Monthly Archives: September 2010

National Novel Writing Month is approaching!

National Novel Writing Month, or Nanowrimo, begins November 1st.  The official Nano site is  If you wish to participate, you can sign up anytime, but to play fair, you should not start the actual writing of your novel until kick-off on November 1st.  The main requirement is that you write a 50,000-word book in 30 days.  And you have to be crazy to embark on this project.  Absolutely crazy.

I do, however, plan to outline my novel first.  This is an okay thing to do.  I plan to spend a fair chunk of October doing this.  Making an outline will speed up the actual writing, and make the November part of the project a heck of a lot easier.

In order to keep up with eating, my budding social life, and general sane living, I plan to be sane about Nano as well.  Last year, I wrote for six or seven hours a day at least and produced an 86,000 word book in 21 days.  Now, that’s insane.  This year, I will strive toward moderation, and my goal will be closer to 50,000 words in 30 days.  That’s 1,667 words a day.  Not difficult at all.  Not really.

Last year, I wrote Summer in November, a memoir about my hitch-hiking journey across the country with my dog, Hoofy.  Parallel to this was my concurring journey with anorexia that was going on while I wrote the book.  I reported everything in real time as it happened.  I was going downhill.  Summer in November is a record of decline.  It is also about how I fell into my eating disorder at the age of 22, right after my hitch-hiking trip.  Yet I found God on that trip.  It is not a tragic book.  I believe it is in fact full of joy.  Ironic.

This year, I plan to write a novel, that is, it won’t be a true story at all.  It will be about an anorexic woman who isn’t me, yet she will be like me.  She will be in her 40’s or 50’s (I am 52).  She will live with no one else except a dog.  I have only Puzzle.  Beyond that, I don’t know what the similarities and differences will be.  I haven’t planned them out yet.  The nano site suggests that to save time, we should write about someone like ourselves.  For instance, how could I write about a male pilot with a missing arm if first of all I have no idea what it’s like to be male, secondly I have no idea what it’s like to be an airline pilot, and thirdly, I have no idea what it’s like to have only one arm?  I’d spend the whole month interviewing pilots with physical disabilities to gather information, and no time writing.

So my character will be like me.  She will have a life like mine.  She will face challenges like mine.  She will go through experiences, some of them, that I have gone through, and some that I haven’t gone through, of course.  I may put her through tortures.  I may allow her some joys.  This is the “power of the pen.”  I can control her.  I can do anything to her.  I may even love her and care about her–hopefully, I will.

But the ending will not be a happy one.  Why?  There are too many “recovery stories” out there.  Stories about people who overcome adversity.  Stories about people who get well despite all odds.  People who almost drown and then pull out of the water.  Maybe they find God.  Maybe they find the right doctor or the right treatment.  Or maybe they get well in the hospital.  The latter is a very common theme.  That and finding God.  There are a fair amount of “Christian” publishers out there that publish books about people finding Jesus Christ and suddenly getting well.  I do not want to write a story about someone who recovers and gains weight and lives happily ever after.  There are too many books out there (and websites) like this.

I want to write a book that does not end happily.  I am not saying I want a tragic ending, though it may come to that.  I simply want to avoid sugar-coating.  This is a fatal illness that has devastating effects on the body and also effects on family, friends, and oneself.  Anorexia breaks the heart and soul of everyone involved, especially the sufferer.  I know this.

People I know who know I am going to write a book with a not-so-happy ending are disturbed that I am not writing a “recovery story.”  They are disturbed that I have been talking about possibly even “killing off” my character, that is, letting her die in the end.  Let me tell you that my character is not me. This is a common misunderstanding that readers have.  When a novelist writes, she is not writing about herself.  No way.  She may be like me in more ways than not, but she is not me.

But deep down inside, do I see a “happy ending” for myself?  Of course not.  Who with this illness has a happy ending?  What is an ending, anyway?  Life goes on.  You live, you die.  If I die it could be for any reason.  I may die of anorexia or I may die in a plane crash–who knows?  I may die while writing to YOU.  I do hope that I die happy, though.  I very likely will.


