Wild Thoughts

Rumi once said,

“Let the beauty of what you love

Be what you do”

What Rumi never finished saying,

Was that, often,

The things we love most aren’t beautiful at all.

Sometimes, what we love

Drowns us.

Like quicksand.

All alone and nothing but our own will

And body to get out.


We can’t.

Love kills us all, in the end.

…maybe that’s the beauty, though?

Maybe that’s the secret, wonderful,

Beastly beauty

That is our lives.

*Jessica Danielle


A chapter from her life 

We stood at the stove, the both of us standing beside one another. Mom watched over my hand as I stirred the simmering pot of chicken soup, making sure I was doing okay. Why I wouldn't be okay to stir a pot of soup on my own at the age of twenty five, I still don't know. 

My mom often treats me like her baby cub, and mama bears are always protective of their young, so I suppose that's why. .. Still weird, though.                                                         Admittedly, I'm pretty content with it. 

There was this beautiful, soft silence in the room. A stillness, if you will. 
It felt nice. Simple, even. 

"Do you want to taste it?", mom asked, as she stretched her arm over the sink and reached for a smaller spoon. "Your brother said it's better than the last time I made it!"

Fear washed over me immediately. "Nah, I'll wait until it's ready", I said. "I'm not in the mood for soup right now".  

Truthfully, the soup smelt really good, and I did want to try it. But my brain was too busy flashing calories of chicken and images of  handfuls of salt getting dumped into the soup, that I couldn't muster up the strength to say yes. It's hard to say yes to something when your head is screaming "DON'T DO IT!" 

Disapointed, she turned to me and said, "But I thought you loved my homemade chicken soup?" Mom always loves to throw in the word 'homemade', even though I already know it is. 

I smiled at her. "I do love it", I said. "I just don't want any right now". 

Was I being genuine? No. Honestly, I was always lying to her about what I did or did not want. Especially when it came to food. Sometimes it just felt better to lie than to hurt her with the truth. .. I was always hurting her and I just didn't want to anymore. She's never been someone who deserves that. 

As I continued to stare down at the pot, stirring the soup clockwise, then counterclockwise, back and forth, I contemplated with myself. I didn't understand my mind at all. I didn't understand why I couldn't just say "Yeah! Sure Mom! Grab the biggest spoon we have!"                                      I desperately wanted to be able to do that. 

You see, I've been sick for awhile now. I'm underweight, underfed and malnourished. I hide my sickness behind fake smiles and good intentions, but its consuming nature constantly has me gasping for air. 

I have an eating disorder. I know it, mom knows it and my family and my friends know it. Sometimes it feels as if I'll always have this. Sometimes it feels as if I'm supposed to have this, that this is how my life is supposed to play out. Me – in and out of treatment centers my whole life. Me – in and out of recovery until the day I die. …but, I don't want to die from this. 

"I don't want to die".

The words spilled out like word vomit from my mouth. 

Immediate regret washed over me. "Fuuuuckkk", I thought to myself. "What did I just do? Why did I just say that? Can I take it back? No. No it's definitely too late to take it back. Maybe she didn't hear me? Maybe she won't say anything".. 

She was just about to take a tasting of the soup herself, but frightened and frantic, she quickly took a step back from the pot, dropping the small silver spoon into the soup as she did. She looked at me, and I swear her eyes were so wide that I thought they'd fall right out of her head. 

 "You think you're dying, Jess?" Her voice trembled as she struggled to get the words out. 

I could see how much worry consumed her face and I could sense in her voice the fear that was now racing throughout her entire body. I didn't blame her. Her daughter was telling her that she didn't want to die, knowing very well that what she was doing to her body, she'd end up as such. 

I lowered my head, and sunk in shame. It took me a minute or so, but eventually, I let out a very hesitant and dreary "yeeaah", in response. 

I know I should have come up with something better. Anything, actually. My head was spinning in nine million different directions, but that was it. That was all I could think to say. 

There was a long pause. One of those long pauses where you start to get really uncomfortable and anxious because it's too quiet and you know it shouldn't be. 

The calm silence in the room had now suddenly and abruptly shifted. Still quiet, only now there was this giant elephant in the middle of the kitchen, gracing us with its presence and gearing up to stomp its feet on the tile floor.  

I think we were both trying to figure out what the right thing to say next was, if there even was a right thing to say. 

I was so scared. 

I knew in that moment that if I didn't try to make things better, that no good was to come of all of this. So I mustered up all of the courage I had left inside me and I pushed some more words out of my mouth. 

