"You May Have Never Heard Of Anorexia Nostalgia, But It’s A Real Thing, And I Have It"

Spartacus

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The day my former best friend Anne sent me a text from the Miami airport saying she would be back in New York City visiting her parents, my entire body ached with nostalgia. I wanted to see Anne, but not because of Anne.

I wanted a do-over — this time with food in my belly.

I’ve been in recovery for anorexia nervosa for nearly 20 years. I’m healthier now, but there are times when I miss not being healthy.

Anorexia nostalgia — the feeling that you wish you could return to the time you battled anorexia — is a normal occurrence for people in recovery. It’s also a shameful secret few will talk about when you’re fighting for your life. One day you might want revenge for the kid you let down. You might miss your old anorexia life so much, it feels as if you’ll lose months looking up people who knew you then, wondering whether conversations and life would have been different if you hadn’t been living in fog. You may even want to relive it without food, for old times’ sake, so that you can feel light, powerful and still. When the bad stuff took up so much of your life, sometimes you miss the bad stuff too.

I have decades of memories in which everything but my anorexia is fuzzy. When I think back, that familiar nostalgic ache comes on like fever and worsens when I realize there’s nothing I can do to relive life without the lie of anorexia.

A trip with my mother at 19 through San Juan, Puerto Rico, a city I later learned is juicy with sorbet and citrus structures, is nothing but pavement, dizziness, holding my breath at menus, and exhaling on shrimp ceviche (lime, buoyant, served in a glass, clear, clean, safe).

Other memories include the roller-skating parties when I hid in bathrooms while birthday cake was served, waiting for the lit disco ball to start spinning again.

The day I wasted shivering under a blanket on Karekare’s black sand beach. I had always wanted to visit New Zealand, but I spent two weeks cold and too tired to really see any of it. My then-boyfriend was nice. He tried.

“You’re quiet again.”

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine. I was scared of being far from home. I was scared of his mother’s white rolls and fried meats. “Maybe we’ll get married one day, and I’ll bake white bread and fry meat,” I thought then. But when I closed my eyes, I couldn’t picture us. I let two more years pass before I caught him chatting up the healthy girl he would marry. The only good thing about being scared into stillness is getting to see infinite possibilities for everyone else, which is proof that there may still be time for you to catch some of those opportunities too.

Growing up, Anne and I were separated by one block. She was one of a few kids I knew in New York City who had a pool. I spent hours in her bathroom, pulling on sticky swimsuits, cupping my flesh, growing angrier that my body had needs and that it still forgave and rooted for me when I tried to deny it food. In a few years, I’d know what winning felt like, when my body would relent and allow me to manipulate my breath, turn my fingertips blue and slow down my heartbeat so that it was random and unpredictable, the way everything else in life felt.

After Anne texted me and we agreed to meet, I thought back to those days with her and realized our friendship coincided with my deteriorating relationship with food and my body. Without an anorexic past, I might have remembered Anne, just Anne, and the average, mostly joyful and privileged childhood we shared.

But anorexic memories are shade on every sunny day. Instead of remembering Anne, I found myself wondering if the leather sectional in her den would still feel like quicksand that fanned your thigh fat out on July afternoons spent in shorts. If we sat together, could I keep my hands on the table and not use them to protect my stomach? What would it have felt like to not hide in her bathroom and watch as girls and boys from our class, dripping water from their hair, delivered pizza to their mouths on chlorine fingers? So many psychiatrists and nutritionists have passed through my life since those pool parties, but at that time, I didn’t have their lessons. I didn’t know pizza wouldn’t make my body swell right there on Anne’s grass. I know now that I’m not different or special or here to be punished.

The last day I saw Anne is one of my most painful memories.

Justine, Anne and I were sprawled out on her bed. Their friendship was new, but they laughed a lot together, whispered about boy parts and felt emboldened by this new knowledge that they owned boys’ bodies. I liked boys too. But I was slower and wished they were slower.

I had eaten only one apple that day and fell asleep on Anne’s bed. When I woke up, Anne and Justine were talking and laughing in the kitchen. They had moved on. I was too tired to move with them.

If you can commit to recovery for life, your fatigue gradually subsides and is replaced by short bursts of energy at first and then life itself, as if it never left you. You may get an opportunity to indulge in anorexia nostalgia by revisiting old friends or beautiful places where you refused to eat and couldn’t see all the colors in front of you. And you might think, “What if I am disappointing now to people who knew me then? What if it’s so much better now and I have to accept how much time I lost? What if I haven’t learned anything?”

