BHSNovellas - Disconfigured (Ava)

Nothing hit me until I woke up in the hospital. And even then, I didn’t really understand it. I was dying, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to live eating, so dying was a better option for me. No matter what people told me, no matter how many bones I could see, I wouldn’t start again. Food was not an option; it never was…
I weighed 48 pounds in 4th grade. I was perfectly healthy, but extremely thin. People worried about me, but I never had a problem. I was 13 when I started gaining weight, just like any 13-year-old girl. I gained more at 14, and more at 15. But when I saw this happening, each curve of skin seemed to me like a mountain of fat. It needed to go away.
She was my friend, and she was consumed. The disorder was a disease, and it ate at her constantly. There was nothing I could do, but I tried. I would tell her she looked good – she could never accept the compliments. As her friend, I worried naturally, and I tried to feed her. It didn’t help. I almost gave up. But then I got a call from Elise, and I had to rush to the hospital; I got there and finally saw her as the sick person she had become. She wasn’t Hanna anymore; I couldn’t even call her by that name because the dying person on the bed wasn’t her. Her skin was white and splotchy, her hair no longer luscious, her teeth decaying, her face sunken in, her lips like raisins, her eyes bloodshot, and her body limp, like a corpse. The once gorgeous, fit, lively girl was now sickly, ugly, and broken. Her perspective was the complete opposite of everyone else’s. She didn’t see how sick she was.
People never understand what I see. I wasn’t beautiful before. I was fat. And now, it’s getting better. I’m thin; who doesn’t want that? They tell me I looked good before, but I didn’t. They just want me to get better. What they don’t see is that I am.
With each new rib I could see, I would reward myself. With each centimeter more I could wrap my fingers around my wrist, I was overjoyed. Each time someone told me I looked good, I couldn’t believe him or her, but it motivated me even more. And each time someone questioned me, I would just throw a carrot or stick of celery in my mouth, so that in case I wasn’t able to spit it out while they were looking away, I wouldn’t really be gaining too many calories.
Fruit was always my thing, and it still is today. I would usually eat a half a banana for breakfast, an apple for lunch, and ¾ of a cup of mixed berries for dinner. I needed some energy to run for soccer, and I had to eat this so people (in particular, my family) wouldn’t suspect too much. I would just tell everyone that I had eaten a lot earlier so I wasn’t hungry. Surprisingly, this worked for a while.
For me, it wasn't hard. At first, of course, I was starving and hated the feeling. I had always loved food, but I had also always found that after indulging in any kind of it, whether it's cantaloupe or a warm chocolate cake, it didn't last. It was only while I ate that I felt good. After, the flavor disappeared, and it no longer seemed worth it. I had to keep reminding myself of that feeling, that feeling of regret I always had after eating anything, to keep me going.
At first, it was a struggle, which sometimes people wouldn’t admit. But at the same time, the hunger I suffered from was what motivated me even more. I immediately slimmed down, but it was hard to face the weakness and pain. Pushing through it and telling myself I’m not working hard enough was what kept me going. I mean, I wasn’t working hard enough if I still wanted food.
I’ve always been all about working hard. Whether it’s in soccer, school, or eating, I’ve always pushed myself in everything I do until I can’t do it any better. But I don’t think perfection exists. I’m a perfectionist, but I can never find perfection. It doesn’t make me stop searching for it, though. It only makes me search harder.
In soccer, I always strived to be the best. It doesn’t just mean being the favorite or being MVP, it also meant being the first on the field at practice and the last off, the one with the most sweat on, the highest scorer, and simply the hardest worker.
I became good at soccer because of this natural personality trait of mine. I also became good getting thinner as a result of this trait. I take pride it in, and I am happy that I’m so hardcore because without it, I’d be fat. Not overweight, but probably around 140 lbs. Right now I’m at 95 lbs and still trying to lose more. I’m 5’6” and have long legs, which has come in great with soccer. The doctor always told me I was “underweight”, but lately that really hasn’t seemed the case. Actually playing soccer was never an issue with my body image except when I would see a tall, super thin, gorgeous girl on the other team. I was probably the thinnest on my own varsity team at school, but starting freshman year I began comparing myself to others every so often. Sophomore year was worse; it became all the time. But I actually stared holding off on my eating in November of my freshman year.
When I got to the high school, of course there were skinnier people than myself, but it wasn’t that that triggered me. I would put on my shorts for soccer and started wanted any skin hanging over even the slightest bit gone. What would have been absolutely nothing to someone else seemed like loads of fat to me. “Skin” was fat to be. Even muscle was fat to me. The only way I knew how to control it was to do crunches. I eventually built up to 700 a day, not including the extra planks, pushups, and arms I did as well. I had started seeing a nutritionist in 8th grade because I started questioning what I was eating. I had always been a good eater, and I was naturally always hungry, so I always had small snacks every few hours throughout the day. This kept my metabolism up, which was great. Although I had that good habit, I wanted to cut pasta and bread out of my diet and didn’t know what to replace it with. I had never been a big sandwich eater, and I didn’t like cheese, yogurt or peanut butter. I eventually forced myself to eat the low-fat versions of those. Anyways, the crunches weren’t completely doing the trick, and people told me it wasn’t healthy (not that I cared).
I knew my nutritionist wouldn’t be in favor of me eating less, especially since she diagnosed me with malnutrition after I started watching my eating more. I was getting only half of the calories I supposedly needed, and my hunger was decreasing. It scared me to eat when I wasn’t hungry, but at the same time I knew that eating every 2-3 hours kept my metabolism up and therefore burning off more calories and causing me to be thinner. I just started cutting everything out. At first it was pasta, then bread, then all fries (even with chicken fingers) then ice cream, then frozen yogurt, then steak, then dairy, then everything.
The biggest issue was the new weakness and fatigue I encountered when running. Not only did I need it for running, but also it had always been an outlet for me, and it became more of a challenge each week. I tried to force myself to eat before practice, as did my friends. Obviously, this helped, and I realized that it helped my game so I got better at eating before running and playing. However, I needed to cut some other area from my diet in order to balance it out.
I’ve always been big on breakfast; it gives one energy to start the day. I cut my breakfast down to half a piece of fruit, but it was still there. After about four months, though, I cut it down to one “breakfast” every three days. I cut out my snack in the morning all together; I just had a small lunch right after school, before soccer. That was usually a banana. Then, after soccer, I was always exhausted and starving, but I hated to eat before bed because I felt bloated. To compromise, I would eat a small chunk of piece of chicken right after practice for some protein. This was my in between stage, the time when I could get away with it without too many people noticing. After another 14 months of this, I still wasn’t happy.
I ate half a banana every other day. My friends, of course, found out quickly. So did my family. My brother, surprisingly, was the one who worried the most. He was two years older than me, and he was in his senior year of high school when I was a sophomore. That was the year I lost it all. All the weight, that is.
I was a guy, just a guy. I had a lot of friends, and I got girls. I liked toned and in-shape girls, so when my sister started dropping weight, I noticed immediately. At first it took me by surprise, but I thought nothing of it; girls are always going up and down the scale, right? It was after a few months that she started looking sickly, pale, and weak. The summer of ’06, in between her freshman and sophomore years (my junior and senior years), I went into her bathroom looking for a new, unopened toothbrush and saw a bunch of hair in the sink. Her hair was falling out. I saw her bones becoming more and more visible, and in the spring of 2007 she just got worse. She actually looked like she could crack anywhere at any moment, and she never looked happy anymore. Our baby cousin was scared of her. She looked like a skeleton. I knew the worst had come when I went to her games and she was panting and wheezing like I have never seen.
Of course, I knew something was up way back when. I asked her one day, in the spring of 2006 I think, if she had had anything to eat that day. She had a big game on that Saturday, and I knew she needed energy. I knew she wasn’t eating much, and she immediately became defensive. “Of course!” she replied. “Did you not see the massive breakfast I made?! With eggs and bacon?” I knew then it was a lie. When she continued to hide it from me through the summer, I knew she needed someone to trust and confide in, and I didn’t know if she had anyone who she could do that with. A week or two before school started in September, I confronted her one day when she was on the back patio tanning.
I walked up, took a seat next to her, and said calmly, “Han, I know about your anorexia. It’s okay; I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. It’s just that I know you’re probably going through a lot and I want you to know that you have someone you can trust. And I know we haven’t had the smoothest relationship, but really, Hanna I care about you more than anyone else and I don’t know what I’d do without you as my sister. I just want to help or at least do whatever I can.”
She said nothing. After a few minutes of just staring ahead as if I didn’t exist, she drew up the nerve to look at me. Then she stared right in my eyes for a good 30 seconds. During that period of time, her eyes welled up so that I could see my reflection in them. I hadn’t seen her cry in years, not since we were kids.
She didn’t cry, though. She was too tough.
“I’m fine,” She stated, “I know what I’m doing, and I’m fine. I’m good.”
At that point I realized it was going to take more than a single casual conversation to get her to let me in.
I knew. I mean, I knew before she told me. It was obvious. She was my best friend; how could I not see her shriveling away into nothing but a pile of bones and some pale, decomposing skin? I just didn’t know how to handle it…I once read that confronting an anorexic will more often than not push them away and intensify their anorexia. But later I discovered that she needed attention. So I started paying attention to her. But I didn’t know whether to compliment her or insult her. I went with complimenting, as any friend would. I would tell her she looked good, looked cute, or her body looked good. She could never seem to take the compliment, though. She seemed like she hated her body, which was so weird, because when she was healthy, even at the beginning of her disorder, any girl in the grade would have died for her body. I was always jealous, but she always told me she wished she had my body.