My wonderful new book, This Hunger Is Secret: My Journeys Through Mental Illness and Wellness is now available  from Chipmunkapublishing–click here to access.  To read more about it at my home site, click here.


My double vision–as it turns out

As it turns out, my double vision problem isn’t serious, and it doesn’t come from malnutrition.  Rather, it is a consequence of having a high degree of myopia (nearsightedness).  I have what’s known as vertical diplopia.  This means that I see one image on top of the other.  Sometimes people who are very nearsighted, as I am, experience their eyes turning outward.  It is a weird muscle thing.  This is what’s causing the double vision.  My eye doctor said it’s not dangerous because it isn’t happening all the time, just some of the time, and not when I’m out walking.  I don’t drive or have a driver’s license or ride a road bicycle.  I told him that if I had to drive, I would certainly be unable to do so because of this problem.  One thing he said he could do would be to give me glasses with prisms in them to correct the double vision, but this, he felt, was not a good idea.  Why?  He said that my eyes would adjust, and turn outward again, and I would need more and more prisms.

So I see double sometimes.  A lot of the time.  When I was in therapy today, I had two therapists.  Imagine that.  I was being observed by a team.   Two people both talking at once.  Not only that, but they both had the same name.  Try going through psychological testing with double vision, and you’ll get twice the diagnoses, and then some.

When I go to therapy, I am required to bring a snack and eat it there.  Today, I did something different: I brought lunch with me.  Well, a small lunch.  Or should I say, it appeared to be two lunches, so I guess it was an awful lot of food, with two spoons in fact.  I ate it all.   Twice.   I’m sure both my therapists were equally thrilled.  Actually, if one had been thrilled and one hadn’t been, it would have been one hell of an optical illusion.

I am so cold, and hungry in my soul

Today I was wearing a winter hat and jacket indoors.  It was 79 degrees here at my desk, yet I was cold.  I went to look at myself in the mirror.  I noticed that my lips were blue.  Blue.  It has never been this bad.

I am so cold now.  I have the space heater running.  I am wearing fleece pajamas, writing to you.  My hands are icy.

I sat on the toilet seat and wondered if I would freeze to it.  I’m guessing my body temperature is low these days.  Maybe I should buy an accurate thermometer (not the ear kind–the mouth kind) and check.  I wonder how I can possibly make it through the winter.  Even the extra two pounds on me seem to have made no difference: I am colder than ever.

It was 60 degrees out today and when I went out, I had to wear a winter hat.  Was it the rain that caused this shift? What will keep me warm in December, January, February?  What will keep me warm in October, even?  Will I be shivering through National Novel Writing Month, which is the month of November?

I know what is causing this.  I cannot fool myself.  I need to gain weight. But is it too late?  Am I permanently cold?  Am I so cold in my soul that this is irreversible?  Will my heart ever be warm again to life, to living fully, to loving God and appreciating all that is around me, and getting involved in the world again, instead of drowning in my eating disorder?

Frank asked me tonight if I recognize myself as being thin, if I can see it, and how I feel about it deep down.  He asked me to ask myself if there is a part of me that desperately wants to lose weight, because this is a part of our illness, that we have this desire to waste away, to become, essentially, nothing, nobody, a mere line.

When I started out, I believed that I was special, that I was the exception, that I didn’t need to be “on the charts” of what was considered normal weight for my height. In fact, I used a chart that I knew to be incorrect.  It was from an insurance company.  Most charts stated that normal weight for my height was over 100.  This chart stated under 100.  I chose to follow this one instead.  At the same time, I believed my own sense of what was right for me. Under 90 for sure.  I was different.  I needed my thinness and the scale to tell me that I was special and almost, almost perfect–if only I could get a few pounds thinner.  My music, my compositions, my dog, the heaps of praise I received from the music faculty were not enough.

Today, I love that I am skinny.  Truly.  Deep down inside.  I hate that I now have missed a second period, and what it means.  I worry that I am so very cold, and what this, too, means.  I keep two aspirins at my bedside, and the phone, in case I have symptoms of a heart attack.  I keep wondering if I will die.  Scary stuff.


