My mother never believed me, but there was a monster under my bed. She would harass me every night as I tried desperately to fall asleep. Screaming in that eerily familiar voice, “You’re nothing but a worthless pig. Why did you eat today? You have enough body fat to survive all week on an apple and hot water.” At first, I managed to suppress the voice and eventually fell asleep. However, the voice broke me apart; I gave in to the monster. She inhabited my dreams for months, reminding me of my limits and pressuring me to starve myself for extended periods of times.

In a month’s time, I had lost about fifteen pounds. I cut my daily intake of calories from 2,200 calories a day to about 500 calories. I was always cold; it felt like I had permanent goose bumps. I never thought twice about avoiding full meals. When my parents began questioning my diet, I just told them that I had eaten earlier and just wasn’t hungry anymore. Who could have guessed how miserable a twelve-year-old girl could become in less than a month?

At seventy-five pounds, I was completely disgusted with my body. Every day, I would stand in front of the mirror and curse at my body: “You are the most disgusting person I have ever seen. Your ribs are covered in so much fat. I can’t believe you ate that entire banana for lunch. You wonder why no one talks to you. You are worthless. You should hate yourself. You don’t deserve to eat with your family.” The monster was taking over my head. Before long, I had stopped talking to my friends. I refused to go to birthday parties or sleepovers; I couldn’t stand the idea of my friends looking at me in an outfit. I began isolating myself from everyone I knew.
By the time four months had passed, my body weight had plunged to fifty-four pounds. I was obsessed; I couldn’t stop feeding the monster. The monster continued its nightly rampage of scolding, but with the more weight I lost, the more vicious and violent the rants became. I stayed up all night sobbing and hoping the monster would stop, but I only wanted the monster’s love and approval. I hated her and the way she spoke to me, but I couldn’t break away from her hold. I asked her every morning, “What can I do to make you proud of me?” She would creep up behind me and whisper sweetly into my ear, “Don’t touch anything but your water bottle. If you eat, I will never forgive you.” I would shed a tear or two, but I would tie myself back together and agree to do her will.

One afternoon, my sister heard me screaming at the mirror and called my mother because she could see through my now translucent skin. My mother came home immediately and hugged me. All she said was, “I love you, honey.” With those words, I shattered the monster’s hold; my emaciated figure could do nothing but tremble in self-pity and fear.

I began therapy after school every day and slowly made my way back to a 1,200-calorie diet. My friends began to crawl back into my life as quickly as I would let them. I slowly regained body weight, but I despised every ounce of food I put into my mouth. I made the monster go back to her hiding spot under my bed because I had managed to overcome it. It took over three years, but at fifteen years old, I weighed only 93 pounds. Struggling for years, I escaped the grasp of my monster. My monster was anorexia, but I knew her only as Ana.
***

I feel a whisper in my ear on the night before my thirtieth birthday. I snap awake quickly and violently; feeling like I’ve been struck by an eighteen-wheeler, I listen to my old friend. Ana caresses me sweetly, evoking a juggernaut of emotions. I want to cry, laugh, throw up, scream, call for help, but above all, I want to hear her voice again. I know what trouble she carries, and I know the havoc she is capable of causing in my life. Ana tells me it is very important: the message she brings will change my life forever. Surprisingly, the monster’s message does not concern my health but someone very close to me. Her enthralling voice is begging me for help.

“I want to stop. I do not want to threaten the life of another child. Please, help her escape me before it’s too late. I cannot be responsible for this torture anymore,” Ana shrieks.

“Tell me, Ana. Who are you hurting? Let me help you,” I respond. She doesn’t answer, but I know what I’m looking for. I’ve been through this experience first hand. I have my eyes open, and I will find this child.

After being on alert for two weeks, my worst nightmare becomes a reality. My fourteen-year-old niece, Grace, has become less and less sociable, and her clothes are looking very baggy. She walks into the house and smiles as usual, but I can sense a difference in her mood. I offer her a salad and tea, but she declines my offer claiming she just ate. I pretend to not be suspicious. Grace remains at the table with me, but doesn’t utter a sound. I cannot keep her attention on the conversation. I’m having trouble formulating a plan about how I should approach the topic. At that moment, my monster appears by my side.

“I told you I didn’t want to do it. I tried to stop, but you know I can’t. Please, I am begging. Get her away from me before it’s too late!” Ana cries.

I test my niece a few more times during dinner, and she fails them all. I am sure that Ana is slowly suffocating my beautiful angel, and it’s happening right before my own eyes. I look into Grace’s eyes and see my reflection, and Ana’s. The monster has taken complete control of Grace’s life, but I am determined to end the cycle. Her fingers have taken on a permanent blue tint; her eyes and cheeks have sunken into her face drastically; Grace’s limbs twitch slightly with uncertainty while her fingers tremble in despair. Looking at her, I can feel my heart breaking. I need to talk to her, and I need to
talk to her now.
Before she leaves, I ask Grace to come and talk to me in the den. She follows me willingly, but as I begin to confront her, Grace and Ana both begin screaming things at me. The conversation is going nothing like I planned, and before I can regain control of the situation, Grace storms out of the room and sprints to the car.

I try to call her, but she refuses to return my messages. Grace is avoiding me, and I’m becoming frantic; I know the speed of the monster, and I know the strength she gains every day. Finally, Grace’s mother notices the drastic change in her daughter and calls me for advice. We decide that Grace needs to begin the rehabilitation process and schedule an appointment for the following afternoon.

To my own horror, our help came too late for Grace. The morning of her first therapy session, my sister-in-law found Grace unconscious in her bed. After being rushed to the hospital, Grace was put on an array of machines. My sister-in-law and I never left Grace’s side while she was in the intensive care unit. After forty-eight hours of tears and prayers, Ana took a seat next to me in the hospital room. She looked at me and whispered only, “I’m so sorry.” I wanted to scream, but I could only sit there— paralyzed.

Moments later, Grace went into cardiac arrest for the last time. The doctors and nurses rushed to my niece’s bedside and ushered my sister-in-law and me into the waiting room. My sister-in-law was hopeful as she waited for the doctor to emerge, but I already knew the results. I saw the monster standing over my niece sucking the last breath out of my Grace. Grace, my beautiful niece, died that afternoon: exactly one month and one day after the monster reentered my life, exactly one month after my thirtieth birthday, exactly one hour after her fifteenth birthday. Grace’s monster was anorexia, but Grace knew her only as Ana.