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" The first thing I did when Jay and I moved into an apartment together was put five boxes of high-fiber, low-fat cereal on our new shelves.  I&amp;#039;d been obsessive about my weight in the past\u2014studying food labels and overexercising until I almost fainted. In high school I refused to eat more than hot dog rolls with mustard. After college I added raisins to the menu. I fell in love with a bulimic who taught me how to exist on coffee each day until sundown. Instead of having sex, we gorged ourselves on deli meats at one in the morning and I rubbed his back while he gagged. When he dumped me, I swore I&amp;#039;d never love again. I also said to my therapist, &amp;quot;He&amp;#039;s the sick one, right?&amp;quot; Two years later, I met Jay at a theater holiday party. (We both worked for the Second City in Chicago.) He placed his hand on the small of my back and the Christmas lights started to wobble. His freckled lips curled up shyly as he said, &amp;quot;See ya later, darlin&amp;#039;.&amp;quot; After our second date, Jay brought me purple hyacinths and told me he couldn&amp;#039;t stop thinking about me. He took me to French restaurants where we feasted on buttery crepes, tapas bars with mountains of glistening mushrooms, bistros with roasted chicken that made me moan. I&amp;#039;d never been treated like this before. I wasn&amp;#039;t going to mess this up. I went back to starving myself all day so I could get tipsy on the first glass of wine and forget all my food restrictions (low fat, low carb, low sugar, low everything). I took up a more demanding exercise regimen. I wanted to be tiny for Jay\u2014sculpted, cut, perfected. I was also onstage every night of the week now and was determined to be that girl. As in, that girl who has raw, crazy, hilarious depth and unstoppable energy and she is so skinny! I had new rules: No eating before the show. No eating in public. No less than an hour and a half at the gym every day. I started drinking diuretic teas and devouring magazine articles about how to feel full from your daily intake of water. Then I announced I was quitting my theater job so I could &amp;quot;do my own thing.&amp;quot; Jay was thrilled until he realized it really meant I was devoting all my time to longer workouts and cardio classes. When we pulled up in our moving van with my cereal boxes, I was a hunched 5&amp;#039;8&amp;quot; and had dropped about 25 pounds and was now hovering just above 100.  One day, Jay caught me in our kitchen as I was leaving for the gym. He started kissing me below my ear, his mouth traveling up into my hairline. &amp;quot;Not now,&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;I have to go.&amp;quot;  I felt his breath on my neck, soft and warm.  &amp;quot;Where you goin&amp;#039;, hot stuff?&amp;quot; he whispered. &amp;quot;You know where.&amp;quot; He pulled away, his eyes steely. &amp;quot;Why do you have to go there? Why can&amp;#039;t you spend this time with me?&amp;quot; I wanted to tell Jay it wasn&amp;#039;t up to me. I had an immutable obligation, and I had no time to waste sitting here explaining it to him. I had eaten a Toasted Nuts &amp;#039;n Cranberry Luna Bar almost an hour earlier. That&amp;#039;s 180 calories, 4 grams of unsaturated fats, and 26 grams of carbohydrates. I knew only one way to get rid of them, and that was by pushing, pumping, climbing until I was breathless and the world was spinning almost as fast as it was inside my head.   Since we had moved in together, our sex had gone from heated to sullen. Like everything else in my world, it felt flattened out, the only peaks and valleys the electronic kind on the stair machine. I didn&amp;#039;t understand life outside of interval training, and I found it annoying and inconsiderate of Jay to interrupt my routine. He had no idea how urgent my mission was. That even as we stood in the kitchen, I was digesting and planting fat on my hips. We fought more and more. He said my disease was more important than he&amp;#039;d ever be. I told him it wasn&amp;#039;t a disease\u2014it was a strong habit. He stocked our pristine freezer with frozen meats and pizzas. I told him it looked crowded and messy. We&amp;#039;d long since stopped going out for dinner. He begged me to eat with him, he&amp;#039;d make whatever I wanted, but I told him I wasn&amp;#039;t hungry. Which I almost believed, though I caught myself staring in restaurant windows and grinding my teeth on the way to the gym all the time. &amp;quot;I don&amp;#039;t believe you!