I was with her throughout the whole disease (at least that’s what I considered it). I was there to be her friend and treat her like a normal person. I knew that acceptance was key, so I just accepted her the way she was. Of course I tried to help; I did everything I could. But when I realized she was bent on staying that way, I had to accept her.
I remember the first time I ever suspected anything. It was a warm day, but she was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. When I went to get food for lunch, she said she wasn’t hungry. We had a game after school, so I asked her if she had any food to spare before we played. She handed over a ton of fruit, and when I asked what she would eat, she said she had carrots. When we were in the dressing room and she got changed, her ribs were poking out through her skin and her Under Armor was unusually big. About two-thirds through the game, she looked pale and was breathing heavier than usual. She drank four bottles of water throughout the game and kept leaning over, bracing herself. She never seemed to be able to catch her breath. Yes, soccer is hard, but I had never seen her struggle so much.
A few days later, we were at school and she shared her insecurities with me.
“I want to lose some weight,” she said.
“What?! Are you serious?” I replied. “You definitely don’t need to.”
“But I do.” She stated. “Especially my stomach. I need to get rid of all this fat.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” I sympathized, “but that’s the kind of fat you just can’t lose, ya know?”
At that moment, my heart sunk, my stomach dropped, and my jaw tensioned. I would prove to her that that fat could be lost. I would lose it. That was my next mission.
Keep going. Keep pushing. You’re not working hard enough. You’re a worthless piece of shit. Don’t be a worthless piece of shit. You want that body. You need that body. Next set.
Crunches were my outlet, my way of venting, and my way of working hard. I needed to push myself to a whole other level that no one else did. It had to be a level that no one on my soccer team, no one who didn’t eat, and no one who wanted what I wanted went to. I needed to be the best. I needed to have the best body. That little ring of fat around each girl’s stomach was decreasing for me, but it was still there. I could feel it. Every day, the first thing I would do in the morning was go to my mirror in the bathroom, lift up my shirt, and stare at my stomach. Not good enough, I would always tell myself. I would do this several times a day, and I would occasionally poke my stomach if I got hungry so I could remind myself of that dreaded fat I desperately needed to disappear. I would squeeze my abs all the time to try to make the fat turn into muscle, and I started wearing looser clothing. This was because I was becoming more and more self-conscious and hypersensitive to my body. Also, I didn’t want people questioning me. It was the last thing I needed at that time.
My parents had never worried about my body because I had always been very thin and active. Again, when I was younger, I was so thin that people worried about me, but my parents always knew I was fine. I wanted that teeny body back so badly, and I was willing to do anything for it. I couldn’t let them know that, though. At the beginning, I would be like, “Mom! I’ve been working so hard!” And she would say, “Really, Hanna, you look great!”
I didn’t say anything anymore to her because I didn’t want her to notice how much weight I had dropped; I didn’t want her to worry about me, send me to a doctor, and have to be put in rehab or something. When I was in the house, I always wore sweats and slippers so my parents couldn’t see my bones and cold, thin feet. People couldn’t find out.
Of course, that doesn’t always work. Mackie and Marie both found out, and I always confided in them. Mackie was, of course, very brotherly and protective, and Marie was the friend who understood what I was going through. But sometimes she made me feel worse. At the same time, that motivated me to keep going.
Mackie found out on his own, but it took me a while to accept it. I pretended like I was fine, and I guess in a way I was. I wasn’t happy, but I was happy with what I was doing because I was getting thinner. After Mackie confronted me, he gave me my space, for which I am eternally grateful. He was the only person who ever gave that to me. Sometimes, that was all I needed. As a male high school senior, Mackie understood what space meant and how important it is. He would always be off by himself in his room playing video games or whatever. Space was important to him, as it was to me. My “disorder” definitely brought us closer together. It also made us better people.
Mackie became a more caring and aware person, and eventually I was able to ask for help when I needed it. I had never been able to do that before, and eventually, when I got really sick, I was able to turn to Mackie and tell him I needed help. Even if I couldn’t say I was really sick, he knew when I was, and knew not to push me. He knew when I needed to stop, even when I didn’t. He knew my limits, and he truly cared for me. He kind of became my guardian angel. If it weren’t for Mackie, I would have been here a long time ago.

Marie treated me no differently than she had before, even when she figured out what was going on. She found out what I was doing soon after it started, which was a given because she was my best friend and always with me. It was a few months after I started dramatically dropping weight, and I decided to tell her so that maybe someone would understand what I was going through. I knew I could trust her; she was the type of person that tells everyone everything but when it came to the important stuff, she was always able to keep her mouth shut.
“Hey, there’s something I need to tell you. I know I’ve been acting kind of weird and tired lately, and it’s because I’m an-…an-…”
I couldn’t say it. I could never say the word.
“—Anorexic? Yeah, I know” she said with a welcoming smile on her face. You really think your best friend wouldn’t have noticed by now?” She said jokingly, and she laughed a little.
I was surprised, relieved, but also felt a little betrayed.
“So wait, you knew and weren’t going to say anything?” I asked demandingly.
“No, of course I was gonna say something! I just wanted to give you some space, ya know? See if you would tell me soon. If you didn’t I would eventually say something. I know this is going to be really annoying, but as your best friend, I have to ask you all this stuff. You know it can kill you, right? And you know that you won’t be able to have kids or play soccer anymore, right?”
“I know, I know. I know about it and how awful it is,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And trust me, I’ve been playing soccer through it and I’m fine. And not everyone can’t have kids later. Besides, I don’t even know if I want kids. The most important thing to me is my body and making sure it looks good.”
“Okay, just making sure,” said Marie.
And that was that. She wasn’t concerned. It was nice. I knew I was fine because my best friend wasn’t worried about me.

When I started, I knew I had to measure and weight myself all the time so keep myself motivated. Every few months, I would check up on my improvement.
Date: 11/6/05
Waist: 23 in. Hips: 33 in. Bust: 33 in. Wrist: 7 in. Weight: 140 lbs.
New Years’ came, and my resolution was to lose 30 pounds.
Date: 1/1/06
Waist: 22 in. Hips: 31.5 in. Bust: 32.5 in. Wrist: 6.8 in. Weight: 129 lbs.