I raised my head a bit, my avoidant eyes finally meeting hers once again. 

"I don't want to, though".   .. hey, it wasn't Shakespeare, but at least it was something

And it was true. In that moment I didn't want to die. I didn't want to never not be able to enjoy the lovely simplicity of stirring a pot of chicken soup at the stove with my mom. I didn't ever want to not have that and I didn't want to ever not have her. ..Maybe that's what prompted me to spill my own beans in the first place.

In my heart I knew that it wasn't okay. . It wasn't okay that I was so afraid to try a spoonful of the soup my mother had just spent all day cooking. It wasn't okay that my head was spinning off into the land of numbers, calories, body image and negative connotations with food. In my heart, and even in my head, I knew that I wasn't okay .. and I needed my mom to know it, too. I needed my mom to save me from the anorexia that was destroying my brain. 

..I needed to be saved from myself, and mama bears always do everything in their power to save their cubs. 

My mom looked at me the way that all worried Jewish mothers look at their children. There was fear written all over her face, and yet, still, there was an outpouring of love straight from her vessel, directly into mine. She opened her arms wide, letting me know that it was okay to fall into her embrace. There really is no comfort quite like my mothers hugs. 

"Well, I'm glad to hear that you don't want to die, sweetie". She let out a loud sigh of relief, and as she hugged me tighter, began to cry. 

"Don't cry, mama", "I'm gonna be ok". 

More lies. .. but this time mom knew. Did she always know? 

"Why don't you just do treatment then? Right now? What are you waiting for? Go into work tomorrow and tell your boss you're taking medical leave and let's get you back into residential treatment. Why do you keep putting it off? If you don't want to die, don't you want to get better?" 

Shit. I wasn't prepared for this conversation when I accidentally let the truth slip out from beneath my tongue. 

But here we were, having it anyway. 

I didn't have an answer for her. Not an answer she'd want to hear. The sincerity of the matter was, I didn't want to go into treatment. I didn't want to do treatment. Period. End of story. I couldn't tell her that, though. I couldn't look my mom in the face and tell her that I didn't want to die, but didn't want to try and live, either. .. that sorta stuff is hurtful to the people who love you. That sorta stuff can kill the people you love. 

"I want to get better, I am going to get better. I just want to try and do it on my own. Just three more weeks, ma. I promise". 

"Three more weeks, Jess", she said. "And if you're not better, you'll put yourself into treatment?"

"Yes, Mom", I reassured her. 

"You promise? I don't want you to die and I won't watch you die". 

"Three more weeks, and I promise". 


Looking back now, I'm curious if my mom knew she had made an agreement with my eating disorder. I wonder if she recognized its dirty tongue the moment the words [lies] fell from my lips.                            

I want to be able to end this story positively. I want to be able to tell you that the three weeks came, and I was better. But the reality of the situation, the reality and nature of my disease, is that the three weeks came and then they went. And I'm still sick. I'm still here, and I'm still alive, but I'm still sick. 

It's been nine and a half weeks since that day in the kitchen with my mom. It's been nine and a half weeks of deceit, manipulation and misery. .. but I won't go another three more weeks living like this. In fact, I won't go another moment wasting my life away. I'm better than this, and I deserve better than this. 
Today I began the search for residential eating disorder treatment facilities. Today I took the first step towards taking back my life. 
And so, here's to more moments in the kitchen, Mom. And here's to lots more bowls of chicken soup. 

I promise I'll taste it next time. 

More importantly, I promise to keep this promise. 

Mirror, Mirror 

Mirror, mirror on the wall 

Show me thin, show me tall. 

Mirror, mirror can’t you see? 

What you say is killing me. 

You scream fat, you scream lies

You scream cut, and I oblige. 

I try not to look, I try not to stare. 

You suck me in, it’s just not fair. 

I see ugly, you agree

When will you stop torturing me? 

Cold and broken on the bathroom floor

Mirror, mirror I won’t take this anymore. 

So I’ll pick myself up, I’ll stay strong 

Because my friend, it’s been too long.

Too long of my time wasted on you

So this is it, I’m finally through. 

You’re a thief, and you steal with such ease 

But this is my life and it’s me I must please. 

Soon I’ll see beauty, soon I’ll see me 

So until that time comes, I must set you free. 
It won’t be easy, this I know 

But good bye mirror, I’m letting you go. 

A letter to Ed 

A letter to Ed 

Dearest Ed,

You are the aches of my brittle bones and the fire that circulates throughout my bloodstream.

