Okay, that was somewhat scary...

I went into work today after taking off yesterday. I felt fine, up until about two hours into the work day, when I got abruptly slammed with the worst case of pure exhaustion I had ever experienced. I literally could not move without pain. I could barely lift my hand to type, and had to shakily tap each key with one finger. I was having trouble picking up a pen, even more trouble writing. I could barely speak above a mumble. I couldn't remember how to say certain words or sentences. I felt like hell, worse than hell. Every part of me suddenly felt swollen, feverish, and painful. My eyes itched and watered. I thought I was going to faint numerous times, I was so dizzy and off-balance.
At one point, I knew I had to call my doctor's office and make an appointment for a gynecological exam, and I did so slowly. Yet when I hung up the phone, I started feeling better. Twenty-five minutes later, I regained most of my strength, my voice, and my ability to type, hence this entry. My brain still feels horribly foggy, my muscles and joints still feel swollen and achy, my eyes still itch, burn, and water, and I still want to lie down and sleep. But at least I am not actually falling over at my desk anymore.

It may be just a freak thing. If it happens one more time, I'll look into it. If it happens a third time, then that doctor's appointment will include a long talk about it.

Sometimes it really is all about the right perspectives.

Despite being home sick, I was in a good mood yesterday, even better when my dear Beca showed up to say hello, home from the trip to Israel.
Aside from the general happy conversations, Beca and I talked in private for a while (gods, I've missed being around her), and she said things that I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear -- things that made me feel stronger than I had in a while.
The fact that her husband also uses these words when talking about me makes me glow like the sun. The fact that he cared so much for my health when I was actively anorexic, that he really wanted to see me get better, makes me almost cry. James is one person whose respect and love I am eternally happy to have.

There are certain friends of mine that I consider powerfully special and unique, and to have their respect is a high honor. And then to know that those friends speak of me in an equally respectful -- nay, proud -- way makes me thrilled to be who I am. It's been a long fight with the eating disorder, and I have more battles before I understand that the numbers don't have to matter, that I don't need to be the skinniest woman just because I'm so short. I earned the name Little One no matter what my waistline. And while I know all this, most of my brain will not accept. I still think about my weight, and food. I still look in the mirror and wonder if I should lose some pounds. I still measure my waist and hips and bite my lip hoping the inches haven't climbed too much. I still dread finding out that many of my pants have become too small for my hips. I still sometimes wake up wanting to scream from bad dreams about my body.
So I am grateful to those who remind me that it's worth everything, especially grateful to those whose respect I earned and who earned mine in return through our strengths and ability to accept ourselves and admit our faults and work with those faults. And I remind myself of why anorexia is a disease and not a state of mind. I realize that there is a difference between being dangerously thin and thinking you're not, and knowing you're very thin and parading it around while making the not-so-thin feel inadequate. One is having a disease. The other is just being petty and shallow.
I am currently researching the ideas that anorexia is a biological disease, not a mental one, that it can be genetic, physiological, physical, but not always merely psychological. I never asked for it. I never wanted it. I never, ever woke up one day and thought, "I'm not skinny enough. I think I'll starve myself for a few years to the point of near-death! Yay!" I never wanted to be so out of control when I thought I was so in control.
My friends saved my life.
The fact that these dear friends can look at me with certainty and say, "Damn, you're hot, you're gorgeous, what a great ass!" and other such compliments lets me know that I am doing well. I'm still recovering. I'll be okay.

So, thank you.
You know who you are.
(but especially a certain married couple who I love more than the world)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anorexia_nervosa

You are a cruel bitch, dear Ana

I found this simple but powerful exercise because I compelled myself to search, yes. Now someone remind me that will merely be doing it to strengthen my body; not because I desire to lose the precious weight.

I know it. I know it. I need it. I must keep it. Why can't I believe it?

Those who say that only physical illness is ultimately devastating obviously have never dealt with illness that eats you from inside your own mind.

I don't think I will ever break free. I suppose what I can do for now is listen to what they say, the truth they soothe with; keep my plates full, follow the clench in my stomach that signals hunger, keep telling myself that I am getting better. Every day. I thought I was all better for over a year. I don't want to go back. I don't care what the bones mean. I don't want to go back.
I won't let myself fall back.