I, a chronic flake,* had my last therapy appointment today, a conclusion not of my own design, but rather because the doctor is big-time preggers, adorably so, tottering around like Tweedle Dee, smiling and thinking with more clarity than ever.
For the first time, I have faced an awkward goodbye. And, in doing so, I found that it was beautiful in exactly the ways it seemed flawed as I mentally prepared to say goodbye to the woman who coached me, to no significant (physical or behavioral) avail. Ugly as it was, she helped to transform my inner self, like a seed hidden below the surface of the soil, so that now, without insurance this summer, I am released to bloom on my own. And in our session (during which we enjoyed peanut-butter cookies) all of the organic matter that is anorexia and my own jig-sawing recovery efforts (my mad note-taking and journaling of late, my sporadic and pained participation in full-scope treatment, my mid-winter despair and late-spring resurgence of passion)… came together.
I read her the letter I’d written to the anorexic ‘voice’ weeks ago, the letter I’d barely scanned after drafting and then filed away, shamed that my attempt at reclaiming my life was so disorderly and weak. But, knowing I needed my last memory of treatment to be strong, I hurriedly printed a copy and rushed to my appointment, still not having experienced the letter as a reader.
In her office, mid-way through a lovely conversation, I offer to read her the letter, which I need to sign: it’s time. She eagerly agrees, and I begin, happy to celebrate this like the passing of a bill into law:
June 2011
Dear A.N.,
I don’t know what you are, but I know where you came from. Or perhaps it is the other way around. The most diseased depths of that will remain between you and me, but plenty will be drawn upon here and laid out for the purposes of your indictment. I intend to interrupt this project we’ve been operating for far too long. My allegiance has been with you exclusively, and, though it has taken me years to gain some insight into the significance of this development, I can see clearly now that it leads nowhere.
If it weren’t for the likelihood that I won’t have much of one for very long, I could, and would, gladly starve for the rest of my life. In this sincere spirit, I absolutely take responsibility for my participation; I do so particularly for this year, during which I’ve been confronted by my friends and family and yet continued to conspire with you. Per your advice, I’ve only minimally acquiesced to the treatment opportunities so unimaginably privileged relative to so much of the world. Rather than take their advice, I’ve entertained every reservation: I’ve been convinced, at times, that my doctors and specialists have a warped sense of what a human diet and body could be (should be!) in a perfect world. A perfect world. That’s what you’ve tempted me with, and so I’ve waited…
As any hunger artist will agree, this waiting is the “easiest thing in the world.” In truth, I have enjoyed the satisfaction of developing into my “best form,” hunger so distant it is now only a steady drone as though inside the womb. I’d thought it would be worthwhile. I’d be in top form, striving to earn a resting place. But I can rest only when I can be proud of myself even when alone, painting in my room, and the pride you provide is fickle, and not far-reaching. And it seems the perfect life, perfect achievement, perfect incentive … the perfect meal, the perfect company … the perfect moment … won’t come before my bones begin to tend toward crumbling. And I’m tired of waiting for a crescendo on your terms. Anyhow, I still don’t understand why I can’t paint in peace, regardless of your perpetually-unmet ideals.
There’s no denying your way of life has wrecked havoc on my heart and head. And, though I’ve been slow to arrive at this realization, I cannot deny that there is nothing at all other than these: my life is my heart and my head, for without these I feel nothing. And if one is what one eats, I am next-to nothing. With you I feel nothing. With priorities assigned by you daily, every day of my life, I have not known a morning to hold the hope of mystery. I’m less able to fathom, even, the exhilaration of abandon. Every day I restrict, I am restricted. To you. And I’ve only recently begun to wonder whether all of this is worthwhile.