My wonderful new book, This Hunger Is Secret: My Journeys Through Mental Illness and Wellness is now available  from Chipmunkapublishing–click here to access.  To read more about it at my home site, click here.

I didn’t schedule weigh-in for this week

I deliberately didn’t make the call to schedule a weigh-in for this week.  Normally, I get weighed by my primary care physician Mondays, meaning that today would have been the day.  But no, I was sneaky.  I’m so sick of the whole routine.  Call the cab.  Take the cab there.  Pay the driver $9.  Get in to the office and wait about 7 minutes for Dr. K.  Her cheery face.  Get undressed and into a johnny.  It is either a lightweight johnny or a nice heavyweight one, depending on what’s on top of the stack.  Dr. K knocks on the door to see if I’m ready.  I step on the scale.

It’s always the same number.  I have rigged it this way.  And last week, she caught me in this game.

So this week, I didn’t bother.  Why waste her time, my time, everyone’s time, $9?

So maybe I’ll get a call from her asking where I am.  Maybe not.  Maybe she’ll call Dr. P to “taddle” on me.

When I told Dr. P and my T that I once weighed 6 pounds less than Dr. K’s scale said, they were shocked.  I had, indeed, pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes.

Yeah, that’s enough wool to make another sweater for Puzzle.


As it turned out, I slept four hours last night and felt rested.  Not good.  This can be a sign that mania is coming on, or it can lead to mania. So I have to be careful.  I didn’t want another night of it.  I don’t want another night of it tonight.  I will take Benadryl to help me sleep, but it only lasts four hours so I don’t know how much it will help.

I put in a call to Dr. P.  She does not check her messages on weekends.  I had to have her paged.  I would have waited until tomorrow, but I felt that this couldn’t wait another night.  If I was going to start a new dose, I wanted to start it as soon as possible and pick it up from the pharmacy today.

Long story made short, and skip this paragraph if talk about medications and dosages bores you: Dr. P made two adjustments.  She raised my Abilify to make up for the lowered Risperdal.  Abilify and Risperdal are both antipsychotic medications.  My Abilify dose went from 20 to 25.  I told Dr. P that I thought I might be able to tolerate 25.  She also raised my Lamictal to stop the binge eating.  I binged today and two days ago, and I found the bingeing so horrible and so alarming that I felt that something had to be done about it immediately.  Dr. P to the rescue.  My Lamictal dose went from 500 to 600, but I was a little uncertain about this in Dr. P’s message, so I’ll have to get her to clarify tomorrow.

Yes, some people who binge eat can be helped with medication.  I am living proof of this.

In fact, if I had a choice between the following pills:

A pill to stop binge eating
A pill for depression
A pill to make me rich
A pill to keep my home clean
A pill for mania
A pill for anorexia
A pill to make me feel better about myself
A pill to keep me alive for 100 years

Yeah, I’d choose the pill for binge eating and throw away the rest.  Really.  Even if it meant dying at 75 instead of 100.  Because to me, a bingeing life is not a life worth living, so what would be the point of life till 100, anyway?  If I was in a fire and had to rush out of my house, and had only one med to grab, surely, I would take the Pill for Binge Eating.

This was the reason, back in 1981, that I started taking meds in the first place.  To stop the bingeing.  My first med.  Thorazine.  Thorazine, my friend.  It didn’t stop bingeing, but it did help me.  Still, I had read the research that Imiprimine helped people with binge eating.  This was brand new research and I wanted in on it.

Imiprimine didn’t do jack shit for me.  Imiprimine is an antidepressant and it made me worse.

And so on.  Pills and more pills.  But the original purpose–to stop the bingeing–was always in the forefront of my mind.  Please, please let there be a pill for this.  I knew this was chemical.  I knew rats could be chemically induced to binge.  And if this was the case, I thought to myself, bingeing could be started and stopped chemically.

This totally goes against all current theories of binge eating as “coping mechanism.”  Even my own therapist says my theories are crap.  But why, then, does medication work so well for me for binge eating, and therapy do absolutely nothing?  There’s got to be something to this.