Summer was the hardest time. People were in bathing suits, stomachs were exposed, and we were all supposed to be happy. My brain took over my body in the summer, forcing me to eat the bare minimum. When I went swimming with my friends, I always got comments about how skinny I was, but to me it was just noise that I couldn’t listen to. I certainly wasn’t happy. The sun wore me out, and I burned more than usual. I always tried to get tan, though, because I knew that a tan body looks toned.
The summer after freshman year, I started dating someone. I had just gotten back from a short soccer camp, and it was the end of July. David was his name, and he was in the grade above me. He was on the boys’ varsity soccer team, which was how we knew each other. We started talking and hanging out halfway through freshman year, which is when I started to like him and was even more self-conscious about my body. When he asked me out at the end of July, I was happy. I hadn’t felt that happiness in so long. My illness had drained the joy out of playing soccer. The only happiness I ever felt at that point was only in the success of being disciplined and in losing weight.
So when I was with David and felt happy, I realized that I needed him. At first, I couldn’t open up to him too much, but that wasn’t anything new. I couldn’t open up to really anyone anymore; I could only trust people who I knew wouldn’t let me get fat. At that point, I really hadn’t met anyone who could do that for me. The summer was great, and I felt like a huge boulder had been released from my shoulders, all because of David.
When I returned to school in the fall and my relationship with David grew, I didn’t want him to see my not eating, so I would usually go to the library during lunch and tell him (and some friends) that I had a ton of work. I would always just complain that sophomore year was more demanding academically and that I wanted to get more sleep so I needed to do more work at school. No one gave it a second thought.
I actually did want more sleep, though. I had read, many times, that getting more sleep helps weight loss. And I was really tired, more than usual. And it helped me escape from the pain of facing my body and the world. Curling up in covers and letting my eyelids fall closed was heaven to me.

At first, I was happy about it. Her weight loss seemed so impressive. I was actually jealous, so I asked her what she was doing.
“Hey hun,” I said one day when she came downstairs right before she left for school. “I just wanted to tell you that you look great these days!”
“Really?” she asked. “Oh, thanks; I’ve been working on it” she beamed with a smile.
“Yeah, you do. What have you been doing? I get if you don’t wanna give me your secrets, but you know I’m always trying to stay in good shape and all that.”
“I’ve just been cutting down carbs a bit, you know? And I’ve been doing some extra toning and conditioning at soccer. Not too much, but I feel great.”
“Nice! You really do look great. Thanks, sweetie.”

My mom wasn’t a traditional mom. She was a health nut, so I naturally was always super health-conscious and watching my weight. She had raised me on healthy foods. My mom was super-fit; she had a personal trainer and walked a lot. Sometimes we would go running together. So when she complimented we on my weight loss, I knew I wouldn’t have to worry about her being suspicious, or at least not for a while.

It was a week or two before Halloween of my sophomore year, and of course people were getting excited about costumes. I, on the other hand, was not so thrilled. One Friday at school, Marie told me she was going shopping with a couple people to get costumes, and invited me to join.
“We can all get matching outfits…or have a theme…it’ll be great! Let’s go!”
She was the typical teenage girl when it came to shopping, Halloween, and really everything. I needed an excuse, and I needed one fast.
“Oh, I wish I could,” I said sympathetically, “But I have family stuff going on today. Sorry; I really wish I could come.”
“I’m sure Elise would let you go shopping,” Marie said, rolling her eyes. “She herself would go if we invited her.”
Marie really knew my family; and what she said about my mom couldn’t have been truer.
I laughed and responded, “I know, I know. It’s my dad, though. He claims we haven’t been having enough ‘family bonding time’ or whatever, so he made us swear at the beginning of the week that would have today be family day.”
“Oh man! Okay, well have fun.”
“Haha, oh I will,” I said sarcastically. “You too.”
“Thanks,” she said with a smile, and continued strolling down the hallway.
She turned around, walking backwards, and shouted, “See ya later, girlie!”
She made me smile. She was a good friend. If only I didn’t have to make excuses for why I couldn’t even go shopping, she most popular, supposedly most fun teenage girl “thing”. She wouldn’t get it. There are mirrors everywhere. Trying on clothes requires seeing what size you are. If something’s too tight, I need it off immediately; I can’t let anyone, especially not myself, see any resemblance of fat on my body.
David made me feel good about myself. Well, not really. But he tried. He said all of the right things; he told me I was beautiful, he told me I looked good, and he always noticed the little things. If I wore my hair differently, he commented; if I had lost some weight, he noticed that too.
The last thing I ever wanted was for him to think I was fat, or for him to judge my body. That pushed me even farther into my disease. It gave me more motivation, which gave me more strength and discipline, which made me lose more weight.
Pain was not something I experienced. Or maybe I was just stronger than everyone else around me. It certainly didn’t feel that way, though. I was always the first on and last off the field at practice, but I started doing extra drills on my own time and was up late every single night doing crunches. If I ever missed a night because I fell asleep doing homework, I would punish myself the next day and make up for it by only drinking water, eating no food, and doing 3X the amount of crunches I had done the last time. That to me was not pain; it was me being successful, and therefore I was close to happy with that. It was never good enough, though, and I never felt like I was good enough. At practices, I would never accept that I was tired, even if I was dizzy and couldn’t see what was going on (which happened more increasingly throughout sophomore year).
The only thing I could ever think of was my body. It consumed my mind and my life. Obviously, it affected soccer. I would never accept any pain I felt, for I just told myself that it’s normal and that I needed to suck it up. That was how I worked until one day, in a game, I was dribbling down the field to go and score, and out of nowhere, BOOM. I felt nothing but my body hit the ground. When I tried to get up, I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t move. My legs were useless. I remember feeling numbness, seeing the whole team gather around me, and waking up in the hospital. I don’t remember the stretcher or the ambulance, but apparently there was one of each.
That day, I broke my tibia and my wrist. Not a biggie. I just wondered how long it would be before I would be able to play again. And I was desperately hoping that the doctors wouldn’t question me about my disorder, which they had known nothing of before that incident. (I hadn’t gone to the doctors enough to let them figure anything out at that point.) But of course, at the hospital, they have to make sure you’re “safe” and everything, so when I woke up and started talking normally, a nurse approached me with the doctor and told me everything that was wrong with the facility I despised. “Every vitamin is dangerously low. D is the worst; you have a level of 14 when the normal low is 30. Protein; you need more. Fat; you need more. Food in general; you need more…at least according to our studies, your body is taking in about a third of what you burn per day. Is this true?”
Not exactly what I wanted to deal with right after breaking a couple bones, helplessly lying in the hospital. I must have looked desperate for rest, because at that point my mom came up and butted in.
“Um, excuse me, but I really don’t think you should be questioning her right now about silly things when she just woke up from this huge ordeal that will affect her life dramatically. Have you no sensitivity?!”
Good old mom. On the inside, I was smiling. On the outside, I didn’t have the strength to.
My mom told me, “Now don’t you worry, sweetheart. Just rest up for now. God knows you need it. Don’t worry about homework or anything; I’ll let your teachers know what happened.”
“Thanks, mom,” I said with a weak smile, “You’re the best.”
I had IVs everywhere, with all different vitamins and nutrients and all that. The doctors realized, of course, that I was malnutrition and needed to keep me in the hospital even longer just to manage that. They weren’t holding me for anything psychological, though, so that was good. It was all medical. And even though I knew many of them knew about my eating, they didn’t say anything. I’m sure they were used to it, it was a hospital after all.
There were people coming in to question me, and my parents. Once my parent found out what I was doing, they sent me to a therapist. I hated the therapist. She was nice, but I didn’t want people butting into my life or trying to figure out what’s going on in my brain or whatever. The lady was nice, but I didn’t let her in. I didn’t want to let her in, and I naturally had a guard up as a result of being so self-conscious about my body.
I didn’t see anything wrong with what I was doing. The only thing I saw was that my body was repulsive. That’s all I could think about. So that’s all I told her about.
Her name was Dr. Linda Gordon, and she would ask me to tell her about my body. I hated when she did that, because I really hated saying it out loud; it just made me feel worse about myself.
I would say, “I hate it. It’s disgusting. There’s fat, especially on my stomach, which just won’t go away. And I need to see bones. I need to feel thin and look thin in order to like my body.”
“And what exactly is ‘thin’ to you?” She asked.
I had to think about it. “I don’t know, just thin. Everyone knows what thin is.”
“But would you consider yourself thin?”
“No. I mean, I see the bones and I see my pale skin and I know I don’t look as ‘healthy’ or whatever as I did a few years ago. But being healthy doesn’t matter to me. It’s about how I look. And I hate my body. I can’t even explain to you how much I despise my body. It’s all I think about. I hate it so much; I would do anything to have a perfect body.”
“Do you believe in perfection?”
“I do. That’s what I’m trying to reach. That’s what I’m working toward. I can never seem to find it, but I desperately want perfection.”
Dr. Gordon waited for a few seconds, and I could tell in her looking at me she was deep in thought.
“Here’s what I think. I think you’re a perfectionist. And most of the time, perfectionists like you are never able to reach perfection in their minds because something can always be better. It’s a healthy way of pushing one’s self, but when it gets extreme like this, it can become very dangerous. I don’t want you to end up hurting yourself because you’re trying to achieve something that you will never allow yourself to have. I think that you’ll always want more, and I think therefore, in your mind, you’ll never be thin enough. And that’s not to say that you aren’t thin. You are very thin. I see absolutely no fat on your body. But I have worked with many anorexics, and I know how you feel. You see things that no one else does. And, quite frankly, many of those things may not exist. But I understand that they are incredibly important to you. I’m going to try to get you to see what everyone else sees. I know you’re vision isn’t messed up; I know that you see the skin and bones in the mirror that everyone else does. But I think, and please correct me if I’m wrong, that you see one little, tiny curve and picture it as something 100 times bigger. I want you to try to see that little curve as nothing, which is how everyone else sees it. They don’t see anything wrong except that you look unhealthily thin.”
Props to her. She knew her stuff. But who says I was just going to change the way I see my body just like that? Besides, I didn’t want to change. I just wanted my body to be perfect. I didn’t see why my mentality had to change. I couldn’t trust anyone who would let me get fat. So I just asked her.
“Do you promise that you won’t let me get fat?”
She smiled, stared me right in the eye, and said, “I promise.”
And that was that. I mean, it wasn’t that simple, but it was a start.
My mom was great about everything. She didn’t question me, and I think that she trusted that everything would work itself out. Because she gave me space, I was able to let her in more. My dad, on the other hand, was clearly not O.K. with my eating. He wanted me to be healthy, as any normal parent would. But I wasn’t a normal kid. The norm for me was to push myself in every way possible even though I always thought I could push more. I was hard working, but I never convinced myself that I was working hard enough. It could always be more; it could always be better.
She didn’t tell me about her therapist. She didn’t tell me about anything. It’s hard to be a good friend to someone who doesn’t tell you anything. I felt like she was keeping a whole piece of her life hidden from me. I hated to think that anorexia defined her, but it did. It became her. It was all I could think about when I thought of her. At first, it wasn’t the case. At first, everything felt normal. I wanted to treat her as I always had; she wasn’t a freak of nature. I didn’t want to make her feel isolated. But as the disorder progressed and she got sicker and sicker, she started pulling away from me more and more. I felt as though she wasn’t herself anymore. She wasn’t present when I was with her. She seemed blank, expressionless, and almost dead.
She seemed to be getting better. She didn’t open up to any of us in the family about her therapist, but the therapist seemed to be helping. Hanna looked healthier: her skin looked tanner and healthier, she started wearing more fitted clothing, she seemed to be less concerned with food, and she smiled more.

