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LETTERS TO AN EATING DISORDER I was once asked to write a letter to my eating disorder. It didn't turn out quite as I had anticipated. Rather than it being a letter of anger and loathing, it turned out to be more of a love letter. I was both shocked and ashamed - how could I have written such a thing?! But it was illuminating to say the least. It spelt out the truth to me: I was romancing my illness. I couldn't advertise myself as a victim any longer for I was courting the victimisation. I include this page because I think that it illustrates the use writing can have for a sufferer. It also might help those of you who do not have eating disorders yourselves to gain an understanding of a sufferers' paradoxical relationship with their illness. On one hand we hate it, and we love to hate it. However, on the other hand, a very large part of us is often in love with our own self-destruction, no matter how much we may hate to love it. It is this love - shameful and hidden as it may be - that keeps us locked in an illness that can kill. |
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| Fairy's Letter
Dear Eating Disorder, I am penning this letter because I feel it is time you listened to me as, for so long, I have you. You don’t listen to reason, I know this by now, but I want you to read this, word for word. I want you to know how you have affected my life. As you know, it was six years ago that we first met. I suppose that we were formally introduced through a mutual friend. However, I noticed you before then, on the street, in restaurants, in the park – you sure do get around. Did you notice me too? You had quite a reputation at school. You were spoken of often. A few girls wanted you, but most found you disgusting: self-absorbed, superficial, all show. I was intrigued though and, it has to be said, on our first few dates, you treated me well. You gave me full attention, something that I suppose I wasn’t used to. Of course, my friends didn’t approve of you and, as our relationship developed, they offered me an ultimatum: it was them or you. I chose you. I have to wonder at my decision now, for I sacrificed so much for you, and yet still, you always demand more. Six years, it’s a long time. A long time to be held captive in a relationship that gives so much less than it takes. I fell for you. You knew I would. And now you use my neediness, my desire for approval, as your most powerful weapon. You slice away at my confidence, feed me with promises that burst like bubbles as soon as they are touched. I lost my friends for you, because you said that you were a better friend than any of them could ever be. I lost respect for you, because you convinced me that you would give me all the respect I could ever need. I lost grades for you, because you told me that the only number of any importance was the one found on the scale. I lost my family's trust for you, because you told me that you were all there was to trust. I lost my health for you, because you claimed that health is a small price to pay for perfection. I lost time for you, because you killed so many hours of so many days. I lost laughter for you, because you made me take life oh so seriously. I lost relationships for you, because you insisted my love for you must be entire. I lost my mind for you, because you encouraged me to devalue its worth. I lost myself for you, because you never cared for me anyway ... And so now I am a shell of what I once was, a shadow of what I could have been. You have scooped out my center, blotted out my substance – consumed all that gave me an identity other than what I am to you, and you to me. Whereas once I was my own person, now I am a vacancy. A void. And yet still I ask you to fill me. Make me whole. Give me back what you took. It’s like asking an abuser to soothe me, to rock me gently with a song. Singing soft and low, I can hardly even make out the lyrics at times, ones which are more those of a requiem than a lullaby. I sometimes ask, what do you want from me? Perhaps, instead I should ask, what do I want from YOU? Abuse? Sometimes a few bruises hurt less than loneliness. Sometimes. Yours, with regret,
Fairy
