March 17-18, 2014
Grief is a funny thing, Ellie. You can avoid it and it's easy for a while, then all of a sudden it can hit you like a ton of bricks. I've never experienced this before. Not really. It's still so hard to believe that you no longer exist on this Earth. I looked at your timeline on Facebook at work today, and could have broken into tears. You were a real, living, fighting, stunningly beautiful girl. Why, oh why, did you have to die? I know this sounds a little crazy or whatever...but I hear a small voice say, "It should have been me. I wish it were me." And on top of that, your killer makes cameo appearances even now.
He came to me in the dressing room, Ellie. The same dressing room as before. (Well, maybe not the exact same room, but the same group of rooms in the same store.) I'm shocked that he could appear like that, in the aftermath of your death and right when I'm trying to convince the world and myself that I'm all recovered and doing so well. But yesterday, Ed made me feel awful and embarrassed. I looked at my body and noticed its shape. Everything was detestable. I felt old and wasted. I felt defeated. I lost the game long ago, the one I worked so hard before to win. I looked in the mirror and felt like no one should ever see my body nude -- like I could never even get married because of it. And this was just yesterday.
I was ashamed, Ellie. Ashamed because of this strange contrast... I still remember coming into these dressing rooms with my mother in 2008 when she was visiting me at school and I had to get new clothes because nothing fit anymore. I remember taking off my shirt and being very aware that my mother was behind me, seeing the bones trying to poke through my skin and feeling who knows what in her heart. I remember what we bought. She bought me a dark blue robe, fuschia slippers, and two sets of pajamas -- because I needed them. There were fleece turquoise pants with blue polka dots and a matching turquoise waffle shirt, as well as a red waffle top with red longjohn pants that had white snowflakes on them. They were the smallest size, of course. I was excited to have warm, comfy clothes that fit. I felt loved, but I felt guilty at the same time. My mother sacrificed all her emotions -- all her anger, her concern, her helplessness, her sadness, her horror -- to provide for me, her daughter.
I remember crying inside. Even in my sickness, I still had the Old Me inside that knew how much Ed was not only hurting me, but hurting my mother. Yet I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that she was still willing to put clothes on my back, even though she was angry with me for my disease and obviously didn't want me to be wearing that size. I didn't know what to do with this concoction of strange emotions. I felt lonely, sad, and scared. But I didn't want to let Ed go, either. (I'm sure you know how this feels, dear Ellie.) It's pretty much the most consuming beast imaginable when you're in the midst of it.
Ellie, I don't get it. I still question every day if I'm overweight and should do something about it. But I keep striving to be positive, assertive, and forward-moving (away from all things Ed). The food thing is kind of ambiguous right now... I'm not exactly healthy, but I'm not in any danger either. I'm just kind of...getting by, I guess. But I don't move enough. Ed still tells me that I'm fat no matter what -- that my body shape is just BIG and unattractive and not fucking good enough. I should be exercising like mad, every day. I'm lazy. I remember the weight that the doctors all said I should be, based on my height, when I was thin. Obviously, back then they were trying to get me to gain weight, but even at the time I thought the number they told me was too low. I had never naturally been that weight in all of my adult life. I do look good at that weight, but I'd have to eat a very precise, rationed amount per day in order to maintain it. I felt so much pressure and angst when they told me that number -- like it was easier to be underweight than try to be that perfect, ideal number they all mentioned (based off some stupid calculation of pounds per inch!).
Now the scale in my closet is collecting dust. I'm definitely going to get rid of it because you know what? It serves me no purpose. I prefer to assess myself more intuitively -- by how I look and feel, rather than by a number that actually doesn't tell me much of anything about my health. Ellie, I wish you could have known this for yourself. And by "known" I mean experienced. I'm sure your brain knew a lot of truthful information, but unfortunately it all conflicted with Ed's voice.
I don't know how much longer Ed will be making these cameo appearances, but thankfully they are so infrequent that he can't cause much damage these days. I'm still going to walk on your team in Newton, MA next month and raise money for NEDA! I'm still going to graduate school this summer. I'm still hopeful that I will have a successful career in changing the world someday, and that I'll have the privilege of doing it in your honor, beautiful girl! I'll not let Cameo Ed stop me, even if he tries.
Ellie, you know I could go on forever, but I probably should wrap this entry up. I miss you, wish I could have been closer to you, and will continue to think of you and pray for your family. Please be with us all who are grieving...
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Dear Ellie
To a beloved sister in Christ, brilliant heart, and beautiful young woman. You remain in my heart forever.
