My husband, David, left me in August. Because of my anorexia. He couldn't handle it, after more than three years of dealing with a wife who seemed hell-bent on dying. This past spring, I spent six weeks in a partial hospitalization program that did very little for me but crush what little self-esteem I had left. I spent the summer depressed and anxious, mainly about the size of my body. I immediately began restricting and purging (through laxative abuse) and soon lost all the weight I had gained while in the program. David soon lost all hope I would recover from anorexia. I had forgotten — again — that my eating disorder doesn't just impact me, but also my husband and loved ones.

Every day, I wake up anxious and afraid to face the day. Each morning, my anxiety is so strong, I sometimes feel as if I am crawling out of my skin. I have dealt with anxiety and depression most of my life, but it has increased tremendously since I developed anorexia nervosa. It seems as if eating disorders and anxiety are intertwined. Dealing with daily anxiety has been one of the worst side effects of having anorexia. I have often said "if I could only get rid of the anxiety . . ."

It was Thanksgiving 2008 and I had recently completed two weeks of inpatient hospitalization for anorexia nervosa. Even though I had eaten what felt like thousands of calories daily and had been connected for ten days to a TPN (a line that goes through your vein and is placed directly over your heart pumping nutrients and fats into the body), I had gained very little weight during the hospitalization and was still terrified of eating most foods. Then, along comes Thanksgiving and the annual family food spread. I took one look at the table and froze, unable to think about how I could possibly eat even one bit of that food. All I saw was FAT; it was my anorexic brain's worst nightmare come to life. However, I have since learned how to survive and even enjoy the holidays by working through my fears and anxiety.

As a 45-year-old woman struggling to recover from anorexia, I often wonder if this is going to be part of my life forever. Will I be like the 76-year-old client of my psychiatrist, hands gripping her walker as she gingerly takes each step forward up to the front window, looking as if a slight wind would blow her over and the common flu would kill her? I try hard to believe she is not my future, and I want to stress that she doesn't have to be your future. Recovery from eating disorders is possible at any age.