When I was quite ill with anorexia, I presented myself as detached and invulnerable. Nothing could hurt me. I was strong...I was beyond human feelings...I was beyond human needs because I didn't need much food/sleep/love that most humans required. It was all an act. I was—and still am—immensely vulnerable. I'm just afraid to let people know this.

A few weeks ago, I gave away the last of my "anorexic" clothing. The clothing that was too young. Too short. Too...anorexic. I mean, a micro-miniskirt on a forty-six-year-old? Seriously? I feel myself becoming more free each day.

It is 11:22 p.m. and I'm still staring at the blank computer screen. My head hurts. My stomach feels queasy. I'm tired. The worst part? I struggled to eat today. Not because the eating disorder voice hammered at me. Not because I felt compelled to lose weight. But because I simply did not feel hungry. Stress kills my appetite. Now I have to make sure it doesn't kill my recovery from anorexia.

I was not recovered when I started writing my personal eating disorders blog, The Spirit Within. In fact, I was in the midst of a serious relapse that wouldn't end until I was forced to take almost three months sick leave from my job at the time—and this wouldn't be my last relapse. In light of recent decisions by several blog servers to revamp their posting policies, I've asked myself what are the responsibilities inherent with eating disorder blogging? Am I—and other eating disorder bloggers—responsible for the potential damage our words might have?

Do you believe there is hope for recovery from your eating disorder? Or do you believe the best you can hope for is management of your eating disorder symptoms? I believe there is hope. I believe that one day, I will be free.

Last week, I looked down and realized I needed something I haven't needed for a very long time. A bra.

I have been struggling to eat normally — whatever normal is — for several weeks. It's not that I have stopped eating altogether, because let's face it, even anorexics have to eat something. It's not even that I'm in starvation mode — yet. It has just become easier to skip breakfast, because hey, it is 10 a.m. before I think about it and it is only two hours away from lunch. Then lunchtime comes and I "forget" to eat until about 2 or 3 p.m. That's too close for dinner, so I might as well make lunch do for dinner, too. Still, I am eating and I am committed to recovery. I know that I was not healthy before and that I need to continue to eat healthy and maintain my weight. I know that skipping meals, especially breakfast, is not a good idea. I thought I was doing okay. Then I drank several glasses of wine last night.

I struggled not to cry as each picture, depicting life and love and happiness, flashed on the screen during Thursday night's National Eating Disorders Awareness (NEDA) Week presentation. I thought about all the people I know who are struggling with an eating disorder; the friends who have made it through recovery and the two people who recently lost their lives to their eating disorders. Then I thought about myself and all the years I was being a slave to the scale, to weight and calories and inches, watching as I was diminished by anorexia until I almost died from it. And I wondered why I wasted all those years, but then I remembered that no one chosen to have an eating disorder; that these illnesses are, in fact, addictive coping mechanisms that run deeper than disordered relationships with food. However, knowing that doesn't make it any less painful.

I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified. My heart was racing and I was fighting nausea. I was still wearing the clothes I came home in the day before. I reached for my cell phone and quickly called 911. I was panicking and it was difficult for me to talk. I explained what was going on while the dispatcher tried to calm me and get me to take my pulse. Soon the paramedics and police were at my home. I was freezing as they wheeled me out to the waiting ambulance. At the hospital, I told them that I had been in an area hospital for seven days for re-feeding and detox from alcohol and prescription drugs. I noticed a slight change in their attitude as they listened. Soon, I was told that it was caused by withdrawal from benzodiazepines, or tranquilizers. The ER staff then discharged me at 1:30 a.m. I arrived home, confused and wondering if I would ever get better.

It was 3 a.m., January 1, 2012. I had been struggling to sleep for hours. All had did though was constantly shift around in my hospital bed and throw covers on and off, as my head throbbed and waves of heat flushed my face. It left me hot and then freezing cold. It was the last night of my hospital stay and I had gotten progressively sicker in the past few days. The nurses simply told me I must have the flu or something since I had a slight fever and struggled to eat — not a good thing for a recovering anorexic. I pushed the call button for the night nurse, hoping for some relief but knowing I had just taken a pain killer a few hours before and, therefore, there was nothing anyone could do. He brought me a box of tissues as I started crying and tossing around, saying "I guess this is what they call hitting rock bottom, huh?" He told me to go ahead and cry. I had been in the hospital since December 26. It has been both the hardest and most rewarding thing I have ever done.