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A Letter, A Cry for Help

by: Lisa Ann

This is a letter I wrote to my cousin, a psychologist. I never sent her the letter. After rereading it, I became embarrassed and ashamed. Once again, just as I was reaching out for help, I backed away. Although I wanted help and wanted to be "normal" again, I wasn't yet ready to let go of my companion, my friend, my worst enemy-my bulimia. Writing this letter helped me. I could finally express myself with out being ridiculed. I'm submitting this letter in hopes that it will help someone else know that they are not alone, as I sometimes feel.

Dear Bev,

I just wanted to write you a note to tell you how I'm doing. In a way, I'm really sorry that I'm doing this to you-dumping all my problems on you. Sometimes I feel like a real psycho. Mom seems to believe that this is the case. I want her to know what I'm going through physically, mentally, emotionally, and even chemically. I NEED her to know. I need someone to know, just in case. See, I bet you know what I mean when I say "just in case". Others will ask, "In case of what?" Then they let out a chuckle and roll their eyes when I explain, in case I die. Why does it seem so impossible for someone to die from an eating disorder? I know, they look at me and they can see that I'm not a waif. And, gee, I guess I may even look healthy. Nothing could happen to me, right?

I try to let mom and a few others know what is happening to me. Then, maybe they'll see this is not a joke. Will anyone ever realize that by my telling them things that I am really on my knees at their feet, begging for them, anyone to HELP ME? I am so afraid I'm going to die. But at the same time, I catch myself smiling at the thought of my death. I feel like I'm trapped in a living hell. I want out, I want to be normal again. I'm tired of my hair falling out, of my stomach aching, of living with my head stuck in a toilet. How disgusting! How abnormal! I constantly think of food. I love to smell it, to cook, to watch others eat. I don't eat anymore. Sometimes, but just enough to allow my body to keep breathing, to keep thinking of food, to keep obsessing about everything.

I can't sleep through the night anymore. At first, I was so tired from not eating that I slept all the time. But now, it's different. I lay in bed and say prayers for hours and hours. I pray for everyone I know and don't know. I ask God to forgive me for what I'm doing to my body. My mind begins to wander off, thinking about all kinds of things. I wonder if I lost any weight in the last two hours. I get up and weigh myself. A half pound (something must be wrong with the scale). But it says I lost weight. I'm so happy. I climb back into bed smiling. Thirty minutes later, I'm up, measuring my thighs, waist, and arms. I record the measurements. Back to bed. I pray some more. I turn on the light and look at my calendar. I determine (for the fifth time that day) what I should weigh in a week, a month. Back to bed, mind wanders, more praying. 7 AM arrives. My day starts, more of the same stuff, whether I go to work that day or not. More of the same: more obsessing, more hunger pangs. More fear of food, more purging, more staring at myself in the mirror, criticizing my body. More self-hatred. More joy when the scale says I'm smaller, lighter. More sadness and anger when two hours later it says I'm worthless because the glass of water and crackers I rewarded myself with for the earlier weight loss made me gain a pound. More ridding myself of the food... This is my day! IT IS HELL!

My body can't and won't spare blood for my periods, how can it spare the tears I cry as I write this? How do I even have the energy to write this? I hope it makes sense. My memory sucks. I can't think straight anymore. I have a terrible time getting my words out. I shake a lot, from the cold or from malnutrition, I don't know which. Maybe from both. I'm dizzy. I fall into walls. My hair falls out in clumps. The whites of my eyes are red. My hips hurt, the bones stick out. It hurts to lay or sit too long.

Ive lost too much weight over 5 1/2 months! Not normal. But "great" because it came off so fast. No one would know from looking at me that I am sick. They congratulate me on the weight loss. I smile and am happy that they notice but furious and annoyed because they don't see that HOW I am doing it is bad! I feel like they are saying, "Congratulations on slowly killing yourself, on slowly destroying your body! I'm soooo proud of you!" I know that they aren't thinking these things, of course. I guess I just want someone to care, someone to help me. Which is confusing in itself because half the time I don't feel worthy of care or help.

When I tried to tell mom about my hair loss, the loss of my period and all of the new hair I was growing on my cheeks, stomach and back, she shook her head in pity. "Tsk, Tsk. Well," she said, "if you die form this, Lisa, everyone will say, 'Awww... that poor girl. She must have really had something mentally wrong with her.'" That statement almost killed me. It made me feel so alone, so isolated, so CRAZY! I told her that it didn't matter to me what people thought. As long as they were looking at me, while in my coffin, as a dead THIN Lisa instead of a dead FAT Lisa. I realize that my statement was a contradiction of itself. That if I didn't care what they thought, then, why care if I'm fat or thin when I'm dead. Its because I do care what people think, whether I'm dead or alive. Maybe I care too much. But that is one of the main reasons for the onset of this disease. ONE of the reasons. Certainly not the only reason. I don't believe it is my reason.

Again, I'm sorry for dumping all this stuff on you. Its just that, I can tell by the way you listened and treated me a few months ago that you understand. You understand that this is a disease. I just needed to tell someone what I'm going through. Someone who understands from a professional level, I guess.

My hand hurts. I feel so much better now that I put my feelings down on paper. I felt like I was talking to you, to your face, as you just listened to me, not judging me. Just listening. I hope you don't judge me while reading this. I just needed a friend.

Love,
Lisa

©2000 Lisa Ann. Reprinted with Permission.

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