The creature that wanted me to waste away still exists, lingering inside of me.  Often it will come down to my ear and whisper to me, remind me that I’ve lost control. 

“I haven’t lost control,” I’m learning to retort.  “I’ve gained control.  You’re just not in charge anymore.”
Is that so? It replies, seeing how much influence it still has. Or are you just trying to forget that you couldn’t handle me?  After that my responses become weak and ED (The Eating Disorder) shrugs, going back to its spot, perched on a tree branch where it watches me maneuver through every moment of my life; where it watches me fight. 

I dig my teeth into the slice of pizza and I’m conscious of the way the burning sauce scorches my tongue, how the fluffy bread sticks to my gums, and how the gooey, dense cheese consumes my mouth.  I swallow and, in a sort of slow motion, the pizza settles into my stomach, a thick pool of calories.  
Wow.  You really have no more willpower.
A month ago, I wouldn’t have been able to do this.  I wouldn’t have let the piece of pizza come near my mouth.  It would’ve gone like every other time my parents sat there with me, encouraging me to eat. “Grace, your thoughts are upside down – the only way to change that is to eat,” my dad would say.  My mom would add, “Please, just eat it.  Nothing bad will happen. You know we love you no matter what.”
  But I wouldn’t budge.  I would sit there, my jaw sore from clenching it so tight, with tears being forced out of my eyes from feeling the two parts of my brain press against each other, butting heads, each trying to win the other one over.  “It’s okay,” one side would say. “You’re allowed to eat.  You’ll feel better.”
But the other side would always win. “You’re really going to do that? Give up your hard work by eating that disgusting, fat, calorie filled thing?  You’ll have given up.  You’ll have nothing to work for anymore.” 

My mom is talking to my brother about starting middle school in a week.  Chloe is fiddling with Barbie’s plastic arms, not giving a second thought to her barely touched cut pizza squares.  My dad is looking up the score of the Mets – Phillies game on his blackberry.
No one is saying, “Grace, take another bite.  You have to eat more.” No one is looking at me.
You know how to solve that problem – don’t eat. 
I shove the last thick piece of crust into my mouth, chewing it ferociously and mentally shoving it down my throat.  I excuse myself from the table – no one protests.  I ate – I was doing what they wanted.  So what’s the matter?
Anorexics don’t eat pizza.
I walk into my room, shut the door, and sit on my bed.  I close my eyes tight, hoping maybe if I squeeze them tightly enough ED will leave me alone, just for a little bit. 
Your stomach is pressing against your pants, spilling over your belt.  Feel it – embrace it.  That’s how you’ll feel all the time if you choose to take this path.
My pace quickens, as it always does when I feel myself going into panic mode.  Although ED is weaker, it often feels spurts of power, and my mind splits up, the two parts running, chasing each other around an infinite loop. 
Horrible.
Weak.
Ugly.
Loser.
“Why?” I whisper to myself, gripping my covers as tears slowly trickle down my face.  “Why are you doing this to me?”
I am you.
I rub my fingers on my temples, and glance at the picture of our family vacation sitting on the bedside table. I reach over to it and lay my hand on the glass. With my finger I trace the outline of my twiggy legs in the glass, examine my collarbones sticking out like razors. 
At least then you had accomplishments. Now you have nothing. 
I bite my lip to keep myself from letting out a sound. “Don’t let it come back.  Fight it off.  You’re stronger now.”
You’ll be that fat girl with three chins who sits alone in a room, eating a cake, soggy from her own tears.   
I fall onto my stomach and shove my face into the pillow, silently screaming. I try to rationalize.  “It’s okay,” I tell myself.  “It’s really okay.  You’re allowed to have pizza – everybody eats pizza.  One meal hardly affects you anyway.”  But my breathing is still choppy.
I’ll keep coming back – you’ll never expect me.  But I have to keep doing this.  I’m trying to help you. 
“No!” I yell.  “You’re horrible.”
Am I horrible? What’s truly horrible are the rolls of fat from your stomach cascading down your body.
“Stop it.” 
If you really want to stop feeling this way, get it out.  Just because you couldn’t do it before doesn’t mean you can’t do it now. 

