Upon reading it, I knew I wanted to share it with the Breaking the Mirror community, so I contacted the author, Alice N. Persons. She replied immediately and gave me permission to reprint the piece in its entirety here.

I’ve added two pictures below – one of Persons and one of the cat about whom she writes. (Aren’t they both lovely?)

If you’d like to see more of Persons’ writing (or, better yet, purchase one of her books), please head to Moon Pie Press.

(Incidentally, this piece is from Persons’ poetry chapbook NEVER SAY NEVER. Garrison Keillor read the poem on his NPR program “The Writer’s Almanac.”)

To My Cat With An Eating Disorder

You were thrown out of a moving vehicle
on a dirt road
in chilly winter downeast Maine,
little fur scrap, and I hope you don’t
carry that memory with you,
but the hunger, the deep fear
that you’ll never see food again
is still there five years later
when you are huge and sleek,
a sumo Buddha of a cat.

I’ve seen you, after a big meal,
heave yourself from a sound sleep,
pad into the kitchen, launch your bulk
onto the counter, and check the food supply,
then crouch there chewing and chewing,
green eyes empty, concentrating
on your burden, your compulsion,
doggedly eating, whether you want to or not.

There are stories about Holocaust or
Depression survivors whose refrigerators
and pantries are always full, just in case,
how some of them still wake in the night
and check their abundant supplies,
run their hands over the packages,
or eat without hunger, just because they can.

Cat, I stand in the dark kitchen
stroking your broad back,
wishing I could banish the fears
of one small, common creature,
those bad dreams that awaken you,
that hollow place in your memory
which can never be filled.

Writer Alice N. Persons has published 42 poetry books, including three anthologies. Her works can be purchased at www.moonpiepress.com.

Post from: Blisstree

Cats with Eating Disorders?

There’s a flaw.

Then two, then three —

My heart is raw.

I hate my hips.

I hate my thighs.

I hate my ass.

(I like my eyes.)

I hate my tummy,

Hate my knees.

Make it stop now, 

Pretty please.

===================

You can be a songwriter! 

It doesn’t take as much time as you think, and if you enter, you’ll be eligible to win prizes!  Check it out here!

Post from: Blisstree

A short eating disorder poem for a hot day

Are some mothers and daughters essentially “pro-ana” teams?

I’ve never personally known any mom-daughter relationships that fit this desciption, but I’ve heard through-the-grapevine reports that they exist. 

If you’re the daughter of an anorexic (or bulimic) and you’re struggling with eating disorders yourself, I’d like to hear your side of the story. 

Do you think that your mother’s battle with Ana (or Mia) had a huge impact on your own ED tendencies?  Or do you feel that anorexia and bulimia are more “nature” than “nurture” (e.g., you share some of your mom’s genes, so perhaps you both got the eating disordered ones)?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, and don’t forget to VOTE for a winner in our “For Keeps” contest!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Post from: Blisstree

Moms & daughters — ana together?

If you are new to “Breaking the Mirror“, I’d like to say hello and suggest that you check out the following links to some of the top April posts from the site to get acquainted with what’s going on around here. 

From pro-ana news to ED-related short stories, we aim to serve you.  So keep those comments a’coming and enjoy! 

From 4/23:  Please Tell Me We’ve All Been Punk’d ~  http://www.blisstree.com/2008/04/23/please-tell-me-weve-all-been-punkd/

From 4/12, 4/13, and 4/16:  “Her Father’s Daughter” (an original short story) ~ http://www.blisstree.com/2008/04/12/her-fathers-daughter-1st-installment/
http://www.blisstree.com/2008/04/13/her-fathers-daughter-2nd-installment/
http://www.blisstree.com/2008/04/16/her-fathers-daughter-3rd-last-installment/

From 4/30:  AnoSEXYa?  Some pro-anas think so!http://www.blisstree.com/2008/04/30/anosexya-some-pro-anas-think-so/

From 4/27:  In Mauritania, Anorexics Looking for Love Would Be Out of Luck ~ http://www.blisstree.com/2008/04/27/in-mauritania-anorexics-looking-for-love-would-be-out-of-luck/

From 4/2:  Just don’t tell me, okay? ~ http://www.blisstree.com/2008/04/02/just-dont-tell-me-okay/

(After you’re done browsing, check out the other b5 Health and Wellness channel blogs for some humor, insightful commentary and news you can use!)