It wasn’t a head-turning change, but it was just enough to give all of us the impression that she seemed to be getting better. I certainly believed it. So did my parents, and so did Marie. Marie and I grew closer throughout the whole anorexia. We were on the same page, and we both needed support to help Hanna. It was so draining for us; I can’t even begin to imagine what Hanna was going through. Nonetheless, Marie and I became pretty close, and I started seeing my sister’s once annoying best friend as more of a real person. She was smart, attractive, and through everything, she still had a great sense of humor. It’s cheesy, but true. No matter what was going on with Hanna or otherwise, she was able to put on a smile through it all and deal with it. She wasn’t overly happy or anything, but she didn’t complain about life sucking. She understood the difficulty of Hanna’s situation, but it’s hard to me to believe how much she really understood about the seriousness of anorexia. She never seemed too concerned, which at first I viewed as a positive thing. My parents and I were always very worried, but Marie was always calm.
As Hanna got sicker and sicker, Marie was around less because naturally, Hanna was shutting her out. She still never seemed stressed when I saw her, but I certainly was worried about my baby sister, so I would occasionally have lunch with her to keep in touch and have someone to talk to. During the summer after my senior year, these occasional meetings became every week or so, maybe even more often. I remember one day when Hanna was at soccer camp, Marie and I were at lunch at this little café and we were talking and laughing. She had dark brown beach hair, perfect bright white teeth, and tan skin that made her look ethnic. She was wearing a cut off t-shirt and short, torn jean shorts. Her bathing suit strap was peeking out around her neck, for she had plans to go to the beach later. She wasn’t dressed up, but she looked amazing. She had that natural glow; she was ridiculously beautiful. She was cute, also, and sweet. I had never thought of her as more than a friend, but when I thought about it, she was hot. It wasn’t just then that I realized this, but it was then that it was confirmed. She was flirty, and I could tell she was kind of in to me. But I didn’t think shed do anything, for I was her brother’s best friend, and it would’ve been strange. I guess she didn’t think it was so strange, because when I leaned in for a hug later, I gave her a kiss on the check and she pulled me in. It just happened. It was amazing, and I knew she could feel it too: she smiled after, and she was glowing. More than usual.

I always thought he was hot; when I first met him, my stomach dropped, he was so good-looking. Hanna, of course, always thought that was disgusting, so I learned to think of him as more of an older brother. But as the summer progressed and we got closer, those feelings started coming up. I never wanted to do anything to upset Hanna, but she was away, and it just seemed like the perfect moment. I didn’t want him to slip away; he had just graduated from high school and I didn’t have much time to make a move if I was going to make one. So I went for it, and he kissed me back. And he didn’t stop. It made me so happy, I didn’t even think of Hanna. Later, I did. After Mackie and I were already together. We weren’t super-official yet, but we were hooking up and spending a lot of time together. A few days before Hanna got back, I could tell that Mackie was getting anxious, as was I.
He was the first to say something, but all he said was, “So…what are we gonna do about Hanna?” in a monotone voice.
“I have absolutely no idea,” I said. “I’m kinda worried.”
“I think we should wait to tell her until she’s in a good mood so she won’t freak out as much.”
“But shouldn’t we tell her sooner rather than later? So she knows that we’re being honest and that she can continue to trust us?”
“Yeah, definitely sooner, but only when she’s in a good mood. Give her at least a few days so she can get settled again at home.”
“Sounds good,” I agreed. “Should I tell her? Or should you? Or should both of us?
“I don’t think both of us should; she’ll think we’re ganging up on her or something. I think you should tell her.”
“You just don’t want to do it!” I teased.
He laughed and then said, “No really. You’re her best friend, and it should come from you. Then she can go yell at me, haha.”
I just stared at him for a few seconds. “…okay, I’ll do it. But really, you have to back me up when she goes to you.”
“I promise,” he said, and his mouth formed a grin. He drew me in for a big bear hug and kissed my forehead.

