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Like a 1980s throw back, the pavements are scattered with joggers, clad in fresh neon Lycra. Gyms full of frantic activity. Personal Trainer’s, like tour reps, guiding uncomfortable newbies, as the gym stalwarts look on resentfully, impatient at having to queue for machines they’ve come to call their own.
Photo by Victor Freitas on Pexels.com
Me: I resist the magnetic pull of these sports, though my head aches for the hot, dripping sweat of impossibly intense cardio regimes. With every advert for a new workout, I remember the hours spent pounding the treadmill, ever harder, ever faster. The high of running on empty, breaking through pain. The cycling, competitive climbing, rowing, bench press, skipping, weights…
… and actually, I hated it. Although I’ve always been fit, at 5ft 2″, I’m not a natural sportswoman. Don’t get me wrong, I used to enjoy a cycle, climbing, a good walk, but in those days, it was a pastime, not a regime.
Why then? Why did I endlessly punish my body with ever-increasing levels of cruelty? Why ignore the aching, the fatigue, the pain?
Ask the Anorexia.
Without wishing to sound too extreme, I want to warn anyone who has been lured into fitness regimes and fad diets this January. Being healthy is all well and good, but making it a mission can make YOU a slave.
I write as one of the many who ironically start out flexible and end up rigid.
My illness began with a gym membership, a health kick. I had given up smoking and just wanted to stay healthy, get fitter. That’s ok right?
But as I was running faster, and swimming stronger, and lifting heavier; the illness was very slowly, very quietly, creeping up behind me.
I had started toning up, losing weight, shaping up. I pushed my regime. Then I noticed that I felt guilty if I ate something ‘unhealthy’. Before too long, I couldn’t HAVE anything unhealthy UNLESS I’d worked out. I pushed myself harder. I lost weight. The numbers started going down. I pushed myself harder. Then I could only eat on gym days… Before I knew it, I was too thin to exercise. I had the frame of a seven year old girl.
But I was thirty.
And trapped.
Over a decade later, I am still flying round the same old cage. There isn’t a bar which I haven’t beaten and broken my wings on. I know every trick and trait of my captor and yet I can’t break free.
I hate the January burst of diets and slimming aids and gym memberships, and new
fitness plans. I avert my eyes and ignore the call…
I know that for most, it’s a positive thing. But I write to make the case that we all need to be careful that a hobby doesn’t become unhealthy. This is especially pertinent if you’re prone to perfectionism, highly competitive and have struggled with eating problems / body dysmorphia. It’s fine to get fit, but be aware that Anorexia and other EDs thrive on seemingly ‘good’ initiatives. Be aware that these illnesses are clever, and pervasive. They take your brain prisoner…
And if you’re reading this thinking you’re immune, think again; because eating disorders tiptoe past your rational mind. You can’t OUT THINK them.
If you’re worried someone is developing an eating disorder or becoming obsessive about their diet, TALK to them. Be gentle. Suggest they talk to a professional. Be aware that they might not believe they have a problem. It’s crucial that they know it’s not THEM that you appear to be so against, but the stranger who is controlling their behaviour.
If it’s your intention to change your habits for 2019, try not to buy into the media hype. The diet and exercise industry cannot and should not promise you a new and sparkling existence.
It seems that the greater my desire to write, the harder it feels. The ongoing presence of my illness makes my mind is so full but so flighty.
“flighty”
A state where I can’t ever stay but can never fully go.
My mind doesn’t soar . It doesn’t open to stretch and show its span. It doesn’t sweep across the wide, wild skies of imagination, or glide over the deep sea of things and people and adventure and fun.
It flutters, one wing tattered, worn away by brush after brush after brush. It flitters unsettled, unspoken. Too weary for words, too driven to rest, and too desperate to stop.
I long for the peace that will let me just slow. Let me focus on a wave, not the sea; the sun, not the skies. I long for the thready pulse of wings to either
soar
or
stop.
Despite almost never writing these days, I am still here and I still have the DESIRE to write, just not the accompanying drive to action. However, I find myself here with minutes to spare and the determination to put something down.
Because it’s important.
To be fair, I know I’m over reacting, which, naturally, doubles my irritation, but it would seem that I’m not beyond being stung by a throwaway comment. Damn.