Post from: Blisstree

Pro-Ana, Thinspiration, ED Stories — Break the Mirror Today!

Rebecca walked carefully behind her mother. She watched, shocked, as her mother ripped off her coat, threw it to the floor, got down on her knees in front of the toilet and proceeded to ram her fingers into her mouth.

The gagging sounds began almost immediately. Rebecca was mystified by her mother’s cat-like contortions as their feast began to leave her body and land in the water.

Soon, nothing more was coming up. Her mother daintily wiped her mother with a piece of tissue and flushed. She stood gingerly and said with a grin, “Your turn.”

Rebecca cautiously walked to the commode and looked down. The rim of the bowl was splattered a little with the remains of her mother’s purge. She trembled as her mother put her hands on Rebecca’s shoulders and forced her into a praying position.

“Put your finger down your throat.” It was an order, and with unfailing obedience, Rebecca did as she was told.

She only touched the back of her tongue. Nothing happened.

“Further,” her mother coaxed, actually grabbing Rebecca’s hand and forcing it into her mouth.

Rebecca moved her finger. Nothing. Nothing. Then a churning in her gut. She quickly withdrew her hand. It had been an odd, violent sensation. She looked up at her mother.

“Keep going,” her mother advised, nodding.

It was the only time in two decades her mother looked proud of Rebecca’s accomplishments. Rebecca quickly began tickling her throat again. Soon, her eyes watered, her stomach cramped and remnants of potato chips and spinach dip were floating inside the toilet.

When it was over, she felt weak. Her knees were quivering, her abdomen ached and swallowing was painful. But all the food was gone.

Her mother quickly flushed. Then, she giddily jumped up and down, delightedly clapping. She laughed.

Rebecca looked up, pleased. She sat on the floor and laughed, too, despite her confusion.

* * *

Months passed and vomiting became easier, expected. The bathroom was an important place now, not just another room. She and her mother would sometimes stand together, chatting and purging. They were bonding like never before.

Rebecca had written down and kept Anthony’s phone number. Although he had never called the service again, she planned to call him when the time was right.

Her clothes became too big. She loved it. For years, she had squirreled away thousands of dollars – now, she spent them. But she kept enough aside for a tummy tuck and cosmetic surgery. The elasticity was simply worn out on parts of her body.

The women at work treated her differently. They complimented her, asked her opinion and above all else, wanted to know her secret weapon against fat. She just grinned when they’d inquire.

Summer turned to fall, fall to winter, then winter back to spring.

A year had passed, and she’d dropped so much weight it almost scared her. Lately, she’d had problems with her teeth and gums. Her swollen glands were visible and tender. She became lightheaded and exhausted often, sometimes to the point of wanting to lay in bed for days. But she wasn’t going to give up.

Her mother had begun to take her out, introducing her to friends and colleagues. They were always impressed by her lovely daughter, though they noticed the way she ran to the lavatory after a meal. They wondered if she was throwing up her food, and they envied her willpower if she was.

* * *

By late June, the time had finally arrived to call Anthony, the man Rebecca truly believed was her soul mate.

Rebecca quit her job. She told her supervisor, “I’m getting married, so I don’t need to work anymore.” The women in her office gave her a going-away party complete with a decadent chocolate cake. Three slices ended up floating in the sewer beneath the building.

On July 3rd, she called Anthony at 5:00 a.m.

“Yes?” he answered. His voice sounded foggy, but wonderful.

“Hi!” Rebecca replied. She giggled.