A few days after our text exchange, I met Anne, and we sat in her parents’ kitchen that we had spent so much time in as teens. Stone bangle bracelets and amulets that Anne now sold by the beach were spread across the table. When Anne moved out, her parents had filled in their pool. Imagine all that time wasted in her bathroom, and it’s that easy to grow grass over a pool.

“What are you doing now?” Anne asked. “You have two kids, right?”

Through recovery, I’ve found that it isn’t difficult to talk about yourself when you stop hiding. Anne spoke about her freedom in Miami — her favorite coffee shop, bad dates, a woman who sold her crystals that could change lives. She remembered that I was a Taurus and asked if she could do my chart. I felt bad telling Anne that I don’t believe in astrology. I agreed anyway and reached for a pita chip, because it was there, because that’s what you do when someone offers you food and because I like pita chips.

“I brought something,” Anne said. “These are perfect for you.”

She slid two bangle bracelets across the table to me: jade for courage and rose quartz for love and inner peace. Self-love, maybe. I can’t remember. I ran my finger along the bracelets and realized my hands had been on the table the entire time. I still can’t pick my body out in a lineup, but I no longer need to touch my body to make sure it’s still there.

I had thought of Anne over the years and had made peace with how we drifted apart. The real reason I came was that I owe the little girl who feared her near-naked body in her best friend’s pool the privilege of letting that body grow, without interfering to bend, sculpt and beat it into submission.

But once back in the house that Anne grew up in, I realized there is no release, not the way I had expected. There is no second try. Anne doesn’t owe me one. The best we can do is give what we’ve got right now — astrology, hugs for her mother, dumb jokes, crystals, baby photos of our kids. Whatever it is, it’s good, and it’s enough, at least for me.

Anne’s mother had been grilling peppers on the stove. Their carnival colors blackened and frayed on the grill. I glanced at the clock and realized I had to pick up my daughter in 20 minutes.

“Before you go, you have to try these peppers,” Anne said.

I agreed and let her fill up my plate. The cooked peppers were smoky, sugary, their skins slick with oil. I guess they’ve always been this way. But now I can taste them.
 

anti-barabas-ite

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Escaped True Master
The mentally ill need to be put away in institutions

According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), 6.3 percent of the population suffers from severe mental illness [2], defined as longstanding mental illnesses, typically psychosis, that cause moderate-to-severe disability of prolonged duration [3]. Given that the number of adults 18 and over in the United States in 2010 was estimated to be roughly 234,564,000 [4], approximately 14.8 million people have severe mental illness. Experts polled by the Treatment Advocacy Center estimated that about 50 beds per 100,000 people would meet needs for acute and long-term care, but in some states the number of available beds is as low as 5 per 100,000 people [5]. Thus, many who need residential treatment cannot obtain it.

The changes that led to this lack of space, as well as changes to the institutionalization process, have made it impossible for people with severe mental illness to find appropriate care and shelter,

we decided that these peoples "rights" needed protecting more than say the rights of the victims of this group, need to let loose the demons onto the streets.

today the mentally ill are mainstreamed in the school systems by the thousands, creating anarchy and chaos across the spectrum.

the answer for these boksheviks that allow this is hire more and more and more handlers for the mentally ill. always reaching in your pocket to "help"

I'm not the answer man, but every day we see an escalation of the aftermath of this policy...further and further into an abyss of chaos...when's this order thing going to start?
 

rouse

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Every "Huff Post" article reads like some dumb broad padding her "oeuvre" in the desperate hope of snagging an English department gig at any God-awful diploma mill that will hire them.
 

HeartAche

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travis_bickle

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We have good writers here(too many to mention)...why don't You write a fake Huff-Poo pain in the ass article?
I Wish but my skills are basic.
Something about a poor White single mother with trans toddlers,alcoholic ex husband,fire in the roof and vaginal infections that discovers licking and scissoring.
For the best one,(poll) one year of free Huffington Post.Second place,two years.
 
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Ethan_Allen

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We have good writers here(too many to mention)...why don't You write a fake Huff-Poo pain in the ass article?
I Wish but my skills are basic.
Something about a poor White single mother with trans toddlers,alcoholic ex husband,fire in the roof and vaginal infections that discovers licking and scissoring.
For the best one,(poll) one year of free Huffington Post.Second place,two years.
I'll start. Y'all jump in and flesh out the bones and we'll submit it to the editor over there and see if we get published. Change, edit, add, redact as you see fit.

My name is "Jane". I am now 45 years old, single and childless. This is my story:

I grew up in rural Kentucky in a large family, but I knew from an early age that I belonged in the city. Not necessarily New York, but somewhere at least slightly cosmopolitan where family, church and back-yard gardening were NOT the center of everyone's life. So when I was offered a summer internship at a major New York bank after my first year at university, I jumped on it.