I’m angry and frustrated with myself. Even more so because I should be better… and bigger… and past it… and all those things that I expect of myself. Obviously, I am not as immune or as desensitised (read: ‘protected’) as I think.
I spent a lovely weekend with old friends. It’s the first time I’ve made a reunion in a long time, and I’m so glad I went. Earlier, I was showing my youngest sister some photos and happily telling her about it, until she asked if everyone had been understanding of my… condition. Well. They were, yes.
I mean, my old friends from way back. They knew me pre illness. They know me. They love me.
Just one teeny statement though, managed to blow a hole in my surface.
“It is a choice. Anorexia IS a choice”
No it’s not.
“It is”
What do you say?
Even a few minutes walking round some rock pools don’t elicit any responses. An unexpected shot. And yeah… I have to admit, I was a little wounded.
So this is my belated response.
I’ll tell you what’s really weird… and not to be written lightly… When someone suffers with Anorexia, it can be so acute, and so very life changing, that it appears odd that it remains something ‘in the abstract’. For example, despite the knowledge that Anorexia is a MENTAL illness, if a radiologist did a brain scan, a patient with an eating disorder (and maybe their loved ones) might almost expect to see large shadows obliterating whole sections of their brain. (Nowadays of course, neuroscience and improving technology seem to be making it possible to identify all sorts of quirks and trends in the structure of the brain). But for most of us who battle this dominant demon of hunger, it remains an imagined shadow, or a toxic spillage seeping into hidden cranial cavities. Of course it won’t show up on a scan. It’s too deadly for that.
I KNOW it’s different. I know it can be a temporary coping mechanism for some, and yes it can be something of a cry to be heard, or even a teenage tantrum for a minority, but for many of us, Anorexia is as impossible to CHOSE as meningitis is to contract. You just wouldn’t think to announce to someone with brain cancer that their illness is a choice. I KNOW it’s “not the same… yade dade yada…” but I’m telling you, this thing that plagues me… this THING that has destroyed a whole decade of my life, isn’t a matter of choice. It’s an illness. As present and as torturously painful as anything physical.
Eating disorders can’t just be selected and applied. They begin so small that they’re invisible; and by the time they’re making changes to your body, they’re bedded down hard.
Choice DOES come into it. But not there.
I’ll tell you where next time.
In the meantime, telling your sick friend that they chose their illness, is as helpful as a kick in the teeth.
As something of an ED veteran, I feel somewhat obligated to add something to the enormous swell of posts and articles prompted by Eating Disorders Awareness Week 2018. It’s ironic that the very thing that stops me from writing about Anorexia is the Anorexia itself*… but I’m here now, tucked in a corner of Costa, so I may as well give my tuppence worth on the topic.
Eating disorders must be one of the most complex areas in mental health and it’s for this reason that they are also one of the most misunderstood. Incredibly difficult to treat, they confound and defy loved ones and doctors alike, resulting in horrible recovery stats and mortality rates. The fact that 20% of sufferers die of this illness weighs particularly heavy on me today, as this morning’s Facebook newsfeed informed me that March 1st is the birthday of a lovely young lady I was once in hospital with… Tragically, it’s a birthday that she isn’t here to celebrate.
I’m not sure that people really understand the gravity of this illness, possibly because it’s given quite a lot of coverage which seems to mark it as a teenage phase, and possibly because it has been so closely linked to models and media. Whatever the underlying message, I speak from bitter experience when I say that Anorexia can be fatal.
And not fatal in the casual way that people use the word. Y’know, like, “Ooooh! Don’t buy the Amazon Dot! Starting a conversation with Alexa is fatal..!” Not THAT kind of fatal. I mean the kind of fatal that leaves loved ones reeling, practitioners; gutted and blamed and helpless; figures on charts revealing that 20% of Anorexics will die prematurely because of their condition.
A couple of points for sufferers
1. Getting help early is absolutely KEY. I know many people who have recovered because they got help quickly and did so when they were young. I get that you’ve probably heard it before, and I know it might feel terribly difficult but seriously, if you think you might be struggling with an Eating Disorder, get help NOW.
I also want you to know that although many people understand their condition, you may be one of those who don’t really believe you’re ill. It’s a tough one and it requires you to be very, very painfully honest with yourself (even if you can’t admit it to anyone else yet). Eating Disorders can be like child abductors. They can wheedle and whine, coax and cajole, smile sweetly… and then, when they’ve got you, they turn. It’s a horrible analogy, but its a horrible illness.