&amp;quot; he spat. His face traveled from bewilderment to righteous fury. He shook the cereal boxes. &amp;quot;This is what you&amp;#039;re hungry for?! This cardboard...shit?!&amp;quot; I gave him my most menacing silence in return, then made a point of filling my evenings with &amp;quot;writing meetings&amp;quot; or trips to the local caf\u00E9 for coffee. When I did get caught at home around supper, I sat on the floor watching TV while Jay ate next to me. He chewed his food slowly, thoughtfully, until there was nothing left on the plate but shadows of hamburger grease and stray bread crumbs. I always made sure Jay was asleep before I&amp;#039;d slip into the kitchen to pour my cereal and chicken broth dinner. Crouched over my giant mug, I&amp;#039;d chomp ravenously, bitterly. I&amp;#039;d go back for seconds and thirds, praying he wouldn&amp;#039;t wake up and see me.  In January, I moved to L.A. to see if I could find film work; Jay was between jobs, so he came too. But he&amp;#039;d only do it, he warned, if I promised to go into an outpatient program for eating disorders as soon as we got back. He&amp;#039;d already made sure my insurance covered it. I told him okay, but in truth, I didn&amp;#039;t think it would happen; I was fairly certain I&amp;#039;d get picked up for a pilot, we&amp;#039;d both fall in love with California, and we&amp;#039;d end up living there for good. We were house-sitting for a friend in Pasadena. It was easy to slip into a routine quickly. Wake up and have coffee together, marveling at the lemon tree in the garden. Then I&amp;#039;d take a ziplock baggie of dry cereal and walk to the local Bally&amp;#039;s, where I&amp;#039;d gotten a temporary membership. I raced from the bicycle to the elliptical trainer, then I&amp;#039;d do weights and five sets of abs, marching the 128 steps back to the locker room. Afterward, I went to a caf\u00E9 and had mint tea and pack after pack of Extra sugarless gum while I tried to write the screenplay that would revolutionize Hollywood. In the afternoons, I walked to a Bikram yoga studio and counted out poses as the temperature rose to 112 degrees. Jay picked me up just as the sky was turning lavender. He&amp;#039;d spent most of his day on Craigslist looking for odd jobs and watching ESPN. One night, he showed me a listing for a carpenter job starting as soon as possible. &amp;quot;That sounds great, sweetie!&amp;quot; I cooed. &amp;quot;Yeah, except they probably want something permanent. And we&amp;#039;re going home,&amp;quot; he said. I decided to ignore him. &amp;quot;I have an idea!&amp;quot; I said. &amp;quot;Let&amp;#039;s go to the Pig &amp;#039;n Whistle tonight!&amp;quot;  We had a few friends in L.A. who often gathered at the same watering hole to share tales about auditions. Before we went out, I took a shower while Jay ate spaghetti for dinner. I threw my wet gym clothes in a ball and stepped lightly onto the pink tile. I lathered and rinsed, then reached for my rusted nail clippers and carefully snipped off a line of skin along the right side of my waist. I&amp;#039;d been cutting myself like this for a few months now; I&amp;#039;d read about it in a book for teenage girls and was curious to know what it felt like. I loved how my senses focused on the sharp line of pain, silencing the voices in my head telling me to run, jump, climb, sweat.  The water stung as it hit the new layer of skin underneath, and I had to step out of the spray to let the beads of blood gather, marking my territory, my handiwork. I made three fresh incisions on my stomach before getting out of the shower.  &amp;quot;You almost ready?&amp;quot; Jay called. &amp;quot;Almost!&amp;quot; I sang back. I pulled on my control-top tights and jeans and counted out the notches on my belt. I was hoping to get to the fourth hole soon. Over my jeans, I pulled on a shapeless black dress. Jay met me at the bathroom door. &amp;quot;You look sensational,&amp;quot; he said. &amp;quot;Please don&amp;#039;t.&amp;quot; There was nothing sensational about me. My skin was gray and my hair was falling out. I had slices up and down my arms and torso. My best friend had stopped talking to me because she said she couldn&amp;#039;t watch me do this, and my mom called every day to beg me to come home. I told her that I had it under control. I had no energy to rationalize what I was doing anymore. She didn&amp;#039;t even know how bad it was either. Only Jay did. And whenever I dared to look at his face, his eyes were angry and scared, his arms helpless at his sides.  