Even though illnesses come and go, some stick a lot longer than others. Healing is possible, no matter what.  Here is my story. 

The running theme I hope will be apparent through all of my posts is that there is only one Physician who can truly heal.  I am not posting my story to promote any specific form of treatment, or any person or profession aside from Jesus Christ.

It took me years to accept the diagnosis I was given at age 15. I had developed a horrid habit of lying to others, saying whatever I thought they wanted me to say. My psychologist called me out on it one day, so I knew she was on to me.  During one session, she flat-out aksed me if I believed that I had anorexia. I said yes, because I knew that was the right answer.  It wasn't my honest answer, but  I knew, scientifically speaking, it was the correct answer.  Shortly after that, my mom asked me in the car one day if I really believed I had anorexia; I said yes again.  But my heart and my head were screaming no.

Lying has consequences.  I forfeited intimate relationships that I could have had with my family and friends in the name of keeping this thing hidden.  It was a great price to pay- always wanting to feel closer to my mom, for example, but knowing that closeness requires honesty.  Honesty requires transparency, and on and on.  I craved intimacy, honesty, and transparency, but it is much easier to hide behind a veil of fear and self-pity.  Easier, yes.  Worth it?  Absolutely not.

I had the discipline of a rigid dictator by that point; better said, the discipline of a rigid dictator had me by that point. Whatever the persistent voice said, I ultimately did. As a result, I hated my life so badly that I wanted to die. I did not realize it then, but the voice I heard telling me what I could and could not eat is the same voice that countless others hear each day. The mental health field calls it anorexia nervosa. Anyone who has experienced it calls it hell.

The first time I can recall having the dictator's voice completely silenced was in March of 2014. I had just texted an old aquaintence to tell him happy birthday. He asked what was new in my life. I told him I wasn't being tormented by the demonic thoughts of anorexia anymore. He told me I could call anytime I needed to talk. That was the point though, I didn't need to talk anymore- I finally felt free from that burden and the madness inside. And that is the constant enigma, the silent frustration, the joyless roboticness that perplexes anyone who tries to help someone who is in the throes of an eating disorder. Just tell me what's wrong, they say. Silence. Wanting to speak and having no words is part of the silent prison. 

There's a vow of silence that goes along with the shame inside. There's a deadness that accompanies the shame. There's a secret world filled with imaginary buffets and endless desserts, and lots of hugs. Always lots of hugs.

It all sounds so twisted when I write it out. There is a reason it is called a mental illness. Mentally well people don't think like that. Mentally healthy people don't develop a system to rule their days based on lying about what they ate, and how much.

Even though it could get messy and ugly and I might want to hit delete over and over, I've felt for too long like I need to express the road to recovery and make it available for anyone who wants to hear. That is one of my passions, actually, but even my closest friends don't know that about me. I've thought about writing a book or inviting myself to be a guest speaker, or a myriad of other far-fetched ideas that just aren't me. I guess it is time to admit it- I am a blogger. :)   I'll be posting my thoughts in a possibly disorganized manner as I lay out the twisted maze of freedom from the inside out.

I am not a health professional. The only thing I can claim to know is that once I was really, really ill. I should not have survived. And now I am well. More to come.