I Love You More Than Anorexia
It is with reluctance that I admit my love for Anorexia, Shopaholics. The love I have is not simple, but it is love nonetheless. I love the way I feel safe in her arms, I love the control that is unlike any other sense of control, I love the dirty little lies, I love feeling numb from the heart-aching emotions and I love the twisted manipulation. I love the familiarity more than anything else. But the one love that triumphs, without fail and without doubt, is my everlasting love for my father. He is the one person who makes me feel safer than her in his arms, the one person who doesn't make me feel powerless, the one who I cannot lie to, the one who makes me feel beautiful feelings that I delight in experiencing, the soul person who I can confidently confide in and who's familiarity is the most comforting. But I've always wondered how the reciprocated love of my father and I can exist, flourish and survive through the detrimental, melancholic, excruciating relationship between Anorexia and I. But it does. And in light of celebrating the day of love, this is the convoluted, devout, beautiful story of my love for my Dad and his love for me, his little Budadi.
My Father is easily the most fair and just man I know. There is not a decision he makes, a belief he holds or an action he imposes that isn't meticulously thought out, considered and decided. Despite others' judgements and preconceived ideas based on his strong, sturdy and intimidating exterior, my Dad is not a man who hates easily. In fact, I only recall one or two times that he's ever used the word 'hate' in his speech. And the third time I heard him use it was now. 'The word hate is strictly saved for those who deserve it, and not in a good way.' He hates how by adopting Anorexia's nickname of 'Ana' in an effort to separate Luka from her illness, he lost Luka as a whole, his beautiful daughter. Now, he watched me in increments, moments of a movie playing on the big screen but the film had fire slowly but steadily burning and melting each frame from the bottom to the top. As a father, he must excruciatingly sit and twiddle his thumbs helplessly as my abuser controls, lies and barks orders at me. He describes how he cannot refuge me from its grip because 'it is you, it is a part of you.' As a father, his purpose is to protect me from big scary monsters and like a nightmare, he endures the agony of watching the monster take me time and time again from my family and put me into institutions. He's endured the agony of watching the monster steal precious potential opportunities and experiences from us. And he's endured the agony of seeing the monster ravish my body, soul and mind.
'I hate how it makes you suffer to survive.'
I don't believe many of the beautiful things that my father believes about me and he doesn't believe many of the beautiful things that I believe about him. Sometimes, I feel like we're looking into a looking glass but what we see in the reflection are two vastly unique images... And I don't mean the reflection of what we look like but rather, the reflection of our spirits, our hearts and who we truly are. It's evident in the list of things that he wishes I would believe. He wishes that I felt worthy of the love presented to me. He wishes that I would believe recovery was possible, even for me. He wishes I knew that my beauty wasn't sourced in my shell. He wishes that I could recognise how I give more than what I have the energy for. Finally, he wishes I knew that I don't deserve to suffer as immensely as I do. Anorexia made me wish for, recognise and believe many sinister concepts, manipulated truths and sick goalposts. But, the only hope I had of accepting a reality that was more forgiving, loving and understanding came from the hope my father had and still has for me. Despite years of admissions, drugs and needles, he still looks into my eyes as I say I don't want to do it and tells me that I can. I want to be this person for my Dad... The person who gives him strength on overcast days, the person who makes his struggles feel worthwhile, the person who genuinely believes, knows and shares just how capable, amiable and deserving he is.
Our parents are the people who watch us breathe our first breath of air, but they shouldn't be the people who watch us breathe our last. My dad and I were different though because we chose each other situationally and not biologically. He didn't watch me take my first breath and in some twisted way, I believed that it would make the likelihood of him watching me take my last breath an easier pill to swallow. I believed it would even our seesaw. I was shocked to hear that he'd prepared for my funeral on three separate occasions. The first time was on my first admission to a medical ward. None of us truly knew at that point, how my body had been suffering internally. Perhaps without saying it, all of us had chosen to live in oblivion. But when the doctors began explaining the major toll suffered on my biochemistry, the damage had exceeded our presumptions and my parents became increasingly concerned. I have nostalgia for those oblivious days... It was easier. The second time was my admission to a different public hospital. When I look back to that time, physically and emotionally, it was the most unwell point I'd ever been at... Though, at the time, I was in incredible denial. My Dad told me that after a few days, the doctors called them to explain that suddenly, all of my levels had plummeted. The doctors didn't tell me this news. I wonder if I'd known if it would've been easier to surrender to the treatment. It was so, phenomenally mentally difficult on this admission because my brain was the most starved, the most damaged, and the most delirious that it had ever been. Only now, can I recognise the extremity that I'd been torturing myself prior to my second near-funeral... It was in a violent, sinister and horrific manner. The final occasion was one of the many moments my Dad had caught me in his big, open arms as I collapsed from blackened vision. He said to my Mum, 'If she doesn't go to the hospital right now, she will die.' But, it's not just these three occasions to note, Shopaholics. It's every little moment that leads up to these big, monuments moments where sirens have no more leeway to not ring and alarm bells have no more leeway to not scream.