At any rate, I feel like I’m being batted around in a batting cage right now.  This way and that.  Lowered this.  Raised that.  Not knowing what’s going to happen next, or how I’m going to feel, how much sleep I’m going to get,  or what’s going to happen with the dangerous side effect called Tardive Dyskinesia (see previous posts) which seems to have worsened today.

You could say I’m pretty discouraged.  Devastated by the binge eating I did Friday and today.  I don’t feel particularly guilty, but I do feel deeply ashamed.  I didn’t eat all day yesterday.  I don’t want to “trade” eating disorders, one for the other, and go from Anorexia Hell to Bulimia Hell.   You know, it’s just one easy step, when you think about it.


My wonderful new book, This Hunger Is Secret: My Journeys Through Mental Illness and Wellness is now available  from Chipmunkapublishing–click here to access.  To read more about it at my home site, click here.

Not wanting to die: Day Five — news and ramblings

I went to see Dr. P on Thursday, and told her about my life.  She listened and believed me.  She didn’t even grill me on what I had eaten.  She’s happy for me.   I guess she can see the hope in me.  Or I hope she can see the hope in me.  I showed her a photo of myself at my lowest weight, and asked her to compare it to myself sitting there in her office, two pounds heavier.  Yes, it’s noticeable when you are this skinny.  She did that annoying thing that I hate: typing everything I say into her computer.  She started doing that when they started some sort of new computer system at the hospital.

We didn’t only talk about my eating disorder.  I have a wiggle in my right hand that has been getting more pronounced.  At first, it was imperceptible.  But when I traveled to Ohio, my dear friend noticed it several times, and now, Frank notices it over the webcam.  So I told Dr. P about it, and explained that it was worsening.  She asked me many questions about it.  Is it in just my right hand?  Is it a trembling?  Can I stop it at will?  Does it interfere with activities?

Yes, it’s only in my right hand.  No, I’m not trembling.  It only happens some of the time, and it doesn’t increase under pressure or when I’m emotional.  It seems to happen when I’m not paying attention to it, or when I’m more relaxed.  Like when I’m talking to someone I know, or when I’m casually waiting for a bus.  And as soon as I’m aware of it, I can stop it.  It doesn’t interfere with typing or handwriting (I’m right handed).  Or at least not yet.

Dr. P said the Dr. P equivalent of a swear word.  I think the word was “cricket.”  She said it not once, but five times.  “This is Tardive Dyskinesia again,” she said.  “And you’re right–it’s from the Risperdal.  We have to lower it.”

Tardive Dyskinesia.  This is the same debilitating condition you see in people on buses and on the streets, people with facial tics, tongue movements, torso movements, movements of their limbs or jaw.  This condition comes from antipsychotics, whether these are the “traditional” antipsychotic medications or the “atypicals.”  Both can give you Tardive Dyskinesia.  And it’s permanent.  Once you get it, you’ve got it.  It doesn’t go away, even after you stop the drug.

I began to get Tardive Dyskinesia in my tongue a while back.  We decided that it was most likely from the drug Thorazine.  We stopped the Thorazine.  It seemed like a snap to taper off of it at first.  It must have taken me about six weeks altogether, but I got off of it.  My tongue was vibrating a little bit, and I feared that it would turn into an out-of-the-mouth horrific tongue movement that would handicap me for life.  Getting off Thorazine, thankfully, stopped the tongue vibrations before they could turn into anything worse.  My last Thorazine pill, 1/4 pill, was June 10.

In July, I had a reaction.  It was pretty bad.  I had rapid-cycling mood swings, and if a mood swing was particularly dramatic, it would cause an eating binge.  The bipolar ups and downs were so bad that I would swing into 45 minutes of full-blown mania, then within 12 hours I would be so depressed that I had trouble even moving around and walking.  Add to that a periodic binge-fast cycle, which I kept secret, and I was in for disaster.

Dr. P to the rescue: As soon as Dr. P became aware that I was cycling, she knew that the cause was the Thorazine discontinuation.  She tried raising my Risperdal,an antipsychotic, from 4 mgs a day to 6.  This didn’t quite do the trick.  We raised my Lamictal, a mood stabilizer, from 375 to 450.  Dr. P said this wasn’t likely to help, but it did.  She then raised it to 500–and kept it there.  We lowered my Risperdal to 5 when I noticed excessive thirst.  Then, it seemed as though my medications were finally okay, and I was stabilized.