Ellie,
I never called you "Ellie" but it seems that this is a nickname you went by. I only knew you as Elizabeth, when I knew you in person. The truth is, I didn't really know you. Not the way your family or closest friends did. But I met you at perhaps the most tumultuous time of my life thus far, in a place where we were both so fragile and vulnerable, and you did make an impact on me. I don't think I realized it then; I was still too involved in my own sickness. However, the Lord is revealing to me now just how much your spirit changed me and will continue to change me. Even though we only kept in touch online during the years following those three and a half weeks in 2009, I always held you close to my heart. I wanted to see you get better. And I always expected to see you again, in person, once you were healthy.
Honestly, what comes to mind when I think of when we met is how withdrawn you were and how resentful I almost felt toward you. I think of you standing with your back to everyone in a corner of the room, your head bent down as you read from a book, and your long brown hair reaching all the way down your back. (Later I found out that book was the Bible.) I thought you were a very curious young girl. You always had the saddest, most pained expression on your face, especially when we had to leave the group room for meal and snack times. I thought of you as somewhat unapproachable and cold. Yet everything about you intrigued me.
You were five years younger than I and I think the way my heart pulled inside was like an older sister's would. I am the youngest of three and have no idea what it's like to be someone's older sibling! But once we finally spoke to each other, I realized my judgments of you were wrong. I remember standing in a small group of some of the other girls, and we were all sharing our stories (briefly). We each said how it had happened to us. I actually remember you appearing all of a sudden, having left the corner of the room for once, to join our little group. I was surprised and confused; why did you suddenly decide to be social? It seemed so out of character for you. But then I realized I did not know your character. I did not even know your story.
You told me it started when you were only eight years old. You drank tea all summer long. And in that moment, my heart ached and my judgments broke apart. Eight years old?? You were sixteen. I was twenty-one and had only been suffering for a matter of months. I could not fathom someone spending half her life in this level of misery, pain, and disease that ravaged the mind and body. I think that was the moment I felt like your older sister. I wanted to protect you and save you from this nightmare. But I was still caught in the nightmare as well.
And here I am, writing this five years later, and my body is restored and my mind is mostly healthy again. Here I am, looking toward the future and mourning your death. Five years after we met, you have passed on at the same age I was back then. I cannot believe you won't get to see a recovered life. You won't finish college. You won't get to pick a career and pick another one if the first one didn't work out. You won't get to take your time figuring out what to do with your life and trying out different options (because there are far too many). You won't experience a healthy mind that lets you nourish your body so you can feel young and strong and go on adventures to see your friends (like me!) again. You won't get to feel the euphoria of accomplishment after overcoming the toughest parts of this disease. You won't know what it is to look over your struggles in hindsight and smile because you triumphed despite them.
I know you had a will to recover. But I also know that you suffered for too long. You never deserved it and I wish I could take the pain of those years for you and give you the gifts of my recovery instead.
For that reason, I will make sure you still have a chance to change the world.
I will live my recovery in the best way possible. I will do everything I can to be fulfilled and contribute to the world what this disease took from me, you, and all the others: joy, passion, wonder, excitement, energy, youth, courage, motivation, inspiration, productivity, health, and vivacity. You see, dear Ellie, I am going to take your spirit with me everywhere in life and do all the things you could not. I will do it all in your honor, and for the greater good and the glory of God. We'll do it all together.
You had such faith and I always admired you for it. You believed in the value of life and so do I. Therefore, I will make sure I take this piece of your heart on our big adventure as well. I'll do my best to promote the values you and I shared, and live in a way that makes a positive difference for everyone who suffers. I'll help bring awareness and save lives however I can.
You have inspired me to live fully, and never go back to that dangerous path. I know you didn't choose it, but you also could not control it. And I know how scary that is. But you don't have to be afraid anymore, because you are in paradise and will never be touched by Ed again. My heart is heavy but happy, knowing the Lord is taking care of you and protecting you for all of eternity.
Elizabeth, as infuriated as I am that your life was interrupted while you were working hard to get better, I know you did not die in vain. You see, when I went home in 2009, I tried to go back to the way I had been living (existing, really) with Ed before I met you and the others, but I could not. Something had changed. I remember the moment. I was eating lunch on the stoop in my backyard, and I looked down at my food in the sunlight, at the mound of Cool Whip Free over fruit and realized that this was not the same. Something was different -- vastly so. It simply would not work anymore. It couldn't. At the time I didn't know why and I was frustrated by it. But I believe that is the moment my true recovery began.
