In as much detail as possible, how did you come to be who you are? In other words, what is your story?

Question

Hi, my name is Jessica, and I’m a seventeen-year-old art student recovering from an eating disorder (best to be candid so not to waste your time.)

After meddling with a hybrid of anorexia and bulimia nervosa, fueled by –surprise!- a case of clinical depression, for about five years, I was finally enrolled in an intensive outpatient program three months ago. Prior to treatment, I had never truly discussed my affliction with anyone, and had it not been for a steep slide in my grades, which is what it took to finally reach my parents (the whole underweight thing having gone unnoticed,) I would still be living undetectably miserable. In retrospect, had I abandoned my reserve more quickly, my path to recovery would have been found and traveled much sooner. As it turns out, by the time I had decided to confess my lifestyle, I’d become so great at guising my condition, that to others it appeared only a figment of a supposed limelight deficiency (“You’re just saying all of thisbecause you think we pay more attention to your sister,”); and upon their being confronted, my parents insisted –by way of a more “colorful” vocabulary- that “[my] problems were in [my] head” – which wasn’t all that false- and that their resolve was imminent should I just “get over [myself.]”

Confined to a mouth shut, I began to use art as an outlet for my frustration in dealing with my disorder and all else it encompassed. Initially therapeutic, my plan later began to invoke as much as evoke my suffering. The praise and criticism my labors met proved undeniably useful to my ego and advance, though detrimental to my sense and health. Brainwashed into believing that the artist’s occupation was unhappiness, I became convinced that if I sought to make meaningful work it meant I should be enslaved to prolonged misery. I thought surely if Van-Gough lost an ear; I could lose a few pounds and some sunshine and still live. Wrong. Weeks later, I sat house-below with a bounty full of sleeping pills slowly skirting the walls of my esophagus.

I made it, obviously, but in the months following the incident some much needed intervention took place. Therapy was h**l, but thankfully things are better –though not nearly perfect- now.

But I’d like to regain my focus now, having spent a considerable amount of your time blabbing. This brings me to this kind-of-funny-sort-of-random letter’s purpose:

Knowing the damages wrought by silence, I’d like to give you the chance to avoid yours. (I know, how hokey?) , but I’m serious. I’m unattached and pretense-less, so I could hardly be the better confidante. To me you can say anything without fear of persecution. That’s the glory of anonymity. Then, if permitted, I’d love to use your story, lyric, confession as inspiration for my next art piece- which if you’d like and if you like it will be yours, should you simply enclose a return address (email or snail-mail.)

If you’re interested, you can send me your stuff via my P.O. box or email account, listed below.

P.O. box 980266

Houston, TX 77098

[e-mail] (means “nothing to lose” in Latin)

Thanks for reading,

Jessica

P.s. please pardon my unruly grammar and punctuation, as I said, I’m an artist not an English major.

P.p.s. Although it’s tempting, if you plan on responding, please do so seriously versus jokingly. It would mean a lot to me.

Answer 1

father died, mother wasn't there for me for a while, grew up with father figure who left, all my friends or best friends left and moved away, getting backstabbed by so called friends,  sister who hated me, and was jealous of my skinniness, getting made fun of throughout school until now, troubles with relationships, and reading the purpose driven life by rick warren right now is changing me right now.  All my life experiences made me the strong woman I am today.  :)