Dear Bulimia, I don't really want to talk to you right now....you are the origin of my pain, my struggles and my broken relationships...I hate what you are doing to me! You have fucking ruined my whole adolescent and young adult life...you are a pimp, who sells my body to be abused, ravaged and demoralised. You don't give a fuck about me or my well being only my demise and your victory!!!! I am left isolated and alone...I am a bastard! Every day, I wake up, ponder and rack my brain over the clothes I need to wear and the make-up I need to apply in order that I may 'earn a day's living' for you! You flogg me to the masses, and ensure that I cannot be myself, but a clone of your twisted and sadistic self. You have robbed me of my dignity, I would do anything for you so that your insatiable ego may be satisfied and my body denied of any sustenence! The more I think of it, I am a slave gagged and bound by you. You are my master, I am your spokesperson. My body 'oh mighty one is thy temple', I am made in your 'image and likeness'. What I hate about you most is the fact that you intimidate me, you mock me in front of a room full of people...YOU ARE ME! So does this mean that the power to change is within me? Should I be able to expel these feelings through self-determination? Yeah, that is it.... ....but "parting is such sweet sorrow"! (Romeo and Juliet) I hate you, but you contain me. You anger me, but I melt in your presence. You anhiliate me, but hold me tight. You make me feel worthless, but you are all me. What way will I go? Would I die for you? Catherine Mckeown(not recovered)
Dear Ed(-die), I think this letter comes long overdue. You have done a lot of talking to me over the years and I only ever have replied in monosyllables, only ever to obey or tell you where to sod off. Which is odd because I am usually a person who says far too much, my general gobbyness having destroyed too many relationships. Ours has always been a silent one, though, full of anger, deceit and mutual manipulation. Let’s start at the beginning. Ten years ago we stumbled towards each other. I was too intelligent, too hyperactive, unable to cope with the cavalcade of thoughts and emotions that seemed to alienated me from my peers. You offered me stillness, refuge, understanding. You lied to me, stole from me and desecrated my teenage years. No friends, no freedom, no existence recognisable as life. You were transformed from friend to adversary. I fought myself free eventually through my will to avoid sectioning and determination to succeed academically. But although I emerged with a shining portfolio of qualifications, an impeccably spent gap year, a place at medical school and enough hopes, dreams and visions to last my lifetime and save the planet singlehandedly ... I was left unable to cope with adulthood. As I concentrated upon maintaining that polite weight all the demons you had kept away for all those years began to emerge. The physical disabilities you had helped me to ignore and the pain their legacy evoked. Loneliness. Unfathomable anger and unrelenting despair and severe, severe depression. The sense that nobody could reach me, touch me, listen. Antidepressant and then antipsychotic medication kept you away ... but then, after three years, the suicide attempt. I lost my job, my course, friends, home, the support of my family. In crying out for help I was labelled with an untreatable personality disorder: no more drugs. And in the absence of chemical stimuli to my appetite, I wooed you back. Why? What have you to offer? (And why is all of what you appear to offer utterly superficial and blatant bullshit?)
So do I really want you controlling my life? No. NO! Because the pain will never leave me and the protection you appear now to be offering is hollow and illusionary ... Maybe my depression and desperation and inability to handle being alive is insoluble ... but messing around with food solves nothing. Ed-die ... I want you out of my life! But to be honest, I doubt that our relationship will ever end. It has been so long ... With no love at all
Aisha
Dear Eating Disorder, I wish I could hate you but I can’t. Despite all you have done to me I still can’t help the desperation to cling on… to wrap myself up in the ‘protective ed blanket’. At the moment I’m stuck at a crossroads ... I have you screaming at me that I’m eating too much and that I’m going to be fat… while realistically I know that I’m, if anything, eating a lot less than the average person. Then I have the other, more rational voice… telling me the truth if only I could always believe that. It’s like… there’s one path full of hurt but familiar security, and perceived control ... and another one equally full of hurt and the terrifying unknown, but with the chance for happiness ... and to be honest, you’re the most attractive option at the moment ... and I can’t rationalise why. I do hate you in some ways ... for what you’ve taken away from me. You’ve taken away my happiness for so long, my ability to trust although perhaps that’s never been there, my ability to love, you’ve caused me to shut myself away, hurt myself, punish myself ... you’ve taken away two and a half of my teenage years ... how many more? But at the same time as the hate I still have the ‘promise’ of perfection, which I tentatively cling to. The perfection