You were one of the many people I encountered in Waltham who changed my life and kickstarted my recovery. Do you see? Because of you, of knowing that you had been suffering for half your life, and seeing you there in that place, because of how young you were and how devastating this disease already was to your life, I must have wanted the opposite for myself (and for everyone else, of course). It didn't make sense for me to meet someone like you, and all our other friends, only to go home and continue on the same treacherous path I had been on. True, this is not a lifestyle, but somehow I believe God gave me the extra strength to say "no" and begin a new life. It did take time -- in fact, it took more time to recover than to be sick -- but God gave me everything I needed to get through it. I still believe He had a plan for me the whole time. He never meant for me to stay sick for very long. I feel charged with carrying my knowledge, experience, and memories to help conquer this disease and all the obstacles it brings to the beautiful people it attacks. I am taking your memory and spirit, Ellie, with me to prove to society, individuals, and the world that recovery is worthwhile and involves a whole lot more than what we get in treatment.
Recovery means taking risks. It means diving in to being present in your body and your Self so that you can know what it is to truly live. Getting to know myself better, learning from mistakes, and meeting wonderful people like you, Ellie, have all helped me become my greatest ally. If I am not on my own side, then I can more easily fall victim to Ed or any other evil force in the world. I also have to trust in God and recognize that He is greater than anything in this world. Your death, Ellie, is quite a tragedy, but I also have to take a leap of faith in my heart and trust that you really are in a better place. We don't need to worry about you anymore. We only need to thank God for our memories of you and keep your spirit alive in our hearts. And for me, well, I already know I'm taking you on the grandest adventure ever -- for I'm going to take you in my pocket all the days of my life. Even when I was driving home last night, alone for over three hours and a little anxious when I got lost in the beginning, I imagined you sitting in the seat next to me. I imagined you there with me, smiling and enjoying my company. I imagined you as your own free self, separate from Ed and all the troubles you ever had. I imagined you as my friend.
Thank you for being there with me, Ellie. Thank you for the beautiful message you sent me a few weeks ago, before my trip to Mexico. You told me that I am an inspiration and need reminding. Your words were so powerful to me and I am so thankful that that was the last exchange we ever had. I am in tears but it's okay. I'm glad that God blessed me and you with our acquaintance, however brief. Take care, and I'll see you on the road.
Love always,
Alissa
Ellie,
I never called you "Ellie" but it seems that this is a nickname you went by. I only knew you as Elizabeth, when I knew you in person. The truth is, I didn't really know you. Not the way your family or closest friends did. But I met you at perhaps the most tumultuous time of my life thus far, in a place where we were both so fragile and vulnerable, and you did make an impact on me. I don't think I realized it then; I was still too involved in my own sickness. However, the Lord is revealing to me now just how much your spirit changed me and will continue to change me. Even though we only kept in touch online during the years following those three and a half weeks in 2009, I always held you close to my heart. I wanted to see you get better. And I always expected to see you again, in person, once you were healthy.
Honestly, what comes to mind when I think of when we met is how withdrawn you were and how resentful I almost felt toward you. I think of you standing with your back to everyone in a corner of the room, your head bent down as you read from a book, and your long brown hair reaching all the way down your back. (Later I found out that book was the Bible.) I thought you were a very curious young girl. You always had the saddest, most pained expression on your face, especially when we had to leave the group room for meal and snack times. I thought of you as somewhat unapproachable and cold. Yet everything about you intrigued me.
You were five years younger than I and I think the way my heart pulled inside was like an older sister's would. I am the youngest of three and have no idea what it's like to be someone's older sibling! But once we finally spoke to each other, I realized my judgments of you were wrong. I remember standing in a small group of some of the other girls, and we were all sharing our stories (briefly). We each said how it had happened to us. I actually remember you appearing all of a sudden, having left the corner of the room for once, to join our little group. I was surprised and confused; why did you suddenly decide to be social? It seemed so out of character for you. But then I realized I did not know your character. I did not even know your story.
You told me it started when you were only eight years old. You drank tea all summer long. And in that moment, my heart ached and my judgments broke apart. Eight years old?? You were sixteen. I was twenty-one and had only been suffering for a matter of months. I could not fathom someone spending half her life in this level of misery, pain, and disease that ravaged the mind and body. I think that was the moment I felt like your older sister. I wanted to protect you and save you from this nightmare. But I was still caught in the nightmare as well.
