For the better part of our ridiculously long wait, Ed was screaming in my head, What the hell?! Are you actually going to eat a real, fast food pizza?! It's FAST FOOD, Megan! I hope you realize this. Think of all the extra oils...and the grease and-

Leave me alone. I'm not going to get fat, I tried to make myself believe.

Oh really? And who told you this? People who don't know you at all?! People who don't care about you the way I do?! Ed snapped back.

People who love me, I said and the pizza arrived and I ate it and I waited to hear what terrible things Ed would say. But he didn't say terrible things. In fact, he didn't say anything at all. For the first time in my relationship with Ed, I waited, prepared to face his criticizing attack, and got silence instead.

I was, in no way, able to silence Ed on my own. Oddly enough that beautiful, seemingly impossible accomplishment was the work of no nutritionist, or therapist, or even psychiatrist, but of someone not in the least bit qualified for any of these fields.

But he can speak to me like no one else can. He can entrust confidence in me even when Ed is inevitably knocking it down. He makes me feel as though I am the most beautiful person in the world wearing sweats and a T-shirt while Ed ridicules my naked body in the mirror every night.

He loves me. He wants to see me happy. All Ed ever wanted was pain and anguish on my behalf.

And now I'm finally realizing what's really important. Should I be consumed trying to please an evil, superficial voice in my head that will never accept me no matter how hard I try, or should I be happy with who already adores me for who I am?

"Screw Ed," he says, "You're perfect."

Maybe if I concentrate on that long enough I'll start to believe it myself.

And a banana clip

Car rides almost always relax me. I love the gentle hum and vibrations that engulfs its passengers in such a comforting rhythm. I love how the scene changes with lights and pedestrians and other cars passing by. I love how all I have to do is sit back and watch and sometimes wonder where each of them are going and why.

I can count maybe three car rides that I have not particularly enjoyed. My driving test with the hefty middle aged man sitting two feet away, critiquing every move I made, was one. The ride to QuickCare cradling a bleeding index finger where the top of a bean can had conveniently found a clean path across was another.

The third (and probably worst) took place last night.

"Let's go," my father said emotionless. It must have been drained in his yelling and frustration with Ed and me.

Yes, Ed was visiting again. And he was beyond infuriated with my dinner. Ed and I had made a pact earlier in the day to make peace with each other once again. I would get back to my normal, emaciated self, control everything that went into (or out of) my mouth, and all would be well again. Ed had promised me this. And I believed him.

Part of this deal was to resist the temptations of my old friend: the peanut butter. Just don't do it. Not even one piece of toast. Think of the fat. 16 grams! 16! Ed etched into my mind.

I had followed Ed's every command flawlessly until the evening came and with it-hunger.

One innocent slice of peanut butter toast turned into three and four and six until Ed was screaming at me to stop, screaming at me about how pathetic I was, screaming at me until my sobs overpowered his voice and he left me for my parents to devour.

Another screaming/sobbing match later and I found myself in my car, sporting pajamas and a pink bath robe, wishing that it was only a cut finger that was troubling me.

The ride was numbing. I tried to distance myself as much as possible from my father sitting just a few feet away. I was stiff and tired. I tried to distract myself with nighttime images passing by but to no avail. My head was floating in the tension piercing through the air.

I had told them I just needed to be away, that I couldn't stand to be trapped in that house any longer. Now that they had finally listened to my pleas, all I wanted was to be back home where I could escape to my bed and try to put together the scattered pieces of my mind on my own. Alone. Away from all of this.

We rounded one last corner and there stood the sign shining in neon green lettering that gripped my stomach and stole my breath.

I wondered when I would wake up. This had to be a nightmare.

I'm HAPPY, see?

because I'm dead?

Might as well be. Along with the other poor souls who found themselves in her office to seek chemicals to give them the courage to face life.

I was surprisingly nervous to see her. I've always hated hospitals and have a pretty extensive history of panic attacks and anxiety when confronted with such an environment. Even if this visit would be free of needles and blood, I was convinced it would hurt just the same.

As my dad opened the door leading into the waiting room, images of crazed psychiatric patients rocking back and forth muttering to themselves flooded my mind. I held my breath and...

Alas, the room more resembled my family doctor's office, with Wheel of Fortune droning on into meaningless soap operas on a TV mounted on the back wall and a handful of strangers trying to distract themselves with meaningless gossip magazines.

I wondered why each of them were there. Were there some like me? Some that couldn't stand to helplessly ruin themselves any longer? Some that have a complex so deeply embedded into the folds of their brain they're sure no amount of "talk therapy" would ever uproot it? Do they, too, suffer from a voice in their head telling them they're never good enough and if only they'd try just a little bit more maybe, maybe they could be?

"Megan?", a voice came from around the corner of the room, "Come on back."

Her hair, platinum blond and teased, was the first thing that caught my attention. Ms. Nebe? I wondered to myself for a split second and almost laughed out loud but caught myself. This was no time to be laughing.

"Nice to meet you, Megan," she said as she sat down at her desk surrounded with indescribable drawings along the wall. I began to wonder if those were failed attempts by her patients to map out the inner workings of their emotions but she interrupted my thoughts.

"So, why are you here to see me today?"

I couldn't help myself and laughed a little at that one, took a deep breath, and began.