My Demon's Name is Ed Read online

  Dedication

  To my inspiration and mentor, Rukhsana Khan; thank you for believing in me.

  Prologue

  In school we are taught about the terribly skinny people who refuse to eat, and we are told to label them anorexic. We are taught about the terribly skinny people who stick their fingers down their throats, and we are told to label them bulimic. But why aren’t we taught about how they have surrendered their souls to a demon, fallen into a deep pit of solitude and misery, and contracted a disorder that inevitably changes their lives forever?

  The simple response is that most educators don’t understand the truth behind the disorders. All of the facts and numbers and labels we learn in the classroom don’t even begin to describe the reality behind them. I am not a teacher, but I have endured, firsthand, every moment of the slow, painful descent that is an eating disorder.

  I believe that, as well as balance and positivity, everyone on this earth possesses some black energy that can tear their world apart, steal their vitality, and destroy their happiness. How individuals deal with such demons varies, but be certain of this: Disguising itself behind a positive image, a disorder can find you any time it chooses to.

  When I was fourteen, Ed found me almost too easily.

  From my first encounter with the demon I call Ed to my journey down into the hole, this is my story as I recorded it.

  April 3, 2012

  Some call it a mental illness; one that preoccupies your thoughts, alters your body image, and jumbles your feelings. One that exists for a single purpose, and wraps so tightly around you that not only does it create misperception and denial, but also it begins to define you, label you – become you.

  Recognizing that something – or someone – has crept inside me while I let my guard down frightens me deeply, and it angers me to admit I am not strong enough to fight it.

  Do not be afraid. There is nothing to be afraid of.

  Do not be bitter. I am nothing to be fought.

  Am I sick? Is something wrong with me?

  There is nothing wrong while I am in control.

  No, yes, no, yes, no, there is something wrong with me…. It’s as if I no longer fit in my skin. Should I be concerned by this second voice in my head, or by this second pair of eyes on my face?

  Stop this nonsense.

  Now, go drink a cup or two of water before your workout.

  I can hear your stomach growling.

  April 5, 2012

  I look in the mirror and can’t distinguish between the hazy image of Ed, the demon, desperately pleading for attention and recognition, and my own reflection that should be staring back at me. The demon tells me that I am too fat, that my inner thigh gap should be more noticeable, and my stomach should be flatter. It whispers in my ear – gently and soothingly, at first. Then the whispers become roars as it spits in my face. What choice do I have but to obey? I am too weak to fight; I am too afraid to try.

  April 6, 2012

  How to be Healthy: My Mantra

  HEALTHY

  Eliminate snacks.

  Fewer carbs.

  No eating out.

  Exercise more.

  Fewer calories in + more calories out = weight loss.

  Exercise more.

  No eating out.

  Fewer carbs.

  Eliminate snacks.

  HEALTHY

  April 7, 2012

  I’m looking in the mirror after my long home workout and feeling extremely slim and racy this morning. I finally have defined abdominal lines. I am finally beautiful.

  Just imagine how beautiful you will be twenty pounds lighter.

  April 7, 2012

  I’m looking in the mirror after my huge dinner and feeling extremely chunky and bloated this evening. I finally have reason to lose the weight. I am finally bowing down to you, Ed.

  You are all mine.

  April 9, 2012

  Triggers. Triggers are everywhere, pressuring me to obsess about health, compelling me to lose weight, and insisting that I hate myself. My dear, sweet witch of a mother, for instance, never fails to point out my “poor eating habits” and “lack of self-control” as I reach for yet another spoonful of rice at the dinner table.

  “Rice is a source of carbs, honey,” she would warn me. “You shouldn’t eat too much of it.” Well, Mother, are you proud of my self-control now? Are you fucking satisfied that I no longer reach for any rice at the table? I’ll show you self-control, Mother; just watch me eat less and less.

  Another more obvious trigger, of course, is the media. In this increasingly technical generation, when it seems all we ever do is stare at screens, how can we not be influenced by what appears before us? As for me, I am obsessed with Tumblr. The health and fitness blogs are all so lovely, staring me right in the face, inviting me into their community. All of the bottled-up envy from watching those beautiful, athletic bodies continues to swell inside of me, pushing for more and more weight loss.

  Must be thinner, prettier, healthier, better.

  Also, the health unit in my gym class has taught me practically everything there is to know about good nutrition and daily exercise. One might say that I have taken it slightly too far, yet my response would be that this is simply a new lifestyle – not some sort of silly, ineffective diet – and that my health has now become a priority in order to fuel my athletic performance.

  For some odd reason beyond my understanding, my parents have a complete lack of trust in my new lifestyle, believing that it is not truly healthy…. What do they know about good health, anyway? It’s clear that they feel obligated to keep an extra eye on me when they are the ones who always complained about how much I ate in the first place. It would all “catch up with me eventually,” they claimed.