Racing up and down my body, weaving in and out, all shapes and colors, searching for anything to fill.

Your goal?

To consume every last inch of me. 

How awfully fascinating it is. 

Covered head to toe in poison, and yet, here I am, reaching my arms out to you as if you are my cure. 

Your deceiving tongue and black magic tricks have me fooled and the familiarity of your existence has me clinging to all of the pieces of you. 

You offer nothing but false hopes and provide nothing but broken promises, all the while keeping me protected and coddled.

You want to keep me safe, so you hide me away from the world, and I want to feel safe, so I let you. 
But alone in the dark corners of my bedroom it is not the room that feels empty, rather, I who does. 

Then again, I am never truly alone because you do not ever leave me. You stay by my side and together we fight the vicious words of others and the cruelness that is the outside world. 

We trade secrets for food and food for love as if nothing but the two of us matter. 

Deciphering dream from reality is a thing of the past because with you everything is a world of make believe. 

How quickly and easily I forget how lethal you are.  

Pushing me and punishing me to be nothing short of greatness. Perfection, you call it. .. But I’ll always be a failure in your eyes. 

There will never be the right words to convey to you how much I love you, how much I hate you, how deeply I need you to stay and how desperately I want you to leave. 

I can never thank you enough for all that you have done for me, Ed.

And so, 
              I won’t. 

Chapter 1 

This world is a fucked up place.
And I mean that wholeheartedly. It is a fucked up place. Every minute of every day, someone, somewhere, is hurting. Some people are being diagnosed with life threatening illnesses, some are losing loved ones to war and violence, some are children growing up abused and neglected, and some are families dealing with addiction in their household. 

There are those that lost their job today, and have no idea how to continue to provide for their families, and then there are millions who can’t even provide for themselves.

 Sadly, there are people that live on the streets and are forced to beg for change everyday to people that walk by them with their noses held so high in the air that they don’t even notice them (Or maybe they do notice, but just ignore). 

There are people fighting for their basic human rights to freely express themselves the way that he/ she chooses.

We have people that are affected by prejudice and racial profiling every day of their lives, and we have people that are running away from their homes to escape dangerous situations. 
And then there are people like me. People whom seem to have a normal, averagely okay life, yet inflict hurt onto themselves

You may be asking yourself why would anyone do that? Why would someone hurt themselves? And what kind of “hurt” is she referring to? 

I can’t speak for others, but if I could I would say that more often than not, there isn’t just one clear cut answer to that question. And the kind of hurt I’m referring to, can come in many forms. (Be patient with me, I’ll get there eventually).

For myself, my mind feels like one of the most unsafe places to be, and that’s saying a lot considering we live in a time where unfortunately it’s not even safe to leave the security of our homes anymore without having to fear a terrorist attack. 

My mind does an awfully great job at convincing me that I am a worthless sack of shit, ugly, fat, and stupid human being. My mind likes to make suggestions, which quickly transform into demands, such as “don’t eat that cookie”, or “don’t speak, you have nothing of quality to say”. 

And to be honest, I listen to it. After all, don’t you listen to all of your own thoughts? Don’t you make choices based off of the things that settle in your own head? You’d be a fucking liar if you sat there and told me otherwise. 

So what makes me different from the average Joanna my age? Well for starters Joanna has most likely  graduated from college and is either working full time or in grad school. Joanna can be social and go out to parties and bars without having an anxiety attack. Joanna isn’t hiding self inflicted cuts under her sweaters and boxes of laxatives in her closet. Joanna continues to keep moving forward with her life, while I have managed to remain completely lodged in some sort of invisible quick sand and continue to fall deeper and deeper in. 

Though, again, I inflict all of my unwanted pain onto myself. 

Ironic, huh? 

Strange, isn’t it ?

Confusing? Definitely. 
My name is Jessica and I am 23 years old. I suffer from anorexia nervosa, depression, anxiety, ADD and OCD. 
And this is my happy/sad/dark/bright/empty/full/crazed life. 



Hey readers, curious viewers, and lazy scanners. 

I have decided to start a blog for myself (aka basically just a public diary) during this time that feels like that of world war 3, both internally and externally. 

Here I’ll share with you my thoughts about myself and life in general. I suggest grabbing a snack and getting yourself into the biggest sweatpants you own. (Mainly because that’s what I’m doing right now and I really don’t like to be the only one doing something). 

Get ready for some angst and some heart felt sentiments, bitches. I’ve got lots to share!