'Every day you walk out of the house, I am afraid that I may never see you again. Unfortunately, that is what living with Anorexia is like. '
What's it like for a dad to prepare to lose his little girl? 'My heart beats like the Gods are striking me, my ears ring with tinnitus like a thousand sirens all at once, and every muscle in my body tightens, so much that it hurts. I can’t stop shaking. Like the skin on a drum, I am ready to snap, every tendon pulling my body tighter and tighter.' My Dad is my home...The type of person who makes you smile when he does, who gives you strength through his thumbs up and who makes you miss him when he hasn't even left. The suffering he describes is the type of suffering I didn't believe someone so radiant, so needed and so good could feel. And to know that my illness was its cause breaks my heart into a million, fragmented pieces. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry.
I'm sure that many would classify my Dad as an angry person but not when it comes to me. I hate the idea of making my Dad angry because I know that he works hard to keep this emotion under control. But I've seen the ugly emotions that anorexia brings out in people and so, I asked my Dad if he was angry at me for having held on to my eating disorder for such great longevity and with such great strength. I'd prepared myself for the guilt I was about to feel as I, again, inflicted a painful emotion onto the man I love most. But like he rescues and shelters me from all of my other fears, he said: 'I am not angry with you, Hunny.' Thankfully, my Dad listens to my struggles, he educates himself through books, movies and podcasts and he's developed an advanced understanding of the illness that most are ill-informed of.
'The abusive relationships are the hardest to escape, because the abuser makes you feel like they are the only way you will be able to survive.'
I think that part of the reason my Dad isn't angry with me is because he is angry with himself. My insightful, joyful, glowing father cannot see the unfolding of events in the way I do. Even when I explain my perspective, he cannot overlook what his mind has decided is the truth. He wishes he had intervened sooner, he wishes he hadn't said certain sentences or done certain actions. He expresses many regrets.
'I blame myself when I want to hug you with one of my special hugs where I pick you up and envelope you in pure love. I blame myself that you are not strong enough to receive those hugs anymore.'
I wish my Dad knew how out of all the people who could be to blame if we decided to go down that nasty and unhelpful road, he wouldn't even be on the list. My Dad has unquestionably been my biggest supporter, made me feel more worthy of success, more competent in achievement and more destined to thrive than anybody else. He has never called me anything but beautiful, intelligent, dignified, kind and important. In fact, he is the one person who hasn't gone a day in the past half a decade without exclaiming to me that I inhibited at least one of those things.
Finally, Shopaholics, my Dad leaves me with his one wish for me... Life. 'Life is freedom, life experiences, and life is love. Life is family. Life is friendship. Life is the sun on your face. Life is the smell of the first rain and cut grass. Life is the scent of a loved one. Life is memories that you make that make you smile.' For my Dad, I have one wish for him too. I wish that a fraction of how my Dad makes everyone feel could be a fraction of how he feels. I wish he knew how it felt to have him laugh with you. I wish he knew how it felt when he starts a boogy in the kitchen. I wish he knew how it felt when he wakes you up with a hug in your bed in the morning, or when he pauses to think about the right words to say because he cares so much about the effect words can have. I wish he knew how it felt when he sends you photos of flowers, how it feels when he remembers to do our special handshake or when he never gives up on you, even when you give him every reason to. To my Frek, you are the ripest apple on the tree, the most gold ingot and the sweetest jam to have with scones and cream. I will never spend a day of my life that isn't spent loving you.
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