Three weeks ago leaned over the toilet, hands gripping both edges, staring into the water. 
Doing this will make up for everything you just ate; it’s the right thing to do.  It’s the only way you’ll stop feeling like this.
The feeling of disgust and failure had consumed me, taking over my body.    Throwing up was my only escape. I needed to know there was still something in me – some kind of strength.  I leaned over the toilet, my hands gripping both edges.  I brought my right hand up, inching my finger towards my throat. 
Do it, ED had told me.  Show yourself you can. 
I tried.  I tried so hard.  I pushed and pushed, making my finger go deeper and deeper, farther than I wanted to put it.  But it didn’t work.  Through watered eyes and a strained face I merely gagged, the food almost coming out but my body stopping it, allowing only a drizzle of drool to fall down my chin into the water. 
For what felt like hours I sat  against the bathtub, listening to ED insult me, tell me I wasn’t good enough, that I couldn’t even get out of my body what I had put in, that I was too scared.  I dug my finger nails into my legs, making long hard scratches in my skin, waiting for blood to seep out – doing anything to take away the pain of feeling worthless.

I bring my blanket to my face, rubbing it on my skin, my ears, my mouth, hoping for a sense of comfort.  “You don’t need to go back there,” I tell myself.  “You’ve come this far.”  I brush my hand through my hair, my fingers pressing hard into my scalp. I twirl a collection of strands of hair around my finger. I pull on it, but the hair is thick – it stretches, doesn’t come out. 

I was sitting in the library, tapping my feet, twiddling my thumbs, doodling, biting my lip, doing anything to make the time go faster – anything to distract me from the hunger that ate away at my body, my mind.  I dug my mouth into the fuzzy scarf that hung around my neck. I was freezing all the time.  My skin was becoming thinner and thinner, protecting me less and less.  Shivering had become a daily activity. 
As I heard my stomach growl I sighed and ran my fingers through my tangle of hair, bringing it to my face to see that the knots had come out, hanging numbly around my bones.
I looked up at the clock.  12:22. Eleven more minutes until I could eat.  “You can eat now,” I told myself. “You’re hungry.  You’re supposed to eat.”
No, I/ED shot back.  I won’t allow it.  You have a goal; a plan. Follow up on it. 
So I waited, each of the six hundred and sixty seconds going slower and slower as I got closer to 12:33 when I could peel off the tin foil that covered my sandwich – two 90 calorie pieces of bread with close to a tablespoon of peanut butter and jam – and pick apart the sandwich, first taking off the crusts, then slowly making my way into the fluffy middle, probably smearing off what little substance that existed inside the sandwich.  The relief of allowing myself to eat only lasted for a few seconds.  It would start all over again, the countdown until dinner, and then until breakfast, or until I was allowed to stop exercising, or until the weekend, or until I could fall asleep.  I wasn’t even living – I was just watching myself push through every day, the air waxy and thick, wishing whatever I was doing would be over.  My life had turned into a never ending countdown – all for the sick satisfaction I got from deprivation, or the depressing pride that hit me as I saw the number on the scale drop, my body shrinking before my eyes.
  But what was at the end of the countdown?  What was at the finish line of my weight loss goals that seemed to just keep on going and going? Where did it all lead me?
“A hospital bed,” the doctors told me, probably as some strategy to scare me into eating.  “Death.”
But maybe that was what I wanted.  At least then I wouldn’t be fighting anymore.  I wouldn’t be trapped, tortured by my own brain.  At least then, I would be free. 

The memories make me cringe as I lie on my back, breathing consciously, staring at the ceiling. 
Let me come back. 
I grasp ED’s neck with both hands and squeeze, hoping I can strangle it so that it knows it can’t hurt me.  But I can’t kill it.  It’s always there – a part of me that looks for my nooks and crannies, my weaknesses, any space it can use to take charge of my mind again.  I may not be able to kill it but I will keep my hands firmly around its neck so that it knows I’m strong and that it doesn’t have a chance – so that it knows it’s nothing more to me than a speck of dust.