You might hear thoughts telling you that you’re just on a diet; you just need to lose some more; you just need to have some control; it’ll be okay if you get rid of everything you eat…
It may be an increasing set of rules. You can’t have anything unless you’ve been to the gym… Your friends and family are lying to you when they say you’re looking thin… You don’t deserve anything good… Your body is something you’re deeply ashamed of… You must get fitter and faster and achieve more and more and more and eating is the only way you can be successful…
Get help. If this sounds like you, it’s not. It’s the whispering abductor. Please get help.
I’m hoping that you hear the urgency that I’m writing with. Getting help today rather than next month could be the difference between a year battling Anorexia, or a decade. And yes, it might go against everything you think you want but believe me, there will come a time where you will thank your self for refusing to listen to the manipulating voices in your mind.
2. Anorexia, Bulimia, Binge Eating Disorder, Other Non Specified EDs are not something to be ashamed of. It’s not your FAULT and you’re not to blame. People who love you might not understand yet, they might be angry and frustrated, but that doesn’t make you wrong. It’s an illness and it needs medical attention. Don’t think that you CHOSE this. It targets its victims and then preys on their minds.
Take some comfort from the fact that what you CAN control are the decisions you can make to help yourself. You can get help, even though it’s a frightening thought. You can be brave enough. You can take tiny steps. You can be gentle with yourself and kind to yourself by allowing someone else to support you. Pick someone who might understand something about it… a kind teacher, pastor, wise friends…
Eating disorders aren’t choices. Recovery options are… or should be so long so long as provisions are there. (That’s a whole other post!)
Let me know how it goes.
*If you don’t understand this, I need to explain that Anorexia impacts the mind in a multitude of ways, most of which, you’d never know unless you’ve suffered it. It’s not possible to go into more detail now, but I’ll do a post on it sometime!
https://www.beateatingdisorders.org.uk/support-services
I’m PAINFULLY aware of the gaping abyss that lies between this post and my last. I have been having huge problems concentrating my efforts on doing any ‘personal’ writing, and the little time that I HAVE been able to focus, has been spent doing the writing that is a necessary component of a course I’m doing.
Yes. You did hear that right. A course.
I’ve now been out of hospital since the 1st of August 2017. That’s almost a whole six months. A fact that, in itself, isn’t joyously impressive. What does make it count for a little more, is the fact that I actually managed the Christmas period without OVER compensating and reigning my calorific intake in so much that I end up with less nutrition on my plate than you’d find in one of those little, green caterpillars that I used to love when I was a small child. Moreover, my weight (a fortnight ago) is pretty much the same as it was when I left The Priory.
Before I crack open a bottle, I have to admit that I was still considerably underweight when I discharged myself from the hospital, AND, my diet has been less than ‘healthy’. I won’t go into that right now, suffice to say that I still have so far to go if I am to continue this uncertain path of something like recovery.
When I came out of hospital I began to give serious consideration to my situation. A situation that left rather a lot to be desired (and yep, that is in the literal sense).
I took stock.
I’m 40.
I’ve lost my teaching career. I live back at home. I don’t have a relationship. I have no children. I probably won’t ever have that as this illness destroys all kinds of natural processes, and the body is clever enough to redirect all its resources away from ‘unnecessary’ things like reproduction, the usual hormonal changes, skin and bone health, whatever… just in order to keep your heart beating.
Stradivarius eat your heart out, right?
Right.
Seriously. This is not a great situation. But then Anorexia will do that to you.
Anorexia will take all you’ve ever valued, all you’ve worked for, ached for, bled, sweated and cried for… Worse, it’ll take all that COULD BE, and it’ll rub away, like an eraser on the same piece of paper, until it finally destroys all your could haves and all your would be’s.
That’s why, I came up with PIE.
A simple recipe for something that might look like a life..
It’s hard going, and I’m writing now because it’s all about to get harder (I think). But that’s why I need to keep reminding myself (and any other ED sufferers) that whatever battle lies ahead, it just CAN’T be as bad as the constant torture of Anorexia. The torment of eating a little more CAN’T match the constant turmoil of bargaining with the illness, running though sum after sum, compromising with the darkness, allowing it to deny us TIME and TIME again. (I’m writing this praying it’s true). The opaque sense of flimsy truth is so hard to FEEL, and yet it’s all I have if the next six months is to look different again. That’s why I’m going to carry on reversing the pattern, adding to my plate, painfully bending the bars of the cage I’m in.