He paused. “Who is this?”

She smiled. “Rebecca.” She looked around her bedroom. She’d take her comforter with her and her television, but she’d leave the Van Gogh print for her mother.

“Rebecca who?”

Rebecca laughed. As if he didn’t know! “Rebecca from the answering service…”

“I don’t know what you’re taking about…” he began.

“Oh, come on,” Rebecca started, but stopped when she heard a voice in the background.

“Who’s that?” The woman sounded annoyed, curious.

“Nobody, honey,” Anthony said. “Wrong number.”

Wrong.

Dial tone.

The click reverberated in Rebecca’s ear.

The sound traveled through her body, ending at her heart. It beat faster and faster.   She felt cold, so cold.  The room spun and she lay on her bed, confused, scared. Alone.

“Daddy…”

Everything went dark.

* * *

Her mother found her body the next day.

Doctors told her that Rebecca was bulimic and had caused irreparable damage to her heart by bingeing and purging, not to mention losing weight too quickly. Rebecca was malnourished, they said, wondering why no one had noticed.

Her mother nodded. The physicians detected no grief in the slender woman’s eyes.

Thompkins Funeral Home was called to plan the burial.

copyright 2008, AHCaffrey

Post from: Blisstree

“Her Father’s Daughter” (3rd & last installment)

Rebecca loved her job.

As an overnight answering company operator, she felt strangely in control of others’ lives. When she took a message for Dr. Cecil’s Family Practice or Thompkins Funeral Home, she knew she was providing a needed service. Everyone was grateful for her voice… and no one cared what she looked like.

The two other women who worked the phones were in their fifties, slender and angry. They complained about their hair, their husbands and their husbands’ girlfriends. Rebecca was lucky to get an acknowledgement from them.

Nobody ever asked Rebecca why she worked the graveyard shift position. Everyone seemed to know it was her weight that kept her out of mainstream society. And no one knew she still lived with her mother or had a deceased father. No one knew anything except that Rebecca showed up on time, left on time and never used vacation or sick days.

* * *

In the morning, Rebecca would greet her mother as her mother hurried off to her job as vice president of an ad agency, black coffee in one hand, diet shake for lunch in the other. Some days, her mother would just grunt a snide, “Hello.” Other times, the greetings were even less cordial.

“You look disgusting. Why don’t you start at least walking home from work? I’ll bet you’ve put on thirty-five pounds the past year…!”

Then, still ranting, her mother would walk out the door, slamming it shut. Her mom loved to slam doors, no matter what her mood.

Then the house would be quiet for the Morning Routine.

Rebecca would pull her secret box out from under her bed. It contained a photograph of her dad, several Elvis albums and a variety of snacks.

She’d put Elvis on the stereo, eat chips and crackers and allow herself to cry. Sometimes, she’d choke on her food as tears dripped down her cheeks. But she kept eating anyway.

When Elvis’s last song finished and the record player was silent, she’d clean up the mess, hide the empties in a duffel bag stuffed at the back of her closet and crawl into bed, completely spent.

* * *

“Hello – is Joseph Taylor there?”

Rebecca heard a whirring in the background. Was this man on a treadmill? Running a blender? In a jet-spray hot tub?

“I’m sorry. This is the answering service for Thompkins Funeral Home. Would you like to leave a message for Mr. Taylor?”

The background noise stopped and there was a long moment of silence.

“Sir… sir… are you there?”

The quiet was broken with a laugh. “So nobody’s working on the stiffs tonight, eh?”

Rebecca smiled, but was careful not to giggle. Her supervisor had cautioned her about being chatty. “The office is closed, sir. Can I leave Mr. Taylor a message?”

“No sense of humor,” the man muttered. “Okay, just tell him Dick Hertz called.”

Rebecca held back laughter. “How is that spelled… H… U… R…?” She finally chuckled in spite of herself.