"Nervous" can't begin to describe my emotional state on the first day at my new job. I had been assigned a mentor for the program and her name was Mary.
 

travis_bickle

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After 2 months I started feeling something for her,something I never felt before.
I asked her,and It was hard,if She noticed my interest...She kissed me and It was love.
 

Ethan_Allen

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I'll start. Y'all jump in and flesh out the bones and we'll submit it to the editor over there and see if we get published. Change, edit, add, redact as you see fit.

My name is "Jane". I am now 45 years old, single and childless. This is my story:

I grew up in rural Kentucky in a large family, but I knew from an early age that I belonged in the city. Not necessarily New York, but somewhere at least slightly cosmopolitan where family, church and back-yard gardening were NOT the center of everyone's life. So when I was offered a summer internship at a major New York bank after my first year at university, I jumped on it.

"Nervous" can't begin to describe my emotional state on the first day at my new job. I had been assigned a mentor for the program and her name was Mary. After 2 months I started feeling something for her,something I never felt before. I asked her,and It was hard,if She noticed my interest...She kissed me and It was love.

Keep it going.
 

travis_bickle

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Passion was burning like a silver flame.
In a pair of weeks She was my husband,and sadly started changing.
We adopted a cute black girl and I was forced to leave my job.
I Remember the First Time She punched me in my face,because her steak was cold.
Meanwhile our little Shaniqua was starting to say:"I feel I'm a male",and We agreed on hormones and surgery.
Mary,after a party,had a night of sex with a gay black homeless,and her pregnancy was every day more embarassing.Abortion We tried turned in the early birth of two Twins,One black and the second chinese.
The years are come and pass,20,and Mary now Is Mario,After divorce and sex change, She married a drag Queen from Afghanistan.
Shaniqua Is the quarter back of the Dolphins,the twins are in the death row for murdering a priest in the toilet of a railways station,and I...
I'm Jane,the Whore from Minneapolis,and I Will be eligible for parole on Valentine's day.

Feel free of changing-correct-cut and whatever.
 
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travis_bickle

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Ethan,They called me from Huffington Post They want more.
Fifty-fifty?
 

Ethan_Allen

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My name is "Jane". I am now 45 years old, single and childless. This is my story:

I grew up in rural Kentucky in a large family, but I knew from an early age that I belonged in the city. Not necessarily New York, but somewhere at least slightly cosmopolitan where family, church and back-yard gardening were NOT the center of everyone's life. So when I was offered a summer internship at a major New York bank after my first year at university, I jumped on it.

"Nervous" can't begin to describe my emotional state on the first day at my new job. I had been assigned a mentor for the program and her name was Mary. After 2 months I started feeling something for her, something I never felt before. I asked her, and It was hard, if She noticed my interest...She kissed me and It was love. Passion was burning like a silver flame. In a pair of weeks She was my husband,and sadly started changing. We adopted a cute black girl and I was forced to leave my job.

I Remember the First Time She punched me in my face, because her steak was cold. Meanwhile our little Shaniqua was starting to say:"I feel I'm a male",and We agreed on hormones and surgery. Mary, after a party, had a night of sex with a gay black homeless, and her pregnancy was every day more embarassing. Abortion We tried turned in the early birth of two Twins,One black and the second chinese. The years are come and pass,20,and Mary now Is Mario,After divorce and sex change, She married a drag Queen from Afghanistan. Shaniqua Is the quarter back of the Dolphins,the twins are in the death row for murdering a priest in the toilet of a railways station,and I...


I'm Jane,the Whore from Minneapolis,and I Will be eligible for parole on Valentine's day.
 

TTG

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Spartacus you seem like a nice person but some of the stuff you post is legit intelligence lowering stuff that should be disregarded completely.
 

Czethertihor

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Honestly, anorexia needs to be looked at through the lens of kike brainwashing. It is virtually completely unheard of outside the West. Women don't need help being all fucked up, most already are, but when they receive even more pressure from jewish media screaming at them to BE THIN LOSE WEIGHT (which most need to do, to be fair), and look at any grocery store checkout aisle, it's just one giant HEY YOU FAT BITCH HERE'S HOW TO LOSE 30 LBS BY CHRISTMAS!!! ad, you have to understand there's going to be an outlier of girls or women who weren't really having weight problems to begin with who are going to be affected by this. Women are extremely easily manipulated, so it isn't really a stretch to believe that they can develop mental disorders from this kind of thing. Almost all of them already HAVE mental disorders to begin with, why is it so difficult to believe this kind of thing is real?
 
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