That’s enough on the matter for now. This is already so much longer than I intended it to be.
The pie will keep.
Without wishing to sound all bah-humbug about it, I REALLY can’t share the sentiment of the song that blares as I push my trolley up the soft drinks aisle in my local supermarket. I realise it’s not supposed to be taken too literally but honestly, the sheer inanity of some idiot’s wish that ‘it could be Christmas every da – aaay” is, at best, teeth grittingly stupid, at worst, utterly irresponsible. (I know for a fact that occurring even once a year increases overspending and subsequent problems with debt for some of the poorest families in the UK.)
The song continues to blare across the store and I swing into the middle aisle in time to catch one woman (who apparently has some inside info about a nationwide dearth of flour that the rest of us aren’t privy to) almost mow down an older lady in her path. Glancing round for someone to share her indignation, she looked at me shaking her head and starting to mutter something. Not really wanting to buy into this her fury, I just smiled sympathetically and shrugged offhandedly. “Christmas, hey?” She grunted disconsolately. “Really does bring out the best and the worst doesn’t it?” For a second, she eyed me with uncertainty and then snorted. “Bloody right” she said.
Thing is, and I bet my stocking this is true; most of us over a certain age would hate the thought of Christmas everyday! The shops are rammed, roads gridlocked, transport more squashed than ever, people more harried and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Even some of my most togetherest friends (poetic licenses granted for Christmas period Ts and Cs apply) struggle at this time of year. Christmas for those affected by any illness can be especially difficult, perhaps because the pain felt by sufferers and their families is brought into such stark contrast by the sense of festive merriment.
As a seasoned Anorexic, I find this time of year to be particularly torturous, so much so that almost every Christmas for the past five years, has in some way contributed to my ending up in inpatient treatment. I can only write from my personal experience, but I want to explain why Christmas with an eating disorder can be so difficult.
1. The fist reason seems obvious. Food is suddenly everywhere. It’s inescapable, and far more so than usual. Supermarkets are cram full of luxury items; not just your standard ice cream. No. The very finest ice cream made with fresh, sweet strawberries, rich chocolate or vanilla pods hand picked by velvet – furred monkeys living in luxury Madagascan tree houses. Shelves are lined with glistening golden wrappings, the finest of wines and giant tubs of cheap chocolates hang out, competitively priced, attractively arranged.
But Anorexics hate food right?
Wrong! But you could be forgiven for thinking so. After all, who in their right mind would starve themselves to within an inch of their life if they enjoyed food?
Well. This is why an eating disorder isn’t the lifestyle choice or the vain whim of a silly young girl who wants to look like a model, although the media have often billed it to be. An eating disorder is a mental illness, and a complex one at that. With the highest mortality rate of any mental illness, Anorexia needs to be taken more seriously by the media and by the fashion industry. It is still so misunderstood.
Back to the food thing… Contrary to popular understanding, Anorexics don’t dislike food. They love food. They long for food. If you are the loved one of a sufferer who swears they don’t like it, don’t be fooled. It’s the illness lying. I’ve known Anorexics who confide that they lie in bed at night, planning meals in such detail, that they feel as though they’ve actually eaten three courses by the time they fall asleep. Others cut pictures out of food magazines to stick in scrap books, watch food programmes and obsess over recipe books. I’ve even heard one clinician refer to this as ‘food porn’.
And all this time, with all this longing, the Anorexic starves.
Doesn’t make sense? That’s because it’s a MENTAL ILLNESS.
2. The second reason Christmas can feel like torture is because many sufferers spend a lot of time and a lot of energy on NOT thinking about food. Personally, I’m one of these. I do a lot to distract myself from a hunger that can sometimes be so raw that it terrifies me.
Because it’s a holiday, often mealtimes become the main source of structure in our unformed days. With all the added drinks and nibbles, the festive period can feel like one, perpetual banquet. This can be terrifying for an eating disorder sufferer because it means they may FEEL as though they have eaten far more than they normally would, and mostly, far more than they actually have (reality is generally very distorted).
I want to explain more because there is so much more to write about, but I fear this is in need of more structure as it is.