I wasn’t really involved at the beginning, but when she got really sick, I couldn’t take it anymore. Eventually, I told her that I couldn’t be with her if she wouldn’t eat.
Her reaction wasn’t what I expected. She said fine. And that was that.
I didn’t want to give up the relationship, but my body was really the most important thing to me, even more than David. I loved him, but I hated my body. I was always at war with my body, and it was a fight I couldn’t win. But I couldn’t just lose either, for I would kill myself if I got fat. David was my love, but I wasn’t fighting a war with him. As much as I wanted to choose him, I couldn’t. My body would always win. And people didn’t see that. If David had really understood, he wouldn’t have made me make that choice. Once he gave me that ultimatum, I knew, even though I didn’t want to believe it, that it was over. I couldn’t just eat. It wasn’t that simple; it wasn’t for anyone who felt the way I did.
I was heartbroken, I loved her so much. I couldn’t believe that she was so ill that she was willing to sacrifice our relationship. All I wanted was for her to be okay. And she refused to be okay. She convinced herself, though, that she was okay. I guess I didn’t understand her. I guess Hanna was right. I didn’t see how she could do that to herself, so I guess I didn’t understand.

Rewind for a sec. Before David and I broke up. Summer after soccer camp. When I got back, these were my measurements:
Date: 8/16/07
Waist: 19 in. Hips: 28.5 in. Wrist: 6.5 in. Weight: 102 lbs.
I needed to get under 100. That was stressing me out, and I was completely wiped out from the long summer of intense soccer I had had at camp. But, of course, I couldn’t tell anyone about it because I worried that they would get suspicious or tell me I was overworking myself. Which I wasn’t.

I actually wanted to kill Marie when she told me about her and Mackie. But what I felt that was even stronger than anger was a feeling of losing control. I didn’t like it at all, and I felt like my whole world had just opened up from underneath me. I couldn’t say anything. I didn’t have the strength to, nor did I have anything to say. She knew everything that I would of said, like all the typical “How dare you!”s and “What the hell were you thinking?!”s. I just didn’t have the energy to deal with her. So I said nothing. I didn’t even cry, not until she left. When I then let myself cry, no tears came out. My eyes were dried up. And I actually didn’t care. I didn’t have the strength to care.
I was done with her. I couldn’t trust her anymore, so it didn’t make sense for me to make an effort to be around her. As for Mackie, I was incredible disappointed in him that he would ever take it that far. He was the older one, the one who was supposed to draw the line. He was supposed to know when to say when. I felt betrayed by him, so I shut him out too.
At that point, I was so lost that I just didn’t want to have to deal with it all anymore.

As an athlete, ibuprofen was my best friend. I iced everyday, and I took Advil or ibuprofen up to three times a day. It had always helped me, but it seemed to be helping less. I started taking more. I would take two or three pills four or five times a day. It made me feel numb; I felt indestructible because I couldn’t feel as much pain or suffering. I started getting a lot of headaches the less I ate, and naturally, it distracted me from my schoolwork and soccer. I took Excedrin and it helped only a little. I finally let my mom take me to the doctor, and the doctor prescribed me with a strong medication. She told me only to take one right before I went to bed if it was really bad, and that I should try not to take more than one every other day. She said she preferred the more I could manage without it, the better. Well, I felt better when I took it, so I started upping my dose to once a day. I felt better. It was easing my pain, so I took two or three daily. I felt great; I usually felt untouchable.
This was only for my mood; it didn’t affect my weight. Since drugs seemed to be helping me, I tried diet pills of all kinds. I started off with a metabolism increaser, and I saw a few results but I wanted more. I was scared to stop using that pill because I didn’t want my metabolism to fall and for me to then gain weight. I kept on taking it and added a diet pill that was supposed to have great results. I bought this all from Walgreen’s (without my parents, of course). It helped some more, but it wasn’t enough for me. I was compulsive about my crunches. I needed to do at least 700 a day without fail. It didn’t matter what time it was, I always made myself do them. If I felt like I didn’t do them well enough, I would do them again. As I started getting thinner, I got more and more tired. I didn’t let myself or anyone else believe it, but I definitely saw a difference. I also read that getting more sleep helps weight loss. My priority was always my body, so I would take more naps and try to go to bed earlier, even if it meant I couldn’t finish my homework (but I still always had to do my crunches).

I became obsessive about finding anything that could help me lose weight. In a sports magazine, I read that tea, and in particular whit tea, increases metabolism. The next day, I bought boxes and boxes of white tea. I did a few cleanses, tea and juice ones, but even I could admit that it was incredibly difficult to play while on a cleanse. I usually did the cleanses over vacations, but I knew my parent weren’t in favor of them because they thought they were unhealthy. I didn’t care what they thought, but I had to hide it from them. Usually I would just spend a lot of time “out”, and really I would just go to the library by myself and study or I would go and crash at Marie’s. She would know when I was on a cleanse, and she and her family were so inviting. It was so nice having someone who understood, but it was so difficult with her dating my brother and her being as gorgeous and thin as she was.

Again, hunger wasn’t an issue for me. I didn’t feel that sensation that most people felt. I had forgotten what hunger felt like. All I cared about was getting skinny. I was way too preoccupied to even think about hunger. Whenever I did feel like I just needed food, I would drink a cup of tea and have some Advil.

I was the happiest girl alive when I stopped getting my period. Every girl wishes it didn’t exist, and mine was gone. Winter of sophomore year, it stopped: no more bloating, no more bleeding, no more cramps, no more anything. It was like heaven, it was so nice. It was also I sign of encouragement to me. The fact that I was relieved from the hell of menstruation was to me a reward for being disciplined. I never felt good about myself, but at that moment when I realized it was gone, I did.

That good feeling didn’t last. I became more and more depressed, but I didn’t want to get better. I wasn’t happy, and I thought the only way to happiness was to suck it up, get through it, and eat as little as possible. Drugs helped.

My family had a summer home in the Hamptons, and we did go all the time, but sometimes when I was around for the weekends we would go. The summer after sophomore year, after I got back from camp and found out about Mackie and Marie, my family went to the Hamptons for a while. Obviously, everyone there is pretty loaded, and I had a lot of rich childhood friends. They had all of these amazing drugs I had never been exposed to before, but after my stay there, I had tried them all. I was so pissed off and sad for no reason all the time, but these drugs were so good that I didn’t feel any pain. It was better than the Advil or headache stuff, ten times better. Going into junior year, I was so grateful for those friends in the Hamptons. I knew I had so much stress ahead of me; the drugs were exactly what I needed.