Time was running out for me. Two more weeks in L.A. and then I&amp;#039;d start the outpatient program in Chicago. Maybe that&amp;#039;s why I was so desperate to put on mascara and hear actors talk about the biz. That night, the Pig &amp;#039;n Whistle was hopping. Cell phones and designer sunglasses lay on every table. I greedily gulped three glasses of pinot grigio and started shimmying my hips, crying, &amp;quot;Yes! Yes! Yes!&amp;quot; when my friend Martin suggested karaoke. We went to the back of a Japanese restaurant in a strip mall. There was nobody there except for a few regulars at the bar, who looked as if they&amp;#039;d been there as long as the Christmas tinsel wilting from the rafters. It was such a relief to forget myself in Paula Abdul&amp;#039;s ferocious beat, to dance giddily at Martin&amp;#039;s impersonation of Boy George. Jay sang &amp;quot;Easy Like Sunday Mornin&amp;#039;,&amp;quot; his eyes closed and his head tipped up. I had to press my back against the wall for support. There was such peace in his face. I hadn&amp;#039;t seen him that happy in forever.  When we got back to the house, we were still humming, &amp;quot;The tide is high, but I&amp;#039;m holding on....&amp;quot; This was usually the time of night when I broke down and ate. I&amp;#039;d have high-fiber cereal covered with chicken broth and melted fat-free cheddar cheese on top, sometimes hummus and carrots, washed down with watery cocoa. Whenever I didn&amp;#039;t think I could make it another mile on the stationary bike or felt light-headed on the treadmill, I imagined this banquet awaiting me and tried to pedal faster, harder, stronger.But Jay had another idea for that night. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m sorry, but you do look hot in that scarf,&amp;quot; he said as I unwound it from my neck.  &amp;quot;Please don&amp;#039;t.&amp;quot; It&amp;#039;s what I always said now.  &amp;quot;Just let me tell you even if you don&amp;#039;t agree.&amp;quot; He pulled me to him and traced kisses down to my collarbone.  &amp;quot;Keep the lights off,&amp;quot; I whispered, and reached for his belt. He knew this rule, but I reminded him. The thought of him seeing my distended belly and fleshy thighs made my skin tighten. I squeezed my eyes shut so there was no chance of my seeing them either. Jay lifted my dress over my head and threw it across the room. &amp;quot;I hate that dress,&amp;quot; he said. I tried to laugh but it came out like a whimper. &amp;quot;I hate it because I can&amp;#039;t see your body, and I love this body.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;No talking,&amp;quot; I admonished sharply. I pulled down his pants and then my own, following a sequence of events that had been plotted out long before; that had nothing to do with desire. I felt no desire. I was able to feel hot and cold, maybe even itchy, but besides that my sensations had been numbed to a slow haze.  He took off my tights, his fingers grazing my new markings. &amp;quot;When did you do this?&amp;quot; he whispered. &amp;quot;Tonight.&amp;quot; &amp;quot;Why?&amp;quot; he asked. &amp;quot;Shhhhh,&amp;quot; I commanded. It was the saddest sex I&amp;#039;ve ever had. Quiet, tense, contrived. We knew each other&amp;#039;s bodies, the smell of each other&amp;#039;s hair, the curve of each hip. I did what I thought he wanted. I grabbed his back and licked his ear. He kissed the raw skin along my waist, then up between my breasts. &amp;quot;Yes, yes,&amp;quot; I heard him murmur.  &amp;quot;Oh, yes,&amp;quot; I whispered in return, trying to echo his soft cries, to fill up the space between us. I wanted to mean it, urging my chest forward, pressing my ribs into his. But I heard my voice as if it were a stranger&amp;#039;s, as if I were lurking somewhere in the shadows watching these two bodies collide\u2014his trim and determined, hers flailing, bony, all pointed angles. All the while, I envisioned my midnight meal, the bran flakes tumbling into the white porcelain. Then I remembered my friend Nora telling me how she used to count sex as one of her calorie-burning activities along with jogging and strength training. I felt myself moving harder, faster, further. I imagined a referee with a starter pistol, visualizing the network of muscles and tendons pulling my body forward. Jay had to slow me down.  &amp;quot;Easy girl, easy.&amp;quot; Anorexia is an isolating and egocentric disease. As Jay and I were rising and falling, I was thinking only of myself, about how I could use sex to make everything in me leaner and stronger. I was dis-gusted with my body\u2014its lumps and scars, its breasts hanging in small sorry sacs, and its pubic hair a dark and wiry nest. I wanted no part of it. I wanted it to perform for me, then disappear.  &amp;quot;What do you think? Did you have fun?&amp;quot; Jay asked as he drew his hands lightly through my hair.  &amp;quot;Yeah.&amp;quot; I put on long johns and a T-shirt and scuttled under the covers while Jay lay naked on top of the bed, looking up at the palm trees outlined on the ceiling. I wondered how long I had to politely wait before I could go downstairs for my late-night snack. Before I could lift that first soggy spoonful to my mouth, lick the soft sludge of fake cheese. If Jay really loved me, wouldn&amp;#039;t he feel my body&amp;#039;s true longing and let me go? Didn&amp;#039;t he know that my whole being was writhing with a hunger I had no name for? It was bigger than both of us, bigger than our bed, bigger than this beautiful house on a hill, branches tapping on the glass windows. I couldn&amp;#039;t wait any longer. &amp;quot;Be right back,&amp;quot; I whispered and hurried downstairs. I added an extra slab of cheese as a reward for being so patient. It was better than any orgasm I could remember.   It must have been only an hour or two later, but it felt as if it were a different day entirely. I opened my eyes. The streetlights were still on and the sky was a quiet, clouded green. The television was still chattering. I felt cold and wet, a weight flattening me. I pulled the comforter down. I was 30 years old and I&amp;#039;d just wet the bed. &amp;quot;Jay!&amp;quot; I whispered. &amp;quot;Jay, please wake up!&amp;quot; &amp;quot;What, sweetheart?&amp;quot; He stood there with me, staring at the sodden mattress. There was the outline of a ghost on my side, dark and foreboding. I didn&amp;#039;t know what to say or how to make this better. If I started to talk, I knew I would break into a thousand pieces. So we watched, waiting for something to change as Earth moved in its slow, meditative rotation. It had taken me 30 years to get here and it might take 30 more to get somewhere else. I wondered where else I could go. I wondered if Jay wanted to spend those years with this body, my pajamas clinging to my shrunken legs, my belly sticking out like a sulking toddler&amp;#039;s. But this was all I had left. He told me to change into dry clothes while he stripped the bed and laid down a fresh pink towel. There was a certain danger in the air, in the back of my throat, just underneath my fingernails, that demanded to be recognized. It was not going away. It held me. &amp;quot;Do you want to come to bed?&amp;quot; Jay asked. &amp;quot;Nah. You can though,&amp;quot; I said, wishing he wouldn&amp;#039;t. &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m sticking with you,&amp;quot; he said and pulled me in tighter, so all I could see and feel was the broad wall of his chest. And he held me, our bodies finally one. Two weeks later, I entered the Highland Park Hospital eating disorder clinic. The counselors locked the bathroom doors so we couldn&amp;#039;t purge. They asked me to draw a picture of my inner child and make a list of activities I could do instead of cutting myself at night. I decided everyone on staff was kind but fat.  I went on an SSRI and gradually learned how to feed myself. Some days, I just sat on the couch and glared sullenly at the counselors. At night, I was visited by angry voices berating me for being so weak. Jay held me at night and promised it would get easier.  &amp;quot;When will you be small enough?&amp;quot; one doctor had asked me. I never did come up with an answer. Smaller is nobler? Simpler? I still catch myself lingering in this unanswered question, measuring my hips or thighs against the next woman on line at the grocery store and trying to intercept the messages of I&amp;#039;m not thin enough, I&amp;#039;m not small enough, I&amp;#039;m not enough. I mourn for us both because it doesn&amp;#039;t work. There is no small enough. There are only years of recovery, and hopefully, someone to stand by you while you walk through it. I don&amp;#039;t know why Jay stuck around, and I certainly fought him and his promises of an easier future. It&amp;#039;s truly only in writing this that I&amp;#039;m beginning to thank him for the incredible gift of his patience. From Behind the Bedroom Door: Getting It, Giving It, Loving It, Missing It, edited by Paula Derrow. Out this month from Delacorte Press. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.elle.com/beauty/health-fitness/advice/a9019/the-vanishing-point-284501/>