With this news of Tardive Dyskinesia, it looks like Risperdal, the medication I’ve long relied on to keep my moods stable, will have to be discontinued.  What will this mean?  What next?  Will I be okay without it?

Thursday was the first day of lowered Risperdal; yesterday was the second.  And last night, sure enough, I binged.  I slept a few hours, and then woke up at 4am, sobbing.  I haven’t eaten all day today.  I’m not hungry or tired, just numb right now, exhausted emotionally from the ups and downs I experienced earlier today.

Frank, I feel like I’ve failed you today.  I’m in such turmoil over my eating right now, over my body, over the weight I’ve gained, the new flesh on my face and all over my body (though a lot of this is probably my imagination).  My clothes feel tight and I hate it.  But at the same time, I simply don’t want to be wicked skinny anymore.  I’ve had it with “the A word”–Anorexia.  I need to get my periods back.  I need to get warm this winter.  I need my clothes to fit.  And most of all, I need for you, Frank, to eat.

And who am I, starving, to tell you to eat?  Who am I to talk?  What right do I have to tell you to eat more, when I haven’t had a bite to eat all day?  Aren’t I being the same cheater that I hated so much in the past?  Aren’t I the same cheater that ate and drank six pounds’ worth of crap to get the scale to read a number that would keep me out of the hospital?  Aren’t I cheating the same now as I did when I lied to my T at every session I went to?

Probably not.  Because as they say, “This too shall pass.”  As they say, “Tomorrow is another day.”  Maybe tomorrow my attitude will straighten out, and I’ll feel better about my body and about eating.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll dare to put food into my mouth.  I am still growing.  We are still growing.  Let’s leave last night and today and just go on.


My wonderful new book, This Hunger Is Secret: My Journeys Through Mental Illness and Wellness is now available  from Chipmunkapublishing–click here to access.  To read more about it at my home site, click here.

For those of you who were told you would never recover from anorexia

For those of you who were told you would never recover from anorexia nervosa, that you would suffer from some sort of eating disorder for the rest of your life, this message is for you:

I was once inhabited by an Evil Being named The Thing.  The Thing ran my life.  This was some sort of psychotic phenomena that no one seemed to understand–including me.  The Thing lived in my head and caused me such misery that I could barely tie my shoes in the morning, or shower, brush my teeth, or wash my hair.  Sometimes, my parents had to care for my dog, Tiger, because I could not safely take care of her.  Much of the time, I could not leave my apartment, and I could not be left alone.  I was so confused that I would throw out valuables and burn things on the stove.  Sometimes, The Thing affected my balance and coordination, and it also caused memory lapses due to the fact that it was always interfering with my thinking process.  Mostly, it “scrambled” my thoughts, jumbling them up so that I could make no sense of them.  The Thing also was not without its human qualities.  It was a sadist, torturing me daily.  Sometimes, it told me to do things I did not want to do.  Sometimes, it told me to kill myself, with step-by-step instructions.

I suffered with The Thing for two solid years, daily.  After the first year of struggle, after constant battling with some of the doctors, who said I was “faking” The Thing, that is, complaining of something that didn’t exist just to get attention, I was exhausted, completely hopeless, and ready to give up.  There were no answers, none at all.

Finally, a brilliant medical student, a man I truly respected, trusted, and liked more than the doctors at that point, took me aside, and we had a talk.  I think his name was Tarik.

“Julie,” he said, “I know you have suffered a long time with The Thing.  I know The Thing lives in your head and I know The Thing is real.  The truth is that The Thing isn’t improving.  We have tried everything.  You have the best doctors here, and we’ve tried the best medications.  You have mentioned before that you suspect you’ve had The Thing for longer than just this past year, is this true?”

“Yes,” I said, “I believe I’ve had some form of it for my entire life.”

“Well, then, what does that tell you?  Think about it.”


“What do you think?  Look at your history.”

“That I’ll have it for the rest of my life?”