I became so addicted; they just felt so good. One morning, it was only a month or so into junior year, I had some stuff before I left for school and I guess I let a pill on my bathroom counter. My mom later went in there to grab some cotton balls, and she saw the little white pill sitting there. She found my stash, and that was it. There was no more sympathy from her. That night, when I came home, she was sitting at the kitchen counter with all of the pills out of their bottles lying on the counter. There were hundreds of them, and she was just sitting there, staring at them, expressionless. I walked in, stopped in my footsteps, dropped my back carelessly to the ground, and sat down. On the floor. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know what she’d say, or if she’d even say anything at all. After about a full minute of us just sitting there, silent, she said,“I’ve been so patient with you. I’ve watched you destroy your body, and I’ve tried my hardest to let you be because I know it’s what you want and I know you’re getting better. But this, Hanna, this is it. This is too much. I never imagined that it would get to this point, and I can’t believe I let it. It isn’t your fault; I want you to know that. But there are consequences for the mistakes you’ve made. You can tell me what’s going on, and I’ll listen and do my best to trust you. But no matter what you say, you’re going to rehab. It’s final.”I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, still on the ground, wondering how I had ever gotten here, and why I needed to get out. I finally was able to look at her. I gave her a look of disappointment because I knew that’s what she would be giving me. I still didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Of course, I had so much to say, but I wasn’t able to simply because I couldn’t. I no longer had the strength.At that point, she walked over to me and sat down on the wood kitchen floor with me. She wrapped her arms around me and tears started running down her cheeks. She said,“I love you so much, Hanna. All I want is for you to be alive, healthy, and happy. I wish I didn’t have to be the mean mother and do this to you, but it’s the only for me to keep you those three things.”I started crying, too. Not sobbing, but I let the tears fall. I didn’t even know why, all I knew was that I was leaving and I wouldn’t be happy.Two days later, after my parents packed up everything (I refused to help), we got in the car and drove an hour and a half to this big, white building. It wasn’t inviting, and it was in the middle of nowhere. The sign on the front said, “New York Mental Health Drug Rehabilitation Center”. I’m not crazy. I’m not addicted to anything. I don’t have a problem. I’m fine. I shouldn’t be here. That’s what I was thinking.The people were nice there, I guess, but they tried being overly friendly, which just made them more annoying. I pushed everyone out. I got out as soon as I could, but it wasn’t soon enough. Three months in that awful place, without any painkillers or anything, it was hard. I got over it though, talked about my feelings or whatever, and got out of there. Rehab got me pretty clean from drugs, but I was more depressed walking out. I realized all the damage the drugs had done, and I wanted to kill myself for it. Instead of just doing that, which would have been the easy way out, I took it out in exercise and again, restraint from food. I felt like I was rewarding myself and punishing myself at the same time, which was the only way I was productive anymore. I had a couple more injuries: I broke my ankle and patella, tore my hamstring, dislocated a couple elbows, knees, and shoulders, broke my wrist again, and tore my meniscus. At that point, I was done. I wanted to keep going, but I couldn’t play anymore. When I was in the hospital for the meniscus, the doctor diagnosed my with anorexia and had me in in-patient care. He said that the therapist hadn’t been helping the way he had hoped, and I was severely ill and malnutritioned. I told him that I was fine, and that I was in good shape. He said that he was very sorry, but for my health, I needed to be hospitalized. It sucked, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I just lay there on the bed, with my IVs in my arms, helpless. That place of weakness and helplessness was what I strived not to be at. It’s why I stopped eating so much; it’s why I worked as hard as I did. So being there in the hospital at that place of weakness, I beat myself up about it. I felt as though I had done something wrong to get myself there. I couldn’t think of what it was, and I most certainly did think it was the lack of food. In my opinion, that was the best decision I had ever made. I strongly believed it saved my life. Only forty minutes after I had been admitted to the hospital, Marie came rushing in, gym bag on her shoulder, a quart of ice cream in hand. It made me smile, the sight of her looking so silly but clearly caring so much. She had stuck by me, even when I gave her every reason not to. She ran to my bed, and when she saw that I didn’t have the strength to move, she gently hugged me and said, “Let’s not give Marie a heart attack ever again, okay?!”And I laughed. It was the first time in so long. She then held out that huge tub of ice cream saying,“I brought chocolate. You’re fave. Please, please, please eat it. I spent extra time on my way here because I made my mom stop on the way to get some.”I wanted to say “of course!” so badly, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.“I wish I could…I honestly really do…but you know I can’t.”“Just a bite, c’mon, it won’t be that bad. It will make you feel so much better.”But it wouldn’t. It would actually make me feel so much worse. “One bite, that’s it. No more.” “Suit yourself,” she said, grabbing a spoon and taking off the lid. I had one bite, that was it. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I regretted that one bite. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten it; all I could think about was “fat, stomach, calories, fat stomach, calories…” over and over again in my head.
About half an hour later, I went to the bathroom. I couldn’t handle the regret, so I stuck my finger in my throat and made myself throw up. I felt so much better afterward. I hated throwing up, but it was all I could do to get rid of the ice cream.

1997
I was young, and we were at a dinner at the country club for my dad. He was receiving some award; I don’t remember exactly what it was. I always loved getting dressed up, getting a new dress and shoes. I remember how much I enjoyed being somewhere fancy with everyone so formal and polite. The diamond chandelier that matched my mom’s earrings was so magnificent I could have stared at it forever. There were many, many people there, all dressed up in fancy clothes, with their hair and makeup done to perfection. I remember seeing gorgeous lady after gorgeous lady, all thin with absolutely no fat on their bodies. They were so skinny, their dresses seemed smaller than mine. They were all tall and looked just like models. I bet some of them were. I remember thinking, that’s what I want to look like when I’m a grownup. I guess that just stayed with me. I still wanted to look like that, and in my mind, I just couldn’t seem to get there.

Mackie
Suddenly I felt like I was in a movie; everything was so dramatic: the hospital, the practically dying sister, and the whole deal with Marie. It took me a while for it to sink in that my sister was no longer there. A spirit had taken over her body and transformed her into a poor, helpless little girl. She had always been my baby sister, but now she seemed smaller and weaker than ever. I felt as though everyone loomed over her like giants; she was decaying. I still don’t think I understand how anyone could ever do that to herself or how anyone could survive being that unhealthy. It didn’t seem to match up, and I started questioning my role in her life. Was it my fault? Have I ever taught her that thin is beautiful? I know I’m in shape, has that changed her view on things? I knew that I wasn’t supposed to think it was my fault, and that I shouldn’t have blamed myself, but that’s a lot easier said than done. I believed, and still believe, that everyone around Hanna had an impact on her anorexia, no matter how unintentional it may have been. That included me, which meant I started beating myself up about her illness. I’m her big brother; I’m supposed to take care of her even when no one else is there. I’m supposed to protect her from the dangers of the world, and I’m supposed to destroy anything that hurts her. When she is hurt, I’m supposed to be right by her side, holding her through it all. I’m supposed to guide her onto the right path and lead her in the right direction. I had failed to do all of the above. I had failed at doing the one thing I was supposed to do as an older brother: protect my baby sister. That hurt, and I felt like I had failed to complete my life’s purpose. How could I have let something so important get away? I didn’t want her to see me weak or scared, for then she would become scared, and that was the last thing I ever wanted for her at that moment. So I pulled myself together and went into her room to face the mess she had turned into. What I saw when I walked in was a pile of white skin and pointy bones poking through. She looked like a skeleton with a sheet over it; it definitely was not attractive. But I knew that she thought she looked better. Not great, but better. I didn’t understand that mentality of how a skeleton is gorgeous, but I let that slide. Her head looked huge in comparison to her body, and her closed eyes were sunken in to her head. Her lips were like ice, a bluish white, and her cheeks indented like a dead person’s. If I didn’t know her and had just walked in, I would have thought she was dead. She was sleeping, but I walked up to her anyway, and I gently picked up her frail hand. It was ice cold, and I felt like all of the blood was drained from it. I held in anyways, sitting next to her, praying that somehow she would end up O.K. I wasn’t a big religious person, but at that moment, I needed God more than ever. I asked Him how this could have happened, why he was punishing me by hurting her, and if he could reverse it. All I wanted was for her to miraculously recover. I wanted her to be healthy again. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. “I love you,” I said to her, “please be okay.”
Marie He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. We couldn’t talk. All we could do was wait. But that was the thing we couldn’t do. We couldn’t just sit there and watch her die. We couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever had to go through, watching my friend suffer like that. I didn’t even recognize her anymore. I know people everywhere didn’t. She looked like a dying person, and now she actually was one. I didn’t know how she had gotten there.

Hanna
2003
Marie and I were in middle school, and we went shopping. We were in Abercrombie, and were trying on some stuff. I had a shirt in my pile, and had tried it on and liked it, but it was a little tight. I decided not to get it, but Marie asked if she could try it on, so I let her. When she came out of the dressing room, she was wearing the shirt, and it fit her perfectly. Not too tight, nothing. Just perfect. She asked, “How does it look?” “It’s cute.” “I think I’m gonna get it; I really like it.” That was the first time that I can remember Marie hurting my body image, even if she didn’t mean to.