I suppose what I really want is to reach out to those unfortunate others who find themselves feeling so desperate and out of control over the next few days. I want to say, “hang in there. the days will pass. It’s not as long as it feels. You are not alone”. I want to speak to families who, through no fault, don’t understand. I want to encourage them to be gentle, not to lose heart, to seek support. A young anorexic / bulimic can’t be shouted / coaxed / bribed out of a mental illness.
And I want to say that somehow, somewhere, Christmas takes place irrespective of our state of health. Christmas takes place regardless of our state of belief even. It takes place for Him, and yet it began for us. In this, and in this alone, I find a flicker of hope.
If you’re reading, believer or not, sufferer or not, I pray you find the peace, health and touch of sparkle that the gift of the Christ child can bring at Christmas. If you’re finding it tough, please, reach out. You don’t have to be alone.
I’m in that awkward position again… The one where I find myself dodging my blog because I’m too much of a perfectionist to just sit down and type just any old thing. Instead, I wait for the perfect conditions; the perfect subject; the perfect words; inspiration; motivation; perfect moment in time… You name it… body temperature, mind space, bit of wisdom, poetic stance; I could go on…
Suffice to say then, if I only put a tenth of the energy I spend fretting into actually writing, this would easily be material for about four books!
And so I come at it head on. Ignoring the pull of perfectionism. Here are my plain words. I’ll write something more substantial soon…
Watch this space.
As a young girl, my conviction that I was able to communicate with animals, coupled with my parents’ point blank refusal to have anything other than a goldfish in the house, gave rise to my fantastical delusion that I was the living embodiment of a cross between Dr Doolittle and St Francis of Assisi.
Nowadays, despite still loving the idea of pets, the practicalities and the expense prevent it from becoming a reality.
So, I preface this post explaining that I’m not a real ‘animal person’. Not to be confused with someone who doesn’t care about animal cruelty. I do. Controversially though, I believe that human beings are of greater worth than animals (and find it endlessly sad that the NSPCC receives less donation money per year than the RSPCA) .
(I know. I know. There will be somebody somewhere wanting to spray paint the word ‘bullshit’ across my blog as I type this).
The reason I’m explaining my general attitude regarding animals is to provide some semblance of a context for what follows.
Yesterday I was sitting on the sofa vaguely watching the early evening news while I threaded two tiny beads on a pair of metal findings. I rarely devote my complete concentration to the TV, and use that kind of ‘down time’ to make stuff; be it crochet, origami, knitting hats, scarves earrings, bracelets… whatever the current creative obsession affords.
Suddenly, a horrible bone splitting crash.
It had come from the large patio window at the end of the room.
Dusk falls darkly now that the October sun drops faster, and from a well lit room the opaque midnight blue outside seems blacker than it really is. I went to the window, cupping my hands against it to erase reflection.
On her back, a female blackbird lay flapping, speckled breast skywards, trying to right herself. It was a heartbreaking sight, such a beautiful bird, so helpless and so shocked. It had happened so fast.
Instinctively, I scooped the bird into my hands and held her for a moment, felt her rapid heart, her tiny trembling. “Best left alone,” advised my companion. “They’ll very often pick themselves up and fly away when they’ve got past the shock”.
I set her down, right side up; draw away, the tip of my heels rolling forward to my toes.
This evening, I am struck by my shocked response to her plight. My sudden immense pity for this little bird who, even if she could find flight, will never eat again. Her beak had clearly taken the impact of the smash, the glass sheet cruelly driving the top and bottom to twist in opposite directions. Never again will her meal be plucked from the ground with pincer precision. Never will the sharp beak meet to hold food for her young.
These twinges of sadness for my broken bird are suddenly shot through with irony. I realise that, for a decade, I have systematically denied my body the nourishment it requires in order to function in the way it is meant to.
Do I pity for it?
Do I lament the months of deprivation? The semi starved state that results in hypoglycemia? amenorrhea? the inability to stay warm? a lower immunity? osteoporosis? reduced life expectancy? liver damage? potential organ failure?
Why is it, that I am more upset about the broken bird than I am my breaking body?
I sound like my mother when she crosses into panic mode. And there aren’t any easy answers.
What I would say, is this.
