Depression and anorexia go hand in hand. And it doesn't end during recovery. It started out slowly. Not following my meal plan. Eliminating foods here and there. It's okay. I'm still eating. Then the apathy started. I couldn't seem to do anything. Dishes went unwashed. Laundry piled up. My study exploded with paper and books, piles everywhere. A thin layer of soap scum accumulated on the tub's surface. Bills didn't get paid. I couldn't read. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't write. I couldn't even think. Then on Sunday night, I took a bunch of laxatives. Why?

Fat. Stupid. Ugly. Weak. Not good enough. Self-hatred is a core feeling in many people suffering from eating disorders. Including me. I've been having an internal war with myself today. I'm too fat. I shouldn't eat. You don't deserve to eat. Don't be so weak... My head hurt. My stomach hurt. Even my brain hurt. Eventually I give in, starving. Then... You're a fat, disgusting pig.

I am... A friend. A daughter. A sister. A writer. A lover of books and all things word-related. An intelligent, engaging person. A mom to my furry cat, Aliena. A curious, lively person who believes in learning. I am me. I am not my eating disorder. Sometimes it is hard to remember that.

It started with the heat. I couldn't eat because I was too hot. That's a good reason. right? Of course, I could have done a number of things to combat that. Made smoothies. Have salads with added protein of chicken or fish. Splurge on ice cream once in a while. And I did do that, grudgingly, at first. I got a orange banana smoothie at Barnes & Noble, and felt oh-so-virtuous. See, I am trying! I'm not slipping...I'm eating intuitively. Then I had a chicken caesar salad at McDonald's. Drizzled a minute amount of salad dressing on it. I don't want soggy lettuce, do I? Ate some of the chicken, a few bites of the lettuce. Ugh, iceberg lettuce! Don't they realize that has absolutely no nutrients?!? Yesterday, I ate virtually nothing. And that is the anatomy of a relapse? Or a lapse?

It is 12:20 a.m. and I'm hot. Sweaty. And decidedly not hungry in spite of the fact that I've barely eaten all day. Then I look at my thighs. My upper arms. The little pouch of my stomach. And I groan, realizing that I'm about thirty pounds heavier than my lowest weight while in the midst of anorexia. I want to be healthy, right? I want to be free of anorexia. . . yes? Or am I still ambivalent after all this time?

Often, we tend to focus on the negative aspects of having an eating disorder or other mental illness. It (almost) destroyed my career. My relationships. My marriage. My life. All of this is true. I am still rebuilding the trust and intimacy of family relationships. My marriage is over; we will be filing for divorce soon. And I almost died from anorexia. However, I also have grown and become a better person because of my struggles with anorexia.

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.

Every so often, I am asked why I decided to write about my experiences with anorexia under my own name. The simple answer? Because I refuse to be ashamed.

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.

Anorexia is not a choice. Anorexia is not a lifestyle. Anorexia is not about vanity. Or being thin. Or seeking attention. Or... Anorexia is a serious, potentially life-threatening mental illness that effects millions of people—women and men, young and old, rich and poor, black or white. Anorexia could strike your loved one. Or your mother. Your girlfriend. Or you.