There Is, In Fact, An Incredible Freedom

For A Long Time I Believed The Opposite Of Passion Was Death. I Was Wrong. Passion And Death Are Implicit, One In The Other. Past The Border Of A Fiery Life Lies The Netherworld. I Can Trace This Road, Which Took Me Through Places So Hot The Very Air Burned The Lungs. I Did Not Turn Back. I Pressed On, And Eventually Passed Over The Border, Beyond Which Lies A Place That Is Wordless And Cold, So Cold That It, Like Mercury, Burns A Freezing Blue Flame.

So Many Means Of Self-destruction, So Little Time.

Recovery Isn’t Easy, At First. It Takes Time. It Takes More Work, Sometimes, Than You Think You’re Willing To Do. But It Is Worth Every Hard Day, Every Tear, Every Terrified Moment. It’s Worth It, Because The Trade-off Is This: You Let Go Of Your Eating Disorder, And You Get Back Your Life.

There Is Never A Sudden Revelation, A Complete And Tidy Explanation For Why It Happened, Or Why It Ends, Or Why Or Who You Are. You Want One And I Want One, But There Isn't One. It Comes In Bits And Pieces, And You Stitch Them Together Wherever They Fit, And When You Are Done You Hold Yourself Up, And Still There Are Holes And You Are A Rag Doll, Invented, Imperfect. And Yet You Are All That You Have, So You Must Be Enough. There Is No Other Way.

The Anoretic Operates Under The Astounding Illusion That She Can Escape The Flesh, And, By Association, The Realm Of Emotions.