Only if I have perceptibly starved my brain, destroyed muscles, and isolated myself during all major feeding periods of a day do I win your approval. By this I am soothed, for this alone frees me to do anything I please with my whittled body and numbed spirit; I become the kid who “wasn’t playing” when he’s lost, confident that I am something other than human and therefore cannot be hurt by venturing out. Only when I behave just as you please, I feel sure you are protecting me. Like an fastidious parent. But I don’t even know who you are, and nobody else I’ve met agrees with you, much less admires you. You are only a part of me that hates me: you’re afraid that my own opinion of myself might not be enough to make my life happy, that I always have to earn the approval of others or I do not exist. But it is the reverse, for if I do not know the worth of myself, then I do not exist. And, since the moment I glowed because you thought I’d achieved something of value in fasting all day, I have not known the value of life, of a moment, of a day.
Anorexia is not inherently valuable. This is indisputable by now. You have co-opted my personality and used it against me. Restricting food types and quantities for eight years, as well as exercising compulsively, evidently doesn’t lead to superior health, impeccable integrity, and enhanced relationships. Mine are shit. I’ve alienated most of the people in my life, wished away more days than I care to recall, risked my life continually and indefinitely, and fought at top volume over an ounce of cheese.
I have suffered your judgments about my legs for twenty years. I have starved away thirty pounds of myself and still, today, you disapprove. My shoulders could be hung on the rack in my closet, I haven’t menstruated in four years, and, still, you won’t allow me to taste wine without considering the sugar. I am your statue, and you are my mad sculptor, chiseling away with your microscopic lenses. But the world is at a distance. I’d like to move about, too, to be free from you.
I refuse to grow old and suffer illness, mental and physical, for mistakes I knowingly made in fear. Every single one of us suffers some version of the ravaging: already my bones are drier. My mind is too raw to function on its own accord: I require no less than a therapist, a nutritionist, and a medical doctor, until now, only in order to prevent your gaining strength.
I have become convinced of your inherent righteousness: each morning you assess my worth based upon my consumption the previous day, based on the level of emaciation I can feel in my gait, in my taut skin, the chemical coursing through my spinal cord. Anorexia is not inherently valuable, nor has any of this constituted or adequately supplemented a viable path from among the possibilities in the world. I won’t write a more brilliant play because I can feel my bones sharply. More so, my ability to overcome this, to learn from this and to expand exponentially in every direction as a result, will determine the use of my potential for greatness as a psychologist, as a sister and a partner, as a daughter and a writer, a friend and human.
I’ve learned from you, of course: the value of moderation. I can now relish the privilege of dancing and running and backpacking, knowing I’m working harmoniously with my body, and not harming myself. I can taste a cookie and trust that it will be worth it, one taste will be enough, and your opinion of the moral value of people who eat cookies is no longer honored as legitimate. I know I did need you; that is my deep secret. But I’ve taken the best of you, and, thanks to your integration into the fabric of my soul, I’ll always have those elements which are most benevolent. The rest, my friend, will be scrapped. I cannot cavort with you any longer: you’re advantaged by darkness, and I can’t allow the light of my life to be consumed. You would kill me if you had the chance, but I will not give my life. I am not a martyr.
Everything but Yours,
Pania Oz
As I read, I hardly remembered having authored it. The words struck chords of truth and I knew the judgments about the letter had been unnecessary. This was the truth; it needed no further work. When I’d finished reading, I felt changed, lighter, as though I’d read the document releasing me from prison. LC told me she was proud, enough times that I began to believe it, and this is how I felt it: conviction.
I signed.
(I began by labeling myself a flake, which is not nice to Pania, but I am inclined to support my statement: be it a tendency to isolate, a fear of criticism, a general social anxiety, or some deep attachment issues, I frequently fail to maintain appropriate levels of communication with anyone. And it is absolutely not because I do not care for relationships or because I forget people, but because there is a cognitive block which constantly reminds me that there is a big possibility that the people I engage with do not appreciate me in their life, and that I may be, beneath social politeness, an unwelcome feature. I am particularly frightened of “goodbyes,” those awkward interactions which draw attention to the relative impermanence of the relationship, and thus suggestive of its relative unimportance, or even failure…) But the authenticity of any encounter is enough to make it worthwhile; there is plenty to be gained, and, as the rule of life has shown us in so many ways, it is often that we do not grasp the significance of a relationship, an experience or a fear, until it has come to a closure.