“Gotcha,” the man said. “Nah, my name is Anthony Marino. Joseph and I go way back. I met him last week at a bar… funny story, but kind of weird. Anyway, he said I should give him a call sometime and I thought he might be up early with the corpses. I’m in the cosmetics business, and he wants to maybe do some business. Gotta make those clients look good, you know? My number’s 555-0648. He should have it, but give it to him anyway.”

Rebecca nervously checked her watch. They’d be on the telephone for almost three minutes. At five minutes, her supervisor would ask for a special report.

“All right. I’ll let him know. Thank you.” She reached for the ‘terminate’ button.

“Whoa!” yelled Anthony. “Hold your horses, babe. I’m not finished!”

“I’m sorry, sir. Was there more to your message?”

“Not for Joseph… I’m wondering about you. What in the world are you doing in a job like this?”

Rebecca desperately wanted to end the call… three minutes and 45 seconds had passed…

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s against policy here to use the phones for personal conversation.”

“Okay, okay…” The whirring in the background started up again and she finally figured out what it was. Coffee beans. He was grinding coffee beans. At 5:47 a.m.

“Thank you for calling, sir.”

“What’s your name, anyway? Come on. I have to know who I’m talking to. It’ll kill me to never find out. Really.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I…” Four minutes, 18 seconds. She hated to end the call, but she couldn’t lose her job.

“Just a name… what is it? You sound pretty. I’d like to know… What’s your name?” His voice was soft and low and the background became quiet again.

Four minutes 42 seconds.

“Rebecca,” she blurted in a panic. Sweating, she hit the ‘terminate’ button and heard the dial tone.

* * *

When she stepped out of her office building at 7:04 a.m., the morning air was crisp and delicate, cling to her skin. Spring was pushing its way into the world like a newborn. She decided to take her mother’s advice – for once – and walk home.

As she moved, she felt her legs rub together – thighs, knees, calves. She wondered what it would be like to be thin. She passed a couple jogging and thought about the conversation with Anthony and avoided making eye contact with the svelte woman who looked amazing despite being covered in perspiration. Did Anthony picture her looking like that?

She grinned. He thought she had a nice voice. No one had ever complimented her, except her father. No one had ever laid hands on her, except her father. No one had ever loved her, except her father.

It was nice.

She fantasized about Anthony and decided he was probably mid-forties with dark hair, an olive complexion and a firm, lean body. She imagined that he loved to eat – pasta, chicken, spumoni – maybe he had recipes for Italian meals that his family had passed down for generations.

By the time she reached her house, her fantasy life with Anthony had taken a pleasant turn. They were married and spent most evenings cooking delicacies for their four children. They were happy. They were safe. They were one.

But it was all a dream, of course, because in this world she had created, she was thin and beautiful. She sighed, opened the door and mentally readied herself for her Morning Routine.

* * *

When her mother came home from work that night, Rebecca was seated at the kitchen table with a deck of cards. Playing solitaire always made her feel a little more normal, a little less alone. And she’d won five times in the last hour-and-a-half. She promised herself a peanut butter frosted white three-layer cake tomorrow as a prize.

Her mother stood in front of the table. “Put those away.” She stared at Rebecca and didn’t move.

Rebecca was in mid-game. She hesitated, but then piled the cards. Her mother quickly whisked them into the corner of the table and plopped herself across from Rebecca. Before removing her white leather jacket, her mother threw a bag at Rebecca. “Open it,” she commanded.

Inside were two huge bags of potato chips and an oversized can of creamy spinach dip. Rebecca was puzzled.

Her mother spoke without any expression on her face. “Let’s eat. Come on.” Gravely, she dug in. Rebecca was mesmerized by her mother’s ability to eat. She rarely saw the woman eat more than a few bites… and here she was, consuming chip after chip. Finally, Rebecca decided this was no joke and joined the frenzy.

In fifteen minutes, the food was gone. It was then that her mother suddenly smiled, a warm smile that Rebecca didn’t recognize.

