Iam solely responsible for the destruction of my marriage. I stared at the words I'd written in my journal and felt the sting of tears. After five years of marriage, Stan* would leave me. I'd be alone with my scale, my exercise, and my calorie-counting. It served me right—didn't I love my addiction to thinness more than I loved my husband?
Stan and I had met 10 years earlier while teaching at the same Christian high school. I'd been frighteningly thin, but Stan had ignored my emaciated appearance and befriended the person inside. He was a good friend, someone safe with whom I could talk. Early in our friendship, I told him about my history of anorexia, my two hospitalizations for the disorder, and the years I'd spent in therapy trying to get well. He was kind and understanding. Still, I couldn't bring myself to reveal the whole truth—that a childhood of verbal and sexual abuse had led not only to anorexia, but rebellion and promiscuity. Though I knew Stan cared for me, a little voice in my head insisted I wasn't good enough for him, and that I'd eventually lose him.
We began dating exclusively, and with Stan's loving support, anorexia seemed to loosen its hold over my life. I prayed that one day I'd be completely free of it, that it would be nothing but a disturbing memory.
By the time he proposed three years later, I'd gained nearly 20 pounds. My gaunt face and body had become muscular and healthy, and my counselor assured me that I'd progressed to the point of no longer needing therapy. Soon, Stan and I were married.1