Last year, I was coming to the realization, along with some help from family and friends, that my anorexia had come to the point that residential treatment was needed. It was not only destroying me, but my job, my family, my friends as well. Knowing that I was on my way to treatment, my caretakers gave in to the disorder the week of Thanksgiving and left me with it. I indulged in restricting, cutting, medicating, laxatives, you name it. I think they must have dug in that particular week with the one goal being to keep me alive and to deliver me in one piece to the Renfrew Center in Florida.
This Thanksgiving will be different and not only by 30 pounds. I will be present at the table, part of the conversation, posing for pictures, making jokes, hugging and touching my children, my parents, my cats and my dog. I may go to see a movie with Cathy, take Will shopping for pants that he needs, listen to Sam's woes over his girlfriend, Anna, fuss at Carly for a messy room. I may take a nap, sleepy from contentment not medication. Above all, I will be thankful. This Thanksgiving will be my 47th birthday. Numbers 45 and 46 have been infamously memorable. This one will probably be so boring that I might actually forgot what we did for Thanksgiving this year, and for that I am thankful.
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