January 2007
I was in the hospital for three months and was then released. During that time, the doctor injected tons of vitamins and nutrients and crap into my body, and I had gained five pounds. Upon leaving the hospital, I was so self-conscious and needed to lose the weight ASAP. I couldn’t go to school by medical order, and I didn’t want to anyways. There was no way I could face all of those people who now knew about my life and that I was sick. Besides, I couldn’t let anyone see me with the weight I had gained. The doctor wanted me to be eating more, obviously, so she gave me a diet I was supposed to follow, and I was seeing my therapist twice a week. I had a tutor come in four days a week to teach me the stuff I had missed in school. Soccer was no longer even an option. As a result, I did more crunches than before and worked out when my parents were out running errands or at work. I was never left alone at home; someone always had to be there, and usually it was Mackie.
Our relationship had changed a lot over the year leading up to my hospitalization. We both weren’t as strong, and he now worried al lot more about me. I had pulled away from him more, which just caused him lot of stress. I didn’t like seeing him in pain, and I knew he was. But there was nothing I could do because I couldn’t. I couldn’t eat much; I didn’t take the doctor’s advice – why should I have?! When I was in the hospital under her supervision, I gained five pounds. Clearly I could not trust her.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------I was released from the hospital at the beginning of April, and I felt like I had been released from jail. I was so happy, but I didn’t know where to put myself or how to attempt to catch up with life. I didn’t know how to just jump back into everything. Socially, I had isolated myself, and I wasn’t able to, nor did I want to, be around people all the time. Being alone was comfort, because when I was around people, I could more easily find something wrong with my body. When I was alone, I could deal with my issues with my body in peace. I could work out and I could sleep.
Sleep was amazing. Upon returning home, all I ever wanted to do was curl up in bed and forget about everything going on. Sleep was painless because I was outside of the world I despised. Sometimes, I just wanted to crawl into bed, go to sleep, and never wake up. Marie For the first time, I was actually worried about her. After the hospital incident, the anorexia became a reality to me. And that reality was the she was not okay. She was sick, physically, emotionally, and mentally. And she was dying. She seemed like a helpless little child that couldn’t be saved. Everyone had tried, and to a certain extent, they still were. But everyone around her was exhausted from years of trying to save her, and they were all just about ready to give up and let her go.

Mackie
I refused to be the one to give up on her. It wasn’t her fault that she had this problem consuming her and her entire life. She needed help, and I knew that she was asking for it without asking. She had convinced herself that she didn’t need it or want it, but I needed her to get help. That didn’t mean seeing a therapist or being hospitalized again; it just meant getting better. No matter what it took, I was willing and eager to do whatever I needed to do in order to save her. One day, when Hanna was upstairs taking a nap, I decided, just for a split-second, to think about what my life would be like without Hanna in it. I had to stop myself before I could finish thinking because it was such a terrifying thought. She was my support, my life, and the reason I had been a happy person and become a sad one. When she was happy, healthy, and laughing, so was I. When she grew ill and depressed, so did I. I would do anything for my baby sister. It’s a kind of sibling love one only understands if they have a sibling. There are no words to describe how much I loved her.

Hanna
I saw it. I saw them fall. Everyone was giving up. They knew there was no hope for me. I had given up too. Way before them. I knew there was no hope for me to be happy, but I didn’t want them to suffer too. I needed to show them I was O.K. Somehow, I needed to get better, or at least make them think that. I couldn’t bear to see my family and friends so hopeless. They needed that hope, and I needed to see them smile. After all, if they never smiled, how was I ever supposed to? I prayed to God that he could help the people I loved. They needed to, somehow, believe I was getting healthier. I didn’t care what I needed to do, as long as it didn’t include gaining weight. After a few weeks, I had put together a list of things I could do to help my appearance.

Mackie
“Is it just me, or does she look a little better?” I asked mom one day as Hanna had walked through the kitchen upstairs to her room.
“If you mean bigger, absolutely not, but if you mean healthier, actually, yeah. Her skin looks…I don’t know…less sickly.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” A huge rush or hope, relief, and happiness came to me all at once. I hadn’t felt that way in so long, I started tearing up. I started getting hope that she might actually end up being O.K.

Hanna
Jergens Natural Glow was a big savior for me. I had always used it when trying to look better in a bathing suit because being tan makes people look more toned. When trying to think of things about me that made me look sick, one was my pale and splotchy skin that had developed. I decided using Jergens was the easiest and fastest way to get a quick tan to make me look a little healthier.

Marie
When she showed up at school one Monday, I was so shocked and so thrilled. I couldn’t believe she actually had the strength to return to the place she had been isolated from for so long. Surprisingly, she looked calm and peaceful. She seemed unshaken by the atmosphere. And the most amazing part about it was when I asked her to go shopping; she said yes. And we went shopping, and although I could tell it wasn’t her favorite activity, she didn’t once complain about her body and she tried on just as many clothes as I did. It made me so happy to finally see the Hanna I used to know returning to my life.

Elise
She came home one Monday, the same Monday I had brought her to school for the first time since she had been out, and I saw bags in her hands. Shopping bags. Lots of them. I thought she was pulling a prank on me. “Hey, sweetie, whatsup?” I asked Hanna. “Nothing, just got back from shopping with Marie.” I poked my head into the doorway; I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Really?! Nice! Wanna show me what you got?” “Sure,” she said, “but just so you know, I used the emergency credit card you gave me, and I kinda spent a lot.”I never imagined I would ever be so thrilled about my daughter spending hundreds of dollars on clothing she hadn’t asked for and didn’t need. But I couldn’t help it. This was a huge step in my mind.What was even better was seeing her, over the next month or so, wear clothing that was more fitted. She was wearing some shorts, and instead of those huge baggy t-shirts she had been living in, she started incorporating fitted tank tops and even a couple tube tops into her wardrobe. It wasn’t super-dramatic, but it was enough of a change for me to notice and to give me hope that she could maybe get through this.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Hanna
June 2009
Two months had past since I had started using tanner, wearing tighter clothes, and talking to Marie and all that. For the first time, I was able to admit to myself that I felt weak. One thing that people hadn’t even paid attention to was the fact that I had just finished my junior and senior years of high school and still hadn’t gotten a decent score on my SATs or ACTs. With guidance from my tutor, guidance counselor, and deans, we decided that there was no other option for me than to take a fifth year of high school. They said I could complete it with my tutor at home if I wanted, but I wouldn’t be able to graduate with the rest of my class. I had gotten over that, but all of the anxiety it brought as baggage had an affect on me. Also, with no one on my case (they all thought I was getting healthier), I was able to control my eating better without having to worry about anyone finding out. I still wasn’t strong enough to play soccer, so I ate even less (there was no reason I needed the energy food provided anymore). I was down to, as a mentioned before, a half a banana a day. I didn’t feel hunger or the desire to just stuff myself, and I never craved sweets or pasta or anything. But I felt the weakness. I always felt lightheaded and dizzy, and I always had headaches. Cramps came and went, which was always a great excuse for me to avoid eating. I could get out of family dinners when family came to visit by saying I really needed to see Marie. That was the good thing about trying to spend more time with her: I always had her as an excuse when I needed a quick out. Summer, as usual, was always the worst time of year because of the bathing suits. And now with my whole new plan, I had to wear bikinis to prove to everyone I was more confident with my body (which, in reality, was the complete opposite of how I felt). Each day, I felt myself get more and more weak, more and more drained. It was hard, and it was the first time I ever told myself that. Not eating was hard. But it didn’t mean I was going to stop. MackieSeeing her in a bikini was terrifying; she actually looked like a skeleton. But it made me happy that she was strong enough to put it on and be in front of other people. Clearly, she was feeling better about her body, and that relieved me. I didn’t want to see her go anywhere but up, so I never questioned her eating or her plans or anything. I just let her do her own thing; it seemed to be working. I just let her be.

