Though I only just started reading today, I am writing about the book now because the first two pages contain the authors attempt to describe what it is like to live in the middle of this disease. I have not been shy about sharing my experiences, there are few events and details I have held back, but something that I have struggled to accurately portray are the exact thoughts, voices and emotions that take place inside my head daily. Browns attempt to capture the day in the life of an anorexic is scarily accurate.
With each new paragraph of Brown's writing, I found myself spiraling further down into the memories of when I was at my worst. How I'd wake in the pre-dawn hours after only a few hours sleep because I just had to work out and hours later so tired, knees buckling with every step, my stomach screaming with it's emptiness, I'd fight with myself to just have a spoonful of peanut butter to appease frantic needs of my starved body. I never could though, my mind was to strong and jumping off a cliff seemed less dangerous. The days I'd spend hours online looking at site after site after site of recipes for creamy pasta dishes, sandwiches of delicious breads topped with all sorts of delights, and chocolate desserts that made my heart dream, knowing I would never ever be allowed to taste them. The nights where my the voice in my head and pining of my hallow stomach filled me with fear and desperation so deep not even tears could come. Today as I read those last few sentences, my eyes shook with those hidden tears.
I've said before that the only way one can fully understand the power and terror of an eating disorder is for them to have one themselves. But there are some people who are able to use words in such a way that those untouched by this disease are able to get a glimpse into the torturous world the disorder creates. Brown's words struck a nerve, rang a bell of truth. I ask that you read them and take their message to heart so that one day, if you find yourself looking into the face of a person whose mind and life is no longer in their control, you are able grasp the pain they are dealing with and offer help.
" Close your eyes. Imagine that you're standing in a bakery. Not just any bakery - the best bakery in Paris, its windows fogged, crowded with people who jostle for space in front of its long glass cases. The room is fragrant and you can't take your eyes off the rows of cinnamon rolls and croissants, iced petits fours, flaky napoleons and elephant ears. Every counter holds at least one basket of crusty baguettes, still warm from the oven.
And you're hungry. In fact, you're starving. Hunger is a tornado whirling in your chest, a bottomless vortex at your core. Hunger is a tiger sharpening its claws on your tender insides. You stand in front of the glass cases, trying to swallow, but your throat is dry and your stomach clenches and contracts.
You want more than anything to lick the side of an eclair, swirl the custard and chocolate against your tongue. You dream about biting off the end of a cruller, feeling the give of the spongy dough, the brief molecular friction of the glaze against your teeth, flooding your mouth with sweetness. The woman beside you reaches into a white paper bag, pulls out a hunk of sourdough roll. You see the little puff of steam that flares from its soft center, breathe in its warm yeasty smell. She pops it into her mouth and chews and you chew along with her. You can almost taste the bread she's eating. Almost.
But you can't, not really, because how long has it been since you've tasted bread? A month? A year? And though your stomach grinds against your backbone and your cheeks are hollow, though the tiger flays your belly, you can't eat. You want to, you have to, but your fear is greater than your hunger. Because when you do - when you choke down a spoonful of plain yogurt, five pretzel sticks, a grape - that's when the voice in your head starts up, a whisper, a cajoling sigh: You don't need to eat, you're strong, so strong. That's right. Good girl.
Soon the whisper is a hiss filling the center of your head: You don't deserve to eat. You're weak, unworthy. You are disgusting. You don't deserve to live. You, you, you. The voice is a drumbeat, a howl, a knife sunk in your gut, twisting. It knows what you're thinking. It knows everything you do. The more you try to block it out, the louder it becomes, until it's screaming in your ear: You're fat. You're a pig. You make everyone sick. No one loves you and no one ever will. You don't deserve to be loved. You've sinned and now you must be punished.
So you don't eat, though food is all you think about. Though all day long, wherever you are - doing homework, sitting with friends, trying to sleep - part of you is standing in the bakery, mesmerized with hunger and with fear, the voice growling and rumbling. You have to stand there, your insides in shreds, empty of everything but your own longing. There will be no bread for you, no warm buttery pastries. There's only the pitiless voice inside your head, high-pitched, insistent, insidious. There's only you, more alone than you've ever been. You, growing smaller and frailer. You, with nowhere else to go.
The voice is part of you now, your friend and your tormentor. You can't fight it and you don't want to. You're not so strong, after all. You can't take it and you cant get away. You don't deserve to live. You want to die.
This is what it feels like to have anorexia. "
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