Written by Jello, who passed away last year…

Hi my name is Susy StickFigure, and I’m a real anoretic. Forget Kate Moss, honey. She’s chic and we’re corpses. It’s not about beauty here. It’s a one-way ticket into an early grave, and they ain’t got NO euphemism for that. Forget how thin feels, maybe you can cheer yourself up and tell yourself, “Nothing tastes as good as a small casket feels.” and smile in the mirror.

So my name really isn’t Susy, but I am writing about my experience. If I were to buy into the Mary-Kate and Ashley brand fantasy (now available at select Wal-Marts in puce, violet, and cowardly suicide shades), I should be swarming in boys, gifts, and happiness. I should have people throwing themselves at my feet. I should be happy. Well, that’s the punchline to this sick joke. The real knee-slapper. I am, at the point of this writing, five foot and nine point five inches. I have weighed myself today, which is rare for me anymore. I am ninety six pounds, which would be a 14.2 BMI. It wouldn’t be this high, but my fiance Julie cried for hours when I was maintaining 90 pounds, and it broke my heart. I made it up to ninety eight, but couldn’t keep it. She realizes that this is not a choice, a lifestyle. So here it is, bare and raw. Throw out those heroin chic fantasies. Here’s the real deal. These are the glamorous things I’ve accomplished for my appearance and body since the onset of my disorder:

Frequent hair loss, and brittle hair. To keep it remotely soft and human, I use more and more conditioner, with less effect. Dry skin, prone to allergic reactions, rashes, cracking and flaking. I am constantly slathering on lotion. My heart is like a stoner at Mickey D’s. It’ll probably quit without warning, and slack off while at work. Bruising, both from ænemia and from no fat between my bones and skin. I have them inside and out. I look rather like a tie-dyed masochist. Colds, flu, pneumonia, strep throat. Longer, harder and faster than normal people. I’m constantly a strange mottled purple when it’s even remotely cold. My thermostat stays at 78 degrees. Let’s not forget I’m turning into the Wolfman, as my body is growing lanugo. My joints sound like an old woman, my eyesight is going to shit, and I have circulation problems so frequently my feet have been diagnosed narcoleptic. My teeth are becoming a problem, due to the lack of calcium. I haven’t had a period in so long, the doctor’s diagnosed me with a run-on novel. My stomach is a pit of ulcers waiting to happen, from both starvation and over-use of diet pills and drugs. I have used such drugs as: ephedra, phenphen, cocaine, meth, and crack to help “cheat” and lose weight or become smaller. (although it should be noted that I’ve been a heroin user for a good amount of time, so the illegal drugs weren’t a big jump, and were always present in my environment. But I doubt I would’ve tried them without the incentive of their so-called perks). Related to the drug use, I have scarring on my arms that will forever be there. I also have collapsed veins. To spare the weak of stomach, let’s just say Beethoven and I require the same amount of time and pressure to create a movement. At any given moment, I can tell you the amount of calories in bacon, tomatoes, grass. However, I cannot remember the last name of my third grade best friend. I can’t sit, lie, or walk for long without my bones jarring and poking and bruising.

I’m sure there’s plenty more ill-effects, but I’m getting used to all the quirks of my body and have probably not noticed. That’s how sad it gets sometimes. I hugged a friend, and they were shocked as my heart didn’t beat quite nearly enough. I was like, “Yeah.” without much concern. Instead of glowing with pride like they suggest, you just learn to accept you’re dying. You’re literally rotting without the decency to lie down. Well, I’m still waiting for Cosmopolitan to come banging on my door. I’m sure that since I’ve accomplished “aNa” I should be all set, right? I should go beam in the mirror at this new wonderful girl that can’t walk for more than eight feet, gets dizzy when she stands, and can’t function without a load of caffeine. And, for any silly girls reading with envy, these are only the PHYSICAL effects! Wait till you see the grand prize…… THE EMOTIONAL AND SOCIAL BENEFITS OF BEING A NUTTER!

My family either ignores my disorder, or tries to support me emotionally while watching me fall apart. This is not endearing, cute, or glamorous. It is tearing them apart. My fiance is nearly sick of dealing with me and my problems. My financial situation after drug addiction, hospitals and specialists is almost non-existent. Embarassed to go grocery shopping or out to eat with me, my friends are very awkward about my habits. People look at me and wonder if I’m a crack head, or a survivor of Auschwitz. They get nervous, or think I’m terminally ill. When I put my weight down on things, people freak. I cannot shop in normal stores without salespeople getting nervous. I cannot find many jeans that are both tall enough, and size 1-00. I can’t order food from a cafe, resteraunt or vending maching in under 15 minutes. This makes it tedious to normal people. I’m so sick of hearing, “Just EAT something!” I could puke. Or not, since that would be a whole new thing to deal with. Wearing anything in public that doesn’t have long sleeves, four layers, and sufficiant bulk leads to at least three offers of food. Most average people cannot accept that I don’t think I’m fat. It’s not about fat. Most sane people cannot understand that I know I’m sick and I don’t just “stop”. Most sane people cannot understand why the hell I’m this way in the first place.

So there you have it kiddies. There’s your THINNER WINNER, a slow slow suicide via starvation and driving yourself, your family, and those who care about you mad. Mess up the REST of your life to fit in a prom dress. Damage the very organs that sustain you to fit in a club. But godforbid, don’t listen to reason. Because we all know anorexia is sexy! In fact, I’m sure there’s some of us who would love to give a testimonial! But I can’t, I feel too tired. And some of you can’t pull yourself away from laxatives the toilet long enough. Even more can’t get past the feeding tube or IV. Then there’s a few we’d need an ouija board to get their side. Yeah. We’re all one big sexy, popular party. Constantly having fun. Except for our club, a VIP pass looks strangely like a death sentence, and membership is more demanding by the day.

YOU STILL WANT IN..?

I hate Medusa. If it wasn't for them I wouldn't have known was "pro-ana" was. I read this letter long ago and it really triggered me. I don't see what the point is of having this up. There are plenty of posts about the physical costs of EDs all around the site. We should all know the costs and the hell that our EDs have put us through.

And I do not like Medusa, but to say that you never would have known what pro-ana was if it weren't for her? Can you really make that statement? And if you hadn't known about pro-ana, would you have found post-proana? I don't know your backstory, but I often find it something to think about.

It also really plays into the whole "You have to be emaciated to be anorexic/ have an eating disorder" mentality which I think is detrimental.

That site... triggered me more than pro-ana did.