Elise
It was a Sunday, and we had planned a family trip to a local beach. Originally, I was worried about Hanna, but I asked her if she wanted to go and she seemed enthusiastic about it. When we got out of the car, she was wearing cut off denim shorts and one of her soccer tournament T-shirts. When we finally found a patch of sand on the crowded shore, she spread out her towel and took off her shirt and shorts. She was wearing a purple floral string bikini I hadn’t seen in ages. Of course, she was as teeny as ever, but I was shocked to see her wearing it, especially in public. She must have had quite some confidence, confidence I hadn’t seen in her in years.It made me so happy to see my daughter have some confidence in herself, I didn’t even notice her not nibble on anything the whole day. While everyone was snacking on pretzels and chips, she was tanning, reading magazines, and even went in the water. I was blinded by the sudden, seemingly real change.

Hanna
That one beach day with the family was hard, not gonna lie. As I took off my shirt, I pictured everyone on the beach just staring at me and judging me, thinking I was fat. I wanted to run away and cry, but I couldn’t. If I wanted my family to really believe I was O.K., I was going to have to make sacrifices and suck it up. The good news was that they didn’t notice, or at least didn’t say anything about me not eating anything at all while we were there. I never would have been able to, even had they said something. How could I ever eat in a bathing suit?! It was so contradictory to me in my mind; it didn’t make sense to me how someone could do that. How could I put food into my body during the time I am most insecure about it?!

January 2008
Mackie was my savior. He knew I was having a rough time, and he had been backing me up and giving me support through everything. He had already chosen to go to college close to home, but now he made an announcement to the family that in itself gave me reason to want to live. “So, I don’t know how all of you will feel about this,” he announced after getting us all in the living room, “but I just wanted you to know that I have made a decision, and it’s final. I’m not changing my mind; I’m doing it for Hanna, and I’m confident it’s the right thing for both of us.” “Well, what is it?!” Mom asked impatiently. “I’m taking time off from school. At least two semesters, more if I think it’s needed. Don’t say anything yet,” he said to Mom as she started standing up, getting angry. “We all know that right now, Hanna needs the support, and honestly, I need her. I need to be able to see her everyday and see that she’s O.K….and when she’s not, I need to be able to be there for her to do everything I can to help her. Again, I’ve made my decision, and it’s final. Don’t waste your energy trying to change my mind; it won’t work. I’ve already spoken to the dean and explained my situation; she was very understanding and said that she just wanted to make sure I was really sure about it. And I told her I was because I am.” My father, who hadn’t played much of a role in my life once her knew about my eating, said, “Okay, Mackie. I trust you, and I think that you know when your sister needs you.” Mom started crying, and she walked up to Mackie and gave him a huge bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie,” she said. She had always been pretty emotional. It was my turn next. I was in shock that he had just done that, and I was in shock that our parents had just had the reactions they did. I gave him a hug and he lifted me up, and I said, “Thanks, Mack. But you know I’m fine.” “I know you think you’re fine. That’s why I’m here.” And that’s all he needed to say. Now I understand it. At the time, I didn’t. I really didn’t think I had a problem. I was convinced that I was fine. In that moment, Mackie saved a piece of my life that I wasn’t even aware he was saving.

July 2009
By the time I hit July, I was barely able to walk. The change in my strength from day to day was so drastic, it was scary. But it wasn’t enough to motivate me to eat again. I still hated my body; I was still trying to eliminate more fat. Anyways, the Fourth of July came and we had our annual family cookout. In order to avoid eating, I spent the first half in my room just resting, and the second half, I took over grilling from my dad. To me, it was a perfect idea. I didn’t have to eat because I had my hands full, and to the family, it looked like I didn’t have a problem because I was making the food. We watched the fireworks from a small park just a few blocks away from our house, and it was one of the most painful experiences I have ever gone through. They were shooting them off there, so they were super loud, and of course for me and my headaches and all that, I just couldn’t bear the pounding. After just 20 minutes, I had Mackie walk me back home and I took some Excedrin and went to bed. I didn’t even have the strength to change my clothes or wash my face. Mackie had to help me into bed, and he had to help hold me up on the way home. When I crawled under the covers, I had no idea what I was in for when I woke up. Mackie It was 1:30pm, and she still wasn’t up. We had family plans and stuff to do, so I decided to go get her up. When I shook her arm gently and told her quietly to get up, she didn’t budge. I thought she was just tired, so I shook harder. I started getting scared, for she still wasn’t moving, but eventually, with me screaming at her, her eyes slowly opened. She couldn’t keep them open, and she wasn’t saying anything. She looked like a corpse. She wasn’t moving her limbs; all she was doing was slowly blinking her eyes. “Mah…mah…” she muttered. “It’s me, Hanna. Me, Mackie.” “Mah…Mackie,” she finally spit the word out, “I’ll…I’ll get ready…d-don’t worry. I’ll be up soon.” She said it all as if she was talking in slow motion, and then she lifted her hand up, just a few inches. She looked like an old woman on her death bed, that lady you just can’t don anything more for. I panicked; I realized that she couldn’t move; she had become too weak. Right then, she fell limp, and her eyes shut once again. I yelled for my mom, and I scooped Hanna up in my arms. I started carrying her downstairs, and that’s when Mom saw me and started freaking out. “What the hell happened?! What did you do to her?!” “Nothing, Mom, calm down! She woke up and was barely able to move. She just fell unconscious; we have to get her to the hospital.” I should have seen this coming; last night she was just so weak I should have known she wasn’t O.K.Of course, that’s when Mom started hyperventilating and crying; Dad called 911. They got there in 3 minutes with an ambulance, and she was laid on a stretcher while Mom, Dad, and I all piled in the back. We got to the hospital in 11 minutes and blew countless stop lights. The only reason I didn’t pass out from the thought of losing Hanna was because I made myself stay alert to hear about any news of her and how she was doing.When we got to the hospital, doctors unloaded the stretcher and rushed her into a room they had prepared. Her usual doctor was there, along with a whole team of nurses and specialists. They first examined her and examined her breathing. She had stopped breathing. They made us all leave the room, and did everything to get a pulse back.Well, they couldn’t. The doctor came out and said, “We did everything we could. I’m so sorry. Your daughter was just too far along. There was nothing more we could have done; I’m so sorry, she’s gone.”I started shaking my head; I didn’t believe them. She had been doing well. She had been getting better. It was just this morning that she had had any trouble. This wasn’t happening.“No, no, no! She’s not gone…she can’t be…fix her! Save her! She’s still here!” I yelled at the doctor. I even started walking up to her; I just couldn’t control my anger. My dad held me back and we all started crying. I then broke down. The aggression stopped, and the loss factor kicked in. she was gone. My little sister was dead. I was all alone…there was no one who could ever even come close to replacing her.Right then and there, I broke down, full in tears like a toddler. I ran into her room and grabbed her ice cold hands. My body fell limp on the bed. I was sobbing, I was angry, and I was pissed at God.I looked up and yelled, “How could you do this to me, huh?!! How could you?!”I didn’t understand it. Then I blamed myself. If only I had put the pieces together last night. If only I had stayed with her in her room. She would be alive now. It’s all my fault. I let her die.Now I understand it. She’s at peace now, I’m sure of it. I later had two suicide attempts, but each time, I was saved. She was saved as well. She was saved from this hell of a world.

Hanna
Present
So me, where am I? That’s right, I’m above, watching down on them. They’re miserable. Mackie has tried to kill himself twice. Marie now sees everything she did wrong and is beating herself up about it. Dad had isolated himself; he can’t let anyone in, not even Mom. He is in denial; he’s still mourning. Mom is a mess. She’s used up all of our money buying every unnecessary thing that ever walked this planet. They’re all a bunch of hot messes. I yell at them all the time go get their shit together and get in control of their lives. Then again, in my opinion, I did that in my own way, and I died as a result of it. At least I died committed instead of living uncommitted. I have pride in myself for staying so true to what I wanted and needed. I never gave in; I never gave up.Right now I’m at 93 pounds, still trying to lose more. But for me, Heaven is like hell because you can’t lose weight. It’s nice because you can’t gain any, either. But I still don’t eat, and I can’t help it: I’m still trying to defy that law in Heaven that you can’t lose weight. I will. I don’t care what anyone says.