Losing Will to Anorexia...

I met Will Brooksbank nearly three years ago.  We were both patients at a eating disorder treatment hospital in Denver, CO.  The community was especially gossipy the day he arrived.  We were getting in a new admit and it was a guy!  In a treatment facility filled almost exclusively with girls and women, this was big news.  I remember seeing him for the  first time.  He was in the hallway of the center with his treatment team.  He had white-blonde hair and fair features.  He was small.  Not just thin, but small like a child.  His face looked so young.  Like maybe he was 12.  In actuality he was 19.  An adult.  And, something about this guy was immediately likeable.  Even though Will was sick, seriously, visibly sick with anorexia, he still carried a radiance about him.  Somehow he was still full of energy.  He had a theatrical charisma.  The class clown.  He settled in so easily with the established community.  I remember him saying on his first day in group, "I know a lot of women here have had issues with men.  I'm sorry that happened to some of you.  I'm not one of those guys.  I understand, please accept me."  It was this statement along with actually being one of the very few men there, that made my heart tighten and my eyes well with tears.  Where has this man been in his life?  What has he seen or been through that has given him such sensitivity, insight, kindness, compassion...and anorexia.

William Arthur Brooksbank the IV was hysterical.  So very witty.  Always there with a warm, genuine smile and a lilting laugh.  He was constantly saying funny, ridiculous things to make us all laugh especially there where we needed to laugh a little.  He was deeply religious and faithful to his God, but he didn't push it on anyone else or try to convert anyone to his beliefs.  He believed in God and Christ, passionately but it was his relationship, not a belief to be forced on anyone else.  He would sing.  He would dance.  He would play with anything that was available to play with.  A pencil could be made into a sword.  A piece of paper into a cape.  Sometimes after program a small group of us would bus it (because most of us had no other form of transportation) to either Target or the Mall, or a park.  He would play and laugh and put on silly hats while in the stores.  He'd use outlandish accents which he had perfected over the years.  He would come in program in the morning, look me straight in the eye, touch my arm, and ask me how I was doing.  He genuinely cared about others, their feelings, their struggles, their recovery.  He was the light of the hospital.  The beacon.  The hope.

Underneath all of the playfulness though, occasionally, one could see something deeper.  I remember him having trouble with the food.  I remember him getting angry and frustrated.  Of course we all did in treatment.  It was as if there was a little boy in there.  Confused, lost, afraid.  He was so smart and quick and determined.  And my heart aches for him now.  Because dammit, anorexia won.  An eating disorder actually beat someone, and this someone was special.  I am so sad and angry, with no place to put my anger.  Anorexia is not a person I can swear at or punch in the face.  It doesn't have feelings that I can hurt by silent treatment or screaming.  The only way I can show my hate for this disease is to continue to fight my own battle.  To keep eating the fucking food.  With each bite, I can have my say.  And I can say it for Will.

For a while today I had "the thoughts".  The "I miss being skinny" thoughts.  How can I get it back just a little.  All I want are thin arms, a thigh gap, I miss my bones.  Oh my ribs, my long-lost shoulder bones...I recognized the thoughts and felt fear.  It has been a long time since I've though deeply about my feelings about my disorder.  I have been so busy with life and advocacy work.  I suppose I have forgotten to take time out to get mad and sad and fearful.  I guess I need to remember how truly terrible being trapped in the ED is.  This is not a game as it has often felt to me.  "I can play a little."  No, this kills people.  They are here and then they are gone.  The family and friends are devastated and hurt.  It's not romantic or beautiful.  It's insidious and ugly and mean.

I have regrets.  Will and I did not stay in contact over the last couple of years.  Occasionally a Facebook "hi" or something.  But we lived far apart and he had so many friends.  And I was so far along in my own recovery.  I can't help but think, what could I have done for him?  What could I have said?  I guess we all feel that way when someone passes away.  What would I have done differently?  What did I miss?  Why didn't I call him?  What the fuck just happened?
This is my first friend to die.  The first person I have known personally to die from an eating disorder.  Sure, I had head about it.  I have seen the statistics and read the memorials.  But this hits home.  What's worse, is that I don't think it will be the last.

For Will Brooksbank, I eat the food.  I fight the fight.  And I win.

Live on,

-Kristy