  So why, Father, do you boom in your loud, demanding voice when I don’t eat the whole hamburger? Maybe I would eat it if you didn’t buy such a fatty, sodium-filled patty! We could all use some healthier choices in our diet.

  My mother, on the other hand, attempts – in a somewhat caring and calm manner – to lecture me about the true definition of a “healthy body.”

  “I don’t want to see you get any thinner,” she says to me daily. “If you drop one more pound, there will be a problem.”

  “But why, Mom? Why will there be a problem?”

  She sighs and responds, “You can’t be an athlete with a skeletal structure.”

  I laugh in her face. Nevertheless, I see the hurt and worry in her eyes…and it scares me.

  Mother does not always know best.

  But what about the general public – what about everyone else telling me how much thinner I have become?

  “Your legs are so tiny!”

  “Look how small you are!”

  “You sure did lose weight!”

  “You have abs!”

  “Just eat it!”

  “Are you like, anorexic?”

  “Stop counting calories!”

  “It’s just a cupcake!”

  I used to feel so proud when I first began to hear such comments, but now that I hear them so damn frequently—

  Oh, stop being such a baby!

  Do not listen to them.

  LISTEN TO ME.

  But when can I begin to listen to myself?

  April 10, 2012

  Okay, so I am not completely oblivious. I do, in fact, admit to having a few basic symptoms of eating disorders: undereating, overexercising, counting calories, eating a very restricted diet…and everything in between….

  But I do not have an eating disorder! There i
s a huge difference between a demon telling me how I should eat and an eating disorder telling me not to eat at all, right? And just because I prefer smaller, lighter portions doesn’t mean that I’m in trouble. Lots of girls have legs far skinnier than mine! Plus, most people with eating disorders binge and purge, which is something that I can truthfully say I have never done.

  We will see about that.

  Okay, so perhaps I have considered it several times, but sticking a little finger down my throat would be the absolute breaking point; proof to myself that I really do have an eating disorder. I do not plan to do it, so trust me, please…I am totally fine!

  Something that does frighten me, however, is that food and exercise have essentially become all I think about. I find it difficult to focus in school or at practice because of the constant buzz and word-vomit swirling in my mind.

  “Did I overeat?”

  Yes.

  “Did I undereat?”

  No.

  “Should I do more squats?”

  Yes.

  “Should I stop doing push-ups?”

  No.

  “Am I still trying to lose weight?”

  Always.

  April 11, 2012

  “Wow, I am so proud of your determination to live a healthy lifestyle, Danah. You’re on the treadmill practically every day now!” Father praised me, as I dragged my exhausted butt past him and up the stairs after my six-mile run.

  “Thanks!” I exclaimed, feeling extremely grateful that he has recognized my hard work, instead of criticizing me like Mom does every time I exercise or avoid putting any meat on my plate.

  And this is only the beginning of all of the praise yet to come.

  Remember this feeling, and it will be yours forever.

  April 12, 2012

  Ed has completely changed my perspective about the upcoming school Quebec trip. Just imagining all the crap I will be forced to eat and knowing that my workouts will be limited knots my stomach, causes my palms to sweat and my head to spin. Let me guess. This is not normal. Surely no one else worries about such mundane things to this extent. Should I be concerned? The absolute most my friends will ever worry about regarding the trip is if their tongues are far enough down their boyfriends’ throats, or if they are wearing enough makeup…. Fucking pathetic.

  Nevertheless, I have a master plan: nibble at the restaurants, skip lunch, don’t eat snacks, and exercise every night in the hotel room.

  Shit.

  That can’t be a good plan.

  So why did I just write it down?

  Why am I unable to adjust it?

  You don’t want to see all of our progress go down the drain in four short days, do you?

  How will I carry out my plan without everyone eyeballing me? I can just imagine their snide comments and stares now. I’m quite certain I will gain the bulimic label to add to the anorexic one.

  Why must this all be so stressful?

  Anger boils deep inside me. I want to shout in their faces:

  “HOW DOES MY LACK OF EATING AFFECT YOU? STICK YOUR TONGUES BACK DOWN YOUR BOYFRIENDS’ THROATS, AND I SHALL STICK MY FINGER DOWN MINE.

  YES, I’M WORKING OUT RIGHT NOW BECAUSE, UNLIKE YOU HIGH-METABOLISM STICKS, I WILL GAIN WEIGHT IF I DON’T. AND I DO NOT WANT TO GAIN WEIGHT.

  AND NO, GODDAMN IT, I WILL NOT EAT THE DESSERT. I WON’T TASTE IT, SNIFF IT, OR EVEN LOOK AT IT. YOU WILL NEVER MAKE ME…. YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND.”

  Jesus, so just don’t go!

  Don’t go?

  Stay home; stay under my watch.

  Stay home?

  Stay within my comfort and care.

  Comfort and care?

  But haven’t I already paid?

  What will my excuse be?

  What will my friends say?

  Am I really considering this right now?

  A part of me actually recognizes that Quebec might even be a good, healthy experience for me – shockingly enough.