“You love to eat, don’t you, Rebecca?”

Rebecca nodded, feeling uncomfortable and suddenly scared.

“But I’d love for you to be thin…”

Rebecca nodded again, bowing her head.

“Did you know you can please yourself and please me, too?”

Rebecca looked into her mother’s eyes. There was an excited twinkle there, a sparkle which made Rebecca uneasy. She shook her head.

“Follow me,” her mother said, marching into the first floor bathroom.

(…to be continued…)

Post from: Blisstree

“Her Father’s Daughter” (2nd installment)

It has plenty of eating disorder overtones – back then, I was grappling with the way body image affected individuals, families, relationships, jobs and societies.This is by no means a “finished” product; it’s quite rough… almost embarrassingly so. However, I thought it worth posting to start a dialogue. I’ll be adding it in three installments.

Enjoy.

* * * * * * * ** * * ** * * ** * * ** * * ** * * *

Her Father’s Daughter

“Eat, Rebecca,” her father’s voice whispered. “Eat.”

The éclair before her melted under the lights of the bakery display. Drippy dark chocolate slid over sugary cake. Thick pudding struggled to escape from its doughy prison.

Rebecca’s mouth parted as the imagined the first bite. She could taste the flavors… she could feel the creamy filling dissolving on her tongue…

“Eat…” Her father’s voice grew louder, stronger. She touched the glass which separated her from heaven.

“EAT.”

“May I help you?”

Rebecca jumped and pulled her hands away from the display case, leaving visible smudge prints. She looked at the hurried clerk, an impatient troll of a woman with salt-and-pepper hair and bottle-neck glasses.

“No… I…,” Rebecca stammered. The clerk shrugged and walked away.

Rebecca’s escape from Pastry Haven was swift. She kept her head down, making sure she didn’t look at all the people she bumped into on the way out. On Wednesdays, shops were always crowded…

* * *

At 27, Rebecca was not the woman she had once imagined she’d be, at least not on the outside.

She tipped the scales at over 300 pounds, heavy for her 5′1″ frame. Her joints ached, her skin was stretched, and she shopped in stores with “plus” sizes.

She could not remember a time when she hadn’t needed to lose a little weight – but she had never been obese. People used to tell her she had a pretty face… for a fat girl. When they stopped offering such small compliments, she knew she was over the top.

But her father had always loved her.

Growing up, it was he who took her out for desserts and burgers. It was he who feasted with her on ice cream and coffee cake at midnight. And it was he who died suddenly of a heart attack when she was 14.

Some days, she would forget he had ever existed; but then, she’d hear his voice, begging her to eat.

He liked large women. He loved curves – the more, the better. He once told her that skinny women were nothing more than boys with uteruses. He thought women should be large… everywhere.

Ironically, her mother was a runner who had recently celebrated her twelfth marathon. Mom was at the gym almost as much as she was at the office, and she hated Rebecca.

Or she hated what Rebecca looked like.

Either way, it didn’t matter. The effect was the same.

It was actually a blessing her mother wasn’t home more. They shared a townhouse and as soon as Mrs. Adams would walk in the door, the ranting would begin.

“What have you been doing all day?” “Is that a cupcake wrapper in the garbage?” “Emily Randolph’s daughter is a model – how the hell am I supposed to compete with a girl like you?”

Rebecca’s only answer would be to shrug and promise herself a bag of Doritos after her mother headed into her bedroom to read one of her trashy novels.

“Your father died over ten years ago, Rebecca! Get a life! No one’s ever going to want to marry a pig, and you can’t stay with me forever!”

The words had become meaningless. Rebecca always stared blankly while her mother ranted and steamed and finally stomped up the stairs, her black leather pocketbook in one hand and her gym bag in the other.

Then, Dinner Number Two, a habit left over from the days when her father was alive, would begin.

* * *

(…to be continued…)

Post from: Blisstree

“Her Father’s Daughter” (1st installment)