that I am so desperate to reach ... that you promise me again and again ... and I believe you despite having still seen no sign of the ‘better things’ that await ... I often wonder why I still believe I need you, because you have given me nothing but pain and hurt. Was I happy when I was ill and too thin? You’ve made my life hell ... and I can’t even scream and shout at you in this ... I am expressing myself so differently to how I expected- I wanted to tell you I hate you. I wanted to shout, scream ... but I can’t because maybe I still need you there ... The crazy thing is, I hate me, but need you ... and that is crazy. You’ve made me hate me, because I can’t reach the perfection that you have convinced me I need. You play on my insecurities. I am under no illusions: I know that you are trying to kill me ... I KNOW THAT. So why can’t I hate you? Why can’t I push you away? Because I still feel like I need you ... pathetic. Yours,
Angeldust
**A foreword from the author of the following letter: "I have DID/MPD (multiple personality disorder) I don't know how to explain this in a few sentences, so I'm not trying to here. Because of my MPD, I have many many voices, and a world filling my head. At parts, this may not make sense, may flip around, but here we are..."** Dear Eating Disorder, Once in the dark ages, my second year of life, though chronologically 12th; you crept into my head. Adding to yet another voice, more company, more filler to all that was missing. My background, my life, my love. You took the place of my friends, you eased my deep depression, you took the focus off of how damn sucky my life was. For that - for that, I thank you. You were there when I needed you. You outstayed your welcome however. When you turned to bulimia you twisted my brain backwards, you caused my heart to flip flop and cry out for more. You starved me of my feelings, my caring, my life. You had me fill it with food... only to throw it out once again. You played one hell of game w/ us. You lied... you were supposed to make me whole again, take the broken pieces and put them back together. At first you did, you were glue, the mirror was pasted back together; only to be thrown to the ground, stepped on, thrown up, swept up, thrown away over and over again. You held me together, you tore me apart. Each day, as I hung onto you for my dear precious life you'd burn another piece out of my soul. I look back - I lost my family, my friends... and worst of all, myself. I lost my hope, my health, my dreams, my mind - and my PASSION. My passion to experience, to love - to BE. I'm not scared of you anymore. I don't believe anything you say. It's such crap. The biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard. I so wish to scream out to the world, not to listen to you. To never experience you. To never have to creep into the darkest pain before finding the path. I wish for you to leave the rest of the world alone, but you won't listen, will you? You expect everyone to listen to you - but you are perhaps dead, are blind. You don't see the body you've made, the coldness, the voids. You don't hear our cries, and feed on our insecurities. But I know you, and I don't listen... anymore... but you're still there. Forever I ask myself why... aw, you're not only a hell hole, but an addiction. A black deep cave, a bottomless pit of burning flesh... There's no way out, until you flip your world, turn it around, and fall, and climb, and work your way to the light. I'll thank you for these things: you've taught me I'm strong, that I can live through hell and come out on top. That what comes up, must fall down, that there's two sides... no matter how deep I fall, I will always make my way out. You've taught me to have faith in myself. I love that even though you're there trying to kill me, the end effect is positive. You're still there. Still filling my holes w/ food, purging them out. You're still my comfort - in knowing I can hurt. You're still my coping mechanism, you're still a way to die - my "out" button. The truth is, though - that I don't need you. None of us need you, that scares you... but, y'know - after all you've put us through, I think you deserve to be abandoned, lonely, depressed... however, I will say nothing, unlike you. I shall merely fade you out until you're a distant memory of torment. I don't hate you, I just think you're sad, to feed on the flesh of us, it's sick. I let you for far too long... but you're uninvited now. Farewell wishes,
Kornie