And here I am, writing this five years later, and my body is restored and my mind is mostly healthy again. Here I am, looking toward the future and mourning your death. Five years after we met, you have passed on at the same age I was back then. I cannot believe you won't get to see a recovered life. You won't finish college. You won't get to pick a career and pick another one if the first one didn't work out. You won't get to take your time figuring out what to do with your life and trying out different options (because there are far too many). You won't experience a healthy mind that lets you nourish your body so you can feel young and strong and go on adventures to see your friends (like me!) again. You won't get to feel the euphoria of accomplishment after overcoming the toughest parts of this disease. You won't know what it is to look over your struggles in hindsight and smile because you triumphed despite them.
I know you had a will to recover. But I also know that you suffered for too long. You never deserved it and I wish I could take the pain of those years for you and give you the gifts of my recovery instead.
For that reason, I will make sure you still have a chance to change the world.
I will live my recovery in the best way possible. I will do everything I can to be fulfilled and contribute to the world what this disease took from me, you, and all the others: joy, passion, wonder, excitement, energy, youth, courage, motivation, inspiration, productivity, health, and vivacity. You see, dear Ellie, I am going to take your spirit with me everywhere in life and do all the things you could not. I will do it all in your honor, and for the greater good and the glory of God. We'll do it all together.
You had such faith and I always admired you for it. You believed in the value of life and so do I. Therefore, I will make sure I take this piece of your heart on our big adventure as well. I'll do my best to promote the values you and I shared, and live in a way that makes a positive difference for everyone who suffers. I'll help bring awareness and save lives however I can.
You have inspired me to live fully, and never go back to that dangerous path. I know you didn't choose it, but you also could not control it. And I know how scary that is. But you don't have to be afraid anymore, because you are in paradise and will never be touched by Ed again. My heart is heavy but happy, knowing the Lord is taking care of you and protecting you for all of eternity.
Elizabeth, as infuriated as I am that your life was interrupted while you were working hard to get better, I know you did not die in vain. You see, when I went home in 2009, I tried to go back to the way I had been living (existing, really) with Ed before I met you and the others, but I could not. Something had changed. I remember the moment. I was eating lunch on the stoop in my backyard, and I looked down at my food in the sunlight, at the mound of Cool Whip Free over fruit and realized that this was not the same. Something was different -- vastly so. It simply would not work anymore. It couldn't. At the time I didn't know why and I was frustrated by it. But I believe that is the moment my true recovery began.
You were one of the many people I encountered in Waltham who changed my life and kickstarted my recovery. Do you see? Because of you, of knowing that you had been suffering for half your life, and seeing you there in that place, because of how young you were and how devastating this disease already was to your life, I must have wanted the opposite for myself (and for everyone else, of course). It didn't make sense for me to meet someone like you, and all our other friends, only to go home and continue on the same treacherous path I had been on. True, this is not a lifestyle, but somehow I believe God gave me the extra strength to say "no" and begin a new life. It did take time -- in fact, it took more time to recover than to be sick -- but God gave me everything I needed to get through it. I still believe He had a plan for me the whole time. He never meant for me to stay sick for very long. I feel charged with carrying my knowledge, experience, and memories to help conquer this disease and all the obstacles it brings to the beautiful people it attacks. I am taking your memory and spirit, Ellie, with me to prove to society, individuals, and the world that recovery is worthwhile and involves a whole lot more than what we get in treatment.
Recovery means taking risks. It means diving in to being present in your body and your Self so that you can know what it is to truly live. Getting to know myself better, learning from mistakes, and meeting wonderful people like you, Ellie, have all helped me become my greatest ally. If I am not on my own side, then I can more easily fall victim to Ed or any other evil force in the world. I also have to trust in God and recognize that He is greater than anything in this world. Your death, Ellie, is quite a tragedy, but I also have to take a leap of faith in my heart and trust that you really are in a better place. We don't need to worry about you anymore. We only need to thank God for our memories of you and keep your spirit alive in our hearts. And for me, well, I already know I'm taking you on the grandest adventure ever -- for I'm going to take you in my pocket all the days of my life. Even when I was driving home last night, alone for over three hours and a little anxious when I got lost in the beginning, I imagined you sitting in the seat next to me. I imagined you there with me, smiling and enjoying my company. I imagined you as your own free self, separate from Ed and all the troubles you ever had. I imagined you as my friend.
Thank you for being there with me, Ellie. Thank you for the beautiful message you sent me a few weeks ago, before my trip to Mexico. You told me that I am an inspiration and need reminding. Your words were so powerful to me and I am so thankful that that was the last exchange we ever had. I am in tears but it's okay. I'm glad that God blessed me and you with our acquaintance, however brief. Take care, and I'll see you on the road.
Love always,
Alissa
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