  Oh, please.

  Maybe, just maybe, it will teach me that it is totally acceptable to treat myself once in a while…. So, why am I struggling to believe myself? Am I too damn pessimistic and stubborn to allow a tiny bit of light to shine through and warm my dark thoughts?

  April 16, 2012

  It’s raining way too hard to go on my hourly walk with the dog. If it were up to me, I would suit up as though it was completely sunny outside, but my parents wouldn’t let me.

  Even after I begged.

  And cried.

  And angrily stormed out of the room.

  I have to go for my walk.

  It is not an option.

  It is not an option.

  It is not an option.

  I ate far too big of a piece of salmon – super high in fat – for dinner, which means I cannot afford to skip this walk.

  Now, Mom and Dad are so pissed with me for having a temper tantrum that they will not even drive me to the gym as promised. There is probably no way they would drive me to the gym, anyway. Not in this weather. Fucking wussies. It’s just a bit of rain.

  W h a t d o I d o ?

  E d i s g o i n g t o k i l l m e .

  Maybe I will go for a walk in the basement.

  But what if my parents see me?

  Fuck it.

  I need to walk.

  I ate too much salmon.

  April 17, 2012

  I’m worried that someone will read these entries and think I am an absolute nutcase – maybe even bipolar – and so I will try to describe my constant, inner turmoil as accurately and realistically as possible.

  Imagine two cartoon characters – one angel and one devil – appear on either shoulder and begin to bicker. They do not stop bickering, arguing so loudly that my head feels as though it might very well split right down the center. It always ends the same way; the cold, harsh devil beats the mild, long-suffering angel. The devil always wins, as he reduces any positive thoughts to dust and tosses it over his shoulder.

  But this is not a cartoon. This is real. The demon has taken over…. Acceptance is the first step to recovery, no?

  Recovery!?

  Baby, you are perfectly fine.

  No. No I am not – I am like a fucking mental illness patient!

  Calm down.

  Don’t ever raise your voice to me.

  April 19, 2012

  “Danah, everything in moderation. Please, have a tiny piece of cake. Look. Your sister and I are eating it,” Mother said soothingly as she took a bite of that warm, chocolate lava cake. “You see? Nothing bad will happen to us.”

  Fuck.

  My mouth is salivating.

  Do it.

  Take a bite.

  Just one bite.

  What?

  Do not do it.

  Don’t you dare take a bite!

  Just because they do it doesn’t mean you have to.

  They are not as fit and healthy as you.

  They don’t give a damn about you.

  They want to see you get fat.

  But it looks so good…. And after all, I did just step off the treadmill after an hour’s run. The treadmill says I burned over 500 calories, which is probably as much as the portion of the cake. It will be as though I didn’t even eat it….

  I think I am going to do it.

  My mom and sister are staring at me.

  I have to do it.

  It tastes so fucking delicious.

  It’s warm and soft and moist and indulgent.

  My stomach is smiling.

  It is the best thing I have ever eaten in my entire life.

  Good, because it will be the last thing for a long, long time.

  Fuck.

  What have I done?

  Am I fucking crazy?


  Why would I do that?

  I fucking hate my mom and sister for making me do that.

  If they want to get fat they can LEAVE ME OUT OF IT!

  Fucking morons.

  No, I can’t blame them.

  It’s my fault for having no self-control.

  The only fucking moron here is me.

  Now I have to go work it off.

  If I am lucky, I will “get sick” and puke.

  April 20, 2012

  Height: 5'5"

  Initial weight: 125 pounds.

  Current weight: 105 pounds.

  One side of me is jumping with glee.

  The other has already admitted defeat.

  It is just too late.

  I took a deep plunge into rock bottom.

  April 26, 2012

  Ed welcomes me home this evening after I barely managed to survive the Quebec trip, all thanks to my masterful plan of skipping lunches and – despite the dire warnings and comments from my peers – doing a full-body workout every night. My intense fear of gaining weight added so much pressure to the trip, however, that it was nearly impossible to enjoy any of it; not one, small moment. Having to refuse all of those scrumptious desserts and having to ignore my stomach as it called out for food at lunchtimes was quite a miserable experience.

  But that was a proper display of self-control.

  And now, you have mastered it.

  Should I be proud of my newly acquired self-control, or should I be frightened of it?

  The trip certainly didn’t help my case for ditching the anorexic label. In fact, it made the situation far, far worse.

  Who cares what others think?

  Ignore them all.

  Listen to me.

  Only me.

  On the third day, during lunch, my friends approached me in a considerably caring manner, as I awkwardly watched them all dive into their poutine. I do understand that they were only trying to look out for me, but no one can fathom that I am not seeking help. Why does everyone assume that I am? I know very well what I am doing and I can take care of myself just fine.

  Can I, though? Can I really look after myself? The problem has now become too mentally and physically challenging to overcome; I truly do not see myself ever taking that first, hefty step toward “recovery”.