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An Open Letter on Ana/Mia
2003-06-24, 6:08 p.m.

It is funny now that I�ve got the medication going, I�m getting the opportunity to see just how paranoid and neurotic I really was. There have been so many times that people cared about me and all I saw was someone judging me. My ego was so inflated I belied that everyone actually cared about what I looked like. That they were judging me, my shirt, my shoes, my nails- strangers in the mall I thought actually cared about me like that. I thought that my ed was my friend, when it was my jailer, my warden, my master. It�s funny how much space what I ate took up in my life. What I ate and didn�t eat made up how I felt about myself. My achiments outside of losing weight came to mean nothing. The struggle to be thin, and more than that to punish myself for not being thin had become the central focus of life. My fear of family finding out keeping me from ever truly losing weight this time around, and only meant that I punished myself harder than ever. If Ana/Mia were my lover my friends would have forced me to leave because of the abuse.

On my 14th birthday, I almost died. After the coma, the forced feedings began. The plastic tubes shoved roughly down my throat, the five point body restraints. I still fought. I thought food was my enemy never knowing that it was my mind, my lovely death angel Ana that was the evil that I should fight to keep out of my body.

Ana what a lovely slow death, an art form, rough salty water that leaves behind only bones, and empty hearts, deadened brains. How I worshiped her and always fell short of the promised salvation. Mia came in and promised, it promised me that if I just held out long enough, worked hard enough, drank my milk and ate small bites, that she could make it okay. She left me not once but twice in a hospital with holes in my throat, ulcers, that seep blood, ragged holes that mark where once a voice lived.

They betrayed me. Now I will betray them.


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