Happy Birthday, Maya

I’m looking at one of the only pictures I have of us because one of us was always too thin and didn’t want any evidence of it. God forbid someone see the picture on social media and the comments would quickly follow: “Oh my god, are you ok?” “Thinking of you, girlie.” “Hey, text me, I’m worried about you.” And of course, that one person: “You look amazing!”

This time, I’m too thin and in the photo, I’m holding a bag with a white fur coat peeking out. It’s 2015 and I’m getting together a Halloween costume: Cruella Deville. Honestly, it was one of my better costumes but I was grossly underweight and the fishnet tights couldn’t hide bones protruding from my emaciated frame. You were healthy and glowing, which means you were in treatment. I’m holding you close, my sticklike arm wrapped around your shoulder. I’m wearing leggings, God knows why, and a baggy sweater to cover my body. My hair is cut short and shaved on the side to hide the bald spot that appeared due to my anxiety-induced hair pulling. 

I remember being with you that day. I remember you talking about how fat you were and I told you that those thoughts were your eating disorder. I told you that you looked beautiful and healthy, your face was full and filled with color. I saw the torment in your eyes. You looked at me and I knew you wanted to be in my body because it was safe. It’s safer to be sick. If your body is using all of its energy just to keep you alive, it can’t possibly allocate any of the reserves to feeling. No feeling means no dealing with what we hold in our bodies. We all want that, right? Use a little alcohol, maybe some drugs on occasion. Numb out. Possibly starve yourself for 15 years and escape any concept of reality. Oops, that unexpectedly went too far and now we’re stuck. Stuck in the endless cycle of restriction, binging, purging, laxatives, exercise, alcohol. Whatever it takes to protect the illness.

Today is your birthday and you’ve been gone for an entire year. 382 days, to be exact. I remember seeing my phone light up with your sister’s name and I knew. I knew that I would never get another text saying you were sick of living. We would never FaceTime again, you in the hospice bed with tubes attached to your body. You would not cry on the phone and tell me everything hurt and the bedsores were excruciating. I would not see your skin stretched over bones and the haunted look in your eyes. I would not tell you that it was going to be ok while knowing that it wasn’t. We would not spend hours talking about our minds and the way they deceive us; wondering what happens after we die. I would not ask you to believe in miracles. I would not ask you to return to treatment again, inevitably facing the same endless cycle that you had been through so many times before. You would not drag yourself from your bed to binge and purge in the kitchen while your parents slept. You would not fall to your knees because your body could no longer hold you upright. You would not require your dad’s help to get up the stairs and back into bed. You would not need a walker at the age of 32. You would not lose all of your hair. You would not lose your teeth. Your soul would no longer fight your brain. You would no longer feel any pain.

Today is your birthday and I’m approaching three years in recovery. I’m going to be a therapist someday. I’m going to help others who feel too much. I’ll tell them that it’s ok and that there’s nothing wrong with them. I’ll help them to acknowledge and process their pain without hurting themselves. I’ll connect with them and see them. I’ll provide the safety and they will do the work. Their bodies will know healing and growth. They will love their bodies. I know that I won’t be able to help everyone, but I’ll try. I’ll remember you, I’ll think of you, I love you.