“Yes.  That is what I believe.  I know this is hard for you to hear, Julie.  I can only tell you the truth as I see it.  I know I am only a medical student, but I have observed you very closely, I’ve been in meetings with you, and I have discussed your case with the doctors.  I am telling you that it is now our goal to help you cope with The Thing, to learn to live with it from day to day.  Do you understand what I am saying?”

I began to weep, but did not hesitate to respond.  “I understand,” I said, “that knowing this, this information, which, by the way, does not surprise me, I need to make a switch.”

“Right.  Go on.”

I sobbed, “I don’t have to fight anymore!  I’m free!”

Over the course of the next year, we worked to help me cope with The Thing.  It was tough.  I got worse and worse.  I became despondent.  I could not live with The Thing, and The Thing was making increasing demands on me.  I began engaging in cutting behavior, and became severely suicidal.  For insurance reasons and complications, I was not hospitalized, but put in a “residence” on McLean Hospital grounds, a completely inappropriate setting for me at that time.

How does all this relate to anorexia, you’re wondering?  I’m getting to it.  Be patient.

Finally, when my suicidality became unmanageable at the residence, I was hospitalized for three weeks at a community hospital, and sent to a respite home.  There, I was finally given the individualized care and attention I needed to deal with my multitude of mental problems.  There were maybe three or four staff on during the day, and maybe four patients total living there.  I am not kidding you.  You could sit right in their staff office and talk to them.  I lived there for three weeks and then was sent home, and they cared for me at home for a total of 90 days.  In December, 1997, I still had The Thing and it was just as bad, but I was less suicidal, and that was the goal of the respite program, to help me live on my own again safely.  I was truly grateful to the program and the staff.

Later that month, I bought a computer that had Internet capability.  Remember dial-up?  I got used to that sound, and my phone was tied up for much of the day from then on.  No, I never became an Internet addict, but yes–I did make friends!  Through e-mail correspondence, I learned that I was capable of relating to other people in spite of The Thing.  I learned to make friends.  I learned to share.  I learned closeness.  I learned give and take.  I learned that I was capable of helping and supporting others.  And I allowed others to help me.

On my 40th birthday, January 8, 1998, The Thing left me, suddenly and unexpectedly, and never returned.


It is 2010 and most clinicians believe that full recovery is possible for ANYONE.  Many who recover do not recover fully, this is true.  But this does not mean that anorexia is life in prison.

Anorexia is an addiction to starvation.  The theory of addiction is that you have it for life.  But look at it this way: I quit smoking cigarettes.  I don’t smoke.  Period.  It’s a simple as that.  I don’t suffer from being a non-smoker.  As a matter of fact, I enjoy not smoking.  I can walk fast without getting out of breath.  My lungs feel great.  I don’t stink of smoke.  My coffee table doesn’t have ashes all over it.  I’m not shelling out all kinds of bucks for packs of smokes.  And I’m going to live a lot, lot longer because I’m a non-smoker.  No, I don’t suffer from being an ex-smoker.  But am I “recovered” from the addiction?  What do YOU think?

IF YOU WERE TOLD YOU WOULD NEVER RECOVER FROM ANOREXIA NERVOSA, think again.  I was told I would never recover from The Thing.  It was a relief to me to hear this because I knew I no longer had to fight.  Have you quit fighting because of what you were told?  Have you been allowing yourself to slide deeper into your disease because you were told you would never recover?  Have you given up?

Yes, I was told that I would always have symptoms of eating disorders.  I was told that I would never fully recover.  Do I believe them?  You bet.  It is absolutely necessary that I believe them.  Believing that I will never recover gives me a sense of security. I can stop fighting.  I can get comfortable.  I can relax into Anorexia Heaven.

I believed that I would always want to die of starvation.  I believed that that part of my anorexia would never go away.  I believed that if I wanted death, then I would die–soon.  But you know something?  It suddenly went away.  I suddenly stopped wanting to starve myself and suddenly didn’t want to die anymore.

I have hope in my heart.



My wonderful new book, This Hunger Is Secret: My Journeys Through Mental Illness and Wellness is now available  from Chipmunkapublishing–click here to access.  To read more about it at my home site, click here.