An eating disorder pushes the sufferer to extremes that no sane minded person can conceive. It seems to contradict that which is instinctual: the drive to survive that ensures the continuation of the human species. Of course, the width of the gap between the urge to survive and the urge to starve depends on how deeply entrenched the eating disorder has become. I’d like to believe, that in its infancy, the illness may have been tempered, dare I say, hampered and arrested, by a glimpse into the future damage I would sustain. I’d like to believe that, because if that IS the case, then perhaps early warnings would make a difference to someone.
What I know is that part of the pathology of Eating Disorders, is that they can somehow usurp the sufferer’s natural born instinct for self preservation. Anorexia hijacked mine to the point where my natural response to the idea of my body being ‘well’ is, at best, indifference and at worst, revulsion. In the topsy turvey world of Eating Disorders, many sufferers equate starvation with success.
Back in the natural world, nobody wants to fail. Failure is B A D.
This idea carries over into the world of ED. What doesn’t follow, is the notion that somehow failure is death. Anorexia screams that ‘wellness’ is weakness, health is self indulgent. Being healthy means being a ‘failed Anorexic’.
I know it sounds crazy, and it doesn’t apply to every person who has an Eating Disorder. If you have a loved one suffering, it’s worth a try to gently ask them about the contradictions between the ‘well’ part of them and the ‘ill’ part. Go easy though. They may not be aware of it or they may not experience it this way.
Personally, I’m trying hard to re-program my mashed up mind, so that I can go back to thinking about health and wellness in natural world terms, rather than the conditions set by Anorexia.
The little bird wasn’t there when I checked again. She has somehow flown away. I hope she will not starve.
If you think that being in hospital for five months would have afforded me ample time to write, you’d be right. Difficult then, to explain that although hours at my desk stretched like the Cornish coastline, my mind contracted and contorted like 17:30 on the M25.
Inpatient treatment for Anorexia generally leaves my insides steeped in a fluid sense of agony. Words curdle in my throat, congeal in my head. The process of weigh restoration at once answering the urgent cries of a desperately malnourished body, yet stealing every ounce of my self – styled safety. No half sane person can comprehend the half cocked comfort an Anorexic may take from being able to feel each rib; from seeing the deepened pit where the neck meets the sternum; feeling the valleys and protrusions of the clavicle and the hollow caves of the underarm.
It sounds like lust… Perhaps I am mourning the loss of my terrifyingly tiny body. Perhaps I am merely giving voice to the Anorexic fantasy, trying to confess the dark longings that lie like dogs with one eye open, just waiting for me to pass a full length mirror, or absently rub my recently re-fed arm.
In truth, I left the hospital against medical advice and nowhere near ‘healthy’. BUT, I have come a long way. I am not the death dodging spider that crawled up the hospital steps on March 15th. My heart beats without the frightening bradycardia… My white blood cells are better, I am no longer hypoglycemic (well… not AS much).
My insides are probably pinker…
I can string sentences together more easily. I can THINK enough to tackle some of the twists of a cryptic crossword (note: I say ‘some’!!)
I am grateful to The Priory hospital for their INCREDIBLE support. Their treatment was second to none, the best I’ve had by a long way. I was spoken to with such respect, kindness and, when I needed it most, logic. My views were listened to and the fact that the patient sometimes knows what’s best for them, was actually woven into my treatment plan.
I chose the groups I could manage and left the rest. I managed my own time.
I took comfort in creating.
I stuck it out until I reached the target I had set for myself, even went a little above. Three weeks later, I weigh exactly the same.
Sentimental bit…
My gratitude goes to all those who nursed me, and to Dr Iwona Kolsut, for her wisdom; Dr Lousie Bundock for her striking kindness and ‘normality’ ; Brian G for his immense compassion and the good guy Chris for his humour and humanity. They are all figures that my Anorexia resents but that I (the I that is ME) owe my life to. Today I received my discharge notes. They make for positive reading. My hope is that I can sustain the light of hope that took such gentle hands and so many tender breaths to fan into a flame.
And as if that wasn’t enough… (More sentimentality…)
Huge thanks also go to those I know who prayed so much for me. My family (who won’t read this), my friends (some might), my beaut of a friend Chloe who so faithfully visited me every week to paint my torn up nails and encourage me with vision, my incredible friend Valorie (who I’ve never met but who sent me an amazing box of gifts), my church friends, who never fail to love me as I am, those brave and suffering patients who I walked some of the way with, and all the people who I know hold me in thought and love. I have everything to live for.
Lastthingoutthebox 