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Autobiography - life with Ana.

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AUTOBIOGRAPHY (A significant life experience) LIFE WITH ANA I've accepted it. What else can I do? I'm living with a chronic anorexic for a sister and I have finally come to a conclusion of acceptance. It was September in Iran, when it all commenced- the painful sort of family holiday you go on to pretend things are rosy and you're happy when they are actually pretty screwed. She first came up with this daft idea of her thighs being oversized as we drove through the overwhelming streets of Esfahan, whizzing through the torrid dust and the muffled sound of Islamic harmony. "Am I fat?" she would ask, with her rounded puppy-dog eyes that shimmered from the tear preparing itself to proceed depending on the content of my response. "No." I'd reply. "Do my cheeks wobble when I walk?" she'd ask while demonstrating the motion of walking. "No." I repeated like a broken record. "Have I got bingo wings?" "NO!" I roared as a vein, shaped like the map of a river tributary popped out across my forehead. "You're just telling me what I want to hear, aren't you?" she questioned like an infant. "PLEASE! Just... leave me alone!" Then we had an awkward silence but it was almost like I could hear her thoughts because I knew exactly how she operated. ...read more.


How right I was. I found my mother slowly deteriorating with rage, weeping like a lost child over the kitchen table. "What's wrong? Where's Affy? Where's dad?" I said, panicking. "It's Afsaneh." She stuttered. "WHAT'S HAPPENED?" I screeched. "She's in hospital and they're keeping her for a few months, it's called the re-feeding process and your fathers gone to Iran." I went numb. I felt drained as my whole face lost its vibrancy. Maintaining this perfectly motionless numbness, I glided, up the stairs like an apparition wandering, aimlessly. The thought of not seeing my sister for months, orbited my mind, continuously, reminding me of what I could have done to prevent it; how could I have helped her? But I couldn't have done more than I did. The most powerful person was herself. My mother prepared the meals, placed the food in front of her but only she could swallow it-"You can take the horse to the water but you can't make him drink." June '05. The six week rehabilitation process was complete and I was feeling ecstatic yet apprehensive to see her. I retained this distorted image of her deranged eyes and her skeletal figure, barely able to stand upright. I cringed from the vision of it. ...read more.


The melody and lyrics would devour me entirely, as I would lose my identity for several minutes. Nothing else would matter, only the pulsating beat of the rhythmical percussion; when every time I heard the sound of a melancholy legato tune, one problem would evanesce, one after another and the expression on my face would illumine like the ripening of the sweetest fruit. My musical taste featured various genres and nationalities. I developed a like for the old stuff as I think a lot of the new artists make repetitive, manufactured music with meaningless lyrics. My therapist also healed my heartache for a while on a weekly basis. She would remind me of The Bright side, and taught me that life is what you make it; that I am in control of my emotions. "Mind over matter" she'd say, reassuringly. Three years later and still anorexia hovers over her. After three admissions to different eating disorder units and recoveries to relapses, I have come to terms with it. As a sister, all that is in my reach of helping her is to love and support her. She still has her faulty, anorectic mind set but she is almost eighteen and she must fend for herself now. The glass was smashed but we kept the broken pieces. ...read more.

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