Dear Minx, The ice maiden (one and the same, my ED voice) I was a child once. I wore a flowing skirt on those days. A virgin white, I danced in my garden turning circles, singing at the top of my voice. I was free inside. Surrounding me were forget-me-knots, such a hypnotic purple, It seemed to be forever warm inside. My skirt encircling my tiny little frame, I smiled until my cheeks cracked almost open wide. Something ached inside even then. You were singing to me. A sickly sonata in which only I could be principle player. You wooed me, promised to love me, said you would keep me from being alone. Just a promise, clutch the toilet bowl, I’ll be yours forever. I’ll dance with you ... I am seducing you; I can only be yours. I played the romantics on my violin. Each bow glided up and back with the rhythm of my wide-open heart. Frantically I bowed my way into a majestic state. I ran away with you, the flirtation grew into an over powering relationship as my talent grew. I felt love unbridled in my hands. I craved, you gave. My whole life enmeshed between you and the apparently still existing 'I'. Your whispers soothing, lulling me to calm. All I had to do was what you asked of me. Nothing more. Nothing less. You say you have saved me; from what I ask? Somewhere you just made what was inside flow onto my skin. I began a story written so deep on to my body... The score of the last nine years is etched into my skin in a horrific pattern of systematic personal abuse. I lie untouched by you, neglected in body and soul. I still dance with you, somewhere in the middle of joy and pain… Only now I shuffle as you admire your life long work. You have blossomed; I secrete a perpetual melancholic miasma. You are my faith. Somewhere I have made a shrine of you. A church of destruction and loneliness, so please explain to me why I am the only one in the congregation! Each day you have me on my knees looking into wide-open eyes, only to spit and flagellate myself. This splintered rocking self, You say you are the only one with the glue? Then why is it your seduction that bought me here? The days stretch longer and the inner hunger grows greater. I am in need of something more. I need it, I want it, I breath it, I hope with every inch of my being but it doesn’t come. You won’t let it come. I have been in either feast or famine for nine years now but you just can’t seem to let me be. I am bored of being hungry and I am sick of feeling full. I fear I fear with almost every part of me. Still you won’t let me go. It is repetitive now. I write the same words the same pain even the rage is nothing new. I need to just move on to the next day. Pray I will make it better than the one that has just been. But as I know this is up to you. You even stunt my expression, disjoint all my words. You kill my pride. And leave me no more than empty. You will mock this, the laughing will ricochet throughout my mind. You stole my pen, much more than my heart. But I have taken something back.
- Pink
**"Limos" is the name of the Greek Goddess of Hunger. In the following letter the author personifies her eating disorder as Limos.** To Limos, notice how I deify you; to me you are not simply a disease of my mind and my body, but a goddess, the personification of hunger and starvation. I see you in my mind's eye, cloaked in rags, with my fat self prostrated in front of you, begging you again and again for help. "This time will be different," I pledge. "I will starve - my sacrifice of hunger unto you." And yet, each time, I "fail", for that is the paradox of my Bulimia: to acknowledge myself, my hunger, my base desires ... and then, conversely, to reject it all, purging my self-hatred, my fear, my rejections; all my emotions away into the toilet-bowl, flushing them from me, attempting to forget the hurt that drove me to you. But still they return, time and time again. Sometimes it's ok for a little while, I can live without you ... but then you return. "Just a few pounds," you whisper seductively into my ear, as I envy your cheekbones, your protruding collar, the flat hollow of your stomach, the sinews of your arms and legs, devoid of fat compared to me, with my bulges of excess, the rounded evidence of my "weak-willed" self. You are my idea of perfection, and thus I envy you, and follow you deeper and deeper into your dark world. For to me, you are a goddess, and I revere you as such. My role model, my protectress, my dual salvation and destruction, all rolled into one. And, ashamed as I am, I love you for this, for only you can bring me to my goal, my utopia - the world in which I am thin, not a mass of curves dressing to hide the physical reminder of her constant "imperfection". For that, ultimately, is what you are, to me: the epitomy of perfection in today's aesthetic world. For you are thin, a sylph, gliding between the heavy mundanity of bodies such as mine, mocking me and offering your help in the same breath. And so, I take your hand, and pledge myself to oblivion ...
- Claire
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