A You-Tube on Zyprexa and Weight Gain

Here it is straight from the horse’s mouth:

Not wanting to die: Day two

I went grocery shopping today, mainly to get cheese to go on the pizza Frank and I will be sharing tonight.  Actually, we’ll be skyping pizza, but I’d like to think that we’re eating in the same room, across from each other, even though we’ll be miles and miles apart.  And on the way to the grocery store, I thought: what now?  What is it that I should do?  What do I want from life?

I have not “wanted something” from life in so long.  Why should I have?  I wanted nothing but for it to end.  Now, things have changed.  I have time on my hands, future time, time spent not wanting to die, time spent not assuming my life will end.  I can now believe that there will be a tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and I can actually make plans.

One obsession I hadn’t let go of, though, was National Novel Writing Month.  I was determined that I would do it even if I was “at death’s door.”  Now, I can do National Novel Writing Month alive and whole.  And I will have enough nourishment to be able to concentrate, write, and see the  project to completion.

When I made a sudden recovery at age 40, and the Evil Being that haunted me for so long suddenly disappeared, I almost immediately decided to take an adult ed writing class.  Soon after, I went back to college.  This was a radical shift from the old Julie, who could barely care for herself, could barely shower or brush her teeth, and rarely left the house.

So now, I have time.  Time to explore and experiment.  Time to live and enjoy.  Time to want to explore, experiment, live, and enjoy.  What do I want?  I hardly know.

I hardly know what I like or who I am.  All this has been hidden from me under the layers of my eating disorder.  I was told by so many people that I am so much more than my ED, but I did not see this.

Who was I?  I do not know the answer to this.  I felt as though I was my eating disorder and nothing else.  Now, I feel as though I am a blank slate ready to be written upon.  And I am the writer, the creator.

I don’t mean to imply that my anorexia has flown out the window.  Hardly.  I am still anorexic and I am still just as sick–mentally, physically, and spiritually–as I was before.  I am still obsessed about calories.  I still want to lose weight–deep down inside.  I still crave that starved feeling.   I still worry that everything I put in my mouth will make me fat.  I still want to eat as little as I possibly can.  It is just that there has been this tiny, tiny shift that has made all the difference.


My wonderful new book, This Hunger Is Secret: My Journeys Through Mental Illness and Wellness is now available  from Chipmunkapublishing–click here to access.  To read more about it at my home site, click here.

Regarding a special friend

I have been friends with Frank for a month now.  Last night we made a pact.  We are going to eat.

Frank has been a special friend to me.  We met on an anorexia board.  He posted there and then maybe a couple of weeks after the discussion (that he initiated) ended, I contacted him and asked him how he was doing.  To my surprise, he wrote back.  We have been corresponding, and subsequently Skyping (Skype is videoconferencing) for several hours a day ever since.

I have never been so close to another person with anorexia before.  I have only known other anorexics from a distance, in ED groups.  Nor have I ever known a man with anorexia before.  Nor have I had a male friend for a long, long, long time.  It has been years, in fact.

I wrote: I just realized this last night, very suddenly: I am now restricting less.  It is not happening every day, but it is an overall tendency.  I have stopped losing weight as of the first week of September.  You know, I think it has to do with knowing Frank and being close to him.

I wrote: This was not conscious or deliberate.  It just happened.  I told my friend last night.  It was 9pm and she had just arrived home from some coffee shop with her husband.  She was skeptical and wondered how long my good fortune would last.

I wrote: Frank and I are having pizza together tomorrow night, via skype.  He is having one of those microwave single-serve pizzas and I am going to make pizza for myself.  It is kind of a deal we made.

I wrote: Would I make the trade?  I have gained one pound.  It was worth gaining one pound just for him.  I can give up that much.  Just for gaining the reward of being close to him and having him for a friend.  That’s how I see it.

We’re in this together.  We’re taking the plunge.  And I don’t want to die anymore.


My wonderful new book, This Hunger Is Secret: My Journeys Through Mental Illness and Wellness is now available  from Chipmunkapublishing–click here to access